The Coffee Trader (10 page)

Hannah had no mind to make chatter, to forgive Annetje—or not to forgive her. She could only think of that finger to those lips. It would be some days before Hannah was to learn whether this gesture had been a command or a promise.

9

On Monday the Exchange opened once more, and Miguel approached the Dam with an excitement fueled partly by an eagerness to see how his affairs closed and partly by the three bowls of coffee he’d taken that morning. He deserved a reward for having freed himself of the brandy futures, and he’d been unable to resist any longer the seductive odor that had begun to permeate his chamber. That morning he’d slipped off to the kitchen for a mortar and pestle. Back in the cellar, he’d removed the bag, which seemed not so full as he recollected. No matter, he told himself, and ground the coffee into a coarse grain and mixed it with some sweet wine, stirring constantly, hoping to see the grains dissolve. He then recalled that this was not sugar or salt, so he let the grounds sink to the bottom and drank deep.

It was not as good as what he had taken with Geertruid, or even what he’d tasted at the Turkish tavern, but he nevertheless liked the way the bitterness and the sweetness played off each other. He took a sip and savored how the coffee washed into his mouth like a kiss. He sniffed at the bowl and looked at it in the light of the oil lamp. And before he finished, he knew he would make another helping.

As he poured the coffee, he nearly laughed aloud. He had made himself one bowl, only one bowl, and he had done it badly—this much he knew because he had tasted better—and he still could not resist the urge to drink another. Geertruid had been right. She had latched onto something that would bring them wealth, if only they could find a way to act quickly and decisively. But how? How, how, how? Miguel grew so agitated he kicked one of his shoes across the cellar and watched it fall to the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Coffee,” he muttered to himself. But drinking it would have to be enough for this moment. He still had too much to do.

Miguel stood before the Town Hall, that great palace of white stone built by merchant wealth. Not the smallest chunk of marble could be found in all the United Provinces, yet the interior was lined with marble, countless tons of the stuff—marble and gold and silver everywhere, the finest paintings upon the walls, the finest rugs upon the floor, exquisite woodwork and tiling. Miguel had once taken pleasure in strolling about the Town Hall, with its bank and courts and prisons, exploring the public spaces, dreaming of the opulence hidden in the private chambers of the burghers. Since he had learned firsthand what secrets lie in the private chambers of the Bankruptcy Office, the Town Hall had lost its charms.

Miguel looked up and saw a shadow directly in his path. A few quick blinks of the eyes and the figure came into focus: short, rounded, with long hair and a neat beard. He was dressed in a suit of bright blue, the color of the sky, and he had an enormous wide-brimmed hat to match, pulled to just above his heavy-lidded eyes: Alonzo Alferonda.

“Lienzo!” he shouted, as though they met only by happenstance. Wrapping one arm around Miguel’s shoulder, he continued to walk, dragging Miguel with him.

“By Christ, are you mad to approach me in this place? Anyone might see us together.”

“No, I am not mad, Miguel, I am your most ardent well-wisher. There was no time to risk with notes and errand boys. The business with Parido and whale oil: it is to happen today.”

“Today?” Now it was Miguel who led. He pulled Alferonda down the narrow path behind the Nieuwe Kerk. “Today?” he said again, when they stopped in the damp darkness of the alley. A rat stared at them defiantly. “What do you mean today? Why do you say today?”

Alferonda leaned forward and sniffed. “Have you been drinking coffee?”

“Never mind what I’ve been drinking.”

Alferonda sniffed again. “You’ve been mixing it with wine, haven’t you? You waste your berries that way. Mix it with sweet water.”

“What do you care if I mix it with the blood of Christ? Tell me about whale oil.”

The usurer let out a little laugh. “It’s certainly put the devil into you, hasn’t it? Don’t give me that look. I’ll tell you what I know. My contact in the East India Company, a ruddy little fellow who owes me forty guilders—he sent me a note this morning.”

“I don’t need every detail of your discovery. Just speak.”

“The thing is, the whale oil trade will happen today.”

Miguel felt a pain build inside his skull and burst like a musket’s report. “Today? I haven’t yet bought my whale oil futures. I was waiting for after reckoning day.” He spat on the ground. “The rottenness of it. All planned as it was, and now for nothing—for want of a single day. I would have bought those futures tomorrow morning.”

“Forget futures for a moment.” Alferonda shook his head. “You’ve been trading so long in airy pieces of paper that you neglect simple commerce. Go buy whale oil—not futures but the thing itself. You may recall that the rest of the world still transacts their business in that quaint manner. Then, before the close of the Exchange today, you may turn around and sell what you’ve bought at a handsome profit. It’s all very simple.”

Miguel let out a laugh and grabbed Alferonda’s shoulders. “You are right. It
is
simple, I suppose. Thank you for the warning.”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m always happy to lend a hand to my friends.”

“I know you are,” Miguel said, shaking his hand, Dutch style. “You’re a good man, Alonzo. The Ma’amad knew nothing when it treated you so rottenly.” Miguel now wished for nothing so much as to break free and get to work on the Exchange. Geertruid was right: coffee is the drink of commerce, for the coffee he’d swallowed that morning, now combined with greed, proved too powerful a pull to be ignored.

“Before you scurry off,” Alferonda said, “I wish to ask you something. I heard that Parido helped you broker brandy futures that had been dangling around your neck like a noose.”

“Yes, that’s so. What of it?”

“What of it? What of it, you ask? Let me tell you, Miguel, that Solomon Parido does not forget a grudge. If he has helped you, it is because he has some other scheme in mind, and you would be wise to be on your guard.”

“Do you imagine that such thoughts never occurred to me? Parido is from Salonika and I am from Portugal. He grew up a Jew; I grew up pretending to be a Catholic. In a war of deception, he can never hope to defeat me.”

“He defeated me,” Alferonda said bitterly. “He may not be as sharp as we Secret Jews, but he has the power of the Ma’amad and that counts for a great deal. Before you dismiss him so lightly, you had better think of the bitterness of never being able to enter a synagogue on Yom Kippur, of never again attending a seder for Passover, of never again greeting the Sabbath bride. And what of your business dealings? Would you see them crushed, your colleagues fear to trade with you? If you plan to trade in coffee, my friend, you had better keep an eye on Parido and make sure he doesn’t sour your scheme.”

“Of course you’re right,” Miguel said impatiently.

“Believe no pretended gestures of friendship,” Alferonda urged him.

“I understand.”

“Good. Then I wish you luck with your venture today.”

Miguel needed no luck. He had knowledge no one else possessed. And he had coffee.

As he passed through the great arch of the Exchange, he closed his eyes and muttered some half-recalled prayer in an effort to sustain his trading efforts that day. The Holy One, blessed be He, had not yet abandoned him. Miguel was sure of it. He was almost sure of it.

The business with Alferonda had only taken a few minutes, but already the tone of the Exchange had calmed since the riotous opening of the gates. On reckoning days, traders roamed the bourse, checking how their prices stood in order to hedge their accounts against unexpected changes. Within the first quarter hour, most had already learned what they needed to know.

Miguel hurried to the northwest corner of the Exchange and found a Dutch acquaintance in the Muscovy trade from whom to purchase whale oil. The current price was thirty-seven and a half guilders per quarter ton, and Miguel bought fifty quarters at just under nineteen hundred guilders—an amount he could ill afford to lose, particularly since it was all debt.

Miguel then took a turn around the Exchange, always keeping an eye on the clock and the far end of the plaza. He did a little business, buying some cheap lumber that a fellow needed to unload to raise capital, and then chatted with a few friends until he noticed five black-clad Dutchmen approaching the whale-oil corner. They were young, round-faced, and clean-shaven and had the confident expression of men who traded in large sums that were not their own. They were East India Company agents, and they wore their affiliation like a uniform. Men halted their conversations to watch them.

All five began at once. They cried out for whale oil, they slapped hands in agreement, and they moved on to the next deal. In almost an instant, Miguel heard someone calling out to buy at thirty-nine a quarter. The cries began in Dutch, Latin, and Portuguese: “Buying one hundred quarters at forty and a half.” Another voice returned, “Selling at forty.”

Miguel’s heart pounded in the thrill of trade. It was just as Geertruid had said—the coffee was like a spirit that had taken hold of his body. He heard each cry with clarity; he calculated each new price with instant precision. Nothing escaped his notice.

With his receipt clutched in one hand, he read the mood of the crowd more clearly than he had ever done before. He had seen dozens of these frenzies, but never before had he felt he could see its currents in the river of exchange. Each price sent the current in a new direction, and a man who paid close attention, whose wits were sharpened with this marvelous drink, could see everything unfold. Miguel now understood why he had failed in the past. He had always thought of the future, but he now understood that the future counted for nothing. Only this moment, this instant. The price would peak today in the excitement; tomorrow the price would plummet. Now was all that mattered.

Forty-two guilders per quarter ton. Forty-four guilders. It showed no sign of slowing. Forty-seven.

Always before he had wondered how to know when to make his move. It took skill and luck and clairvoyance to know when prices had peaked. It was better to sell just before the peak than just after, for prices fell much more quickly than they rose, and being off by an instant could mean the difference between profit and loss. Today, he would know the right instant.

Miguel stuck close, watching the faces of the merchants, looking for signs of panic. Then he noticed the five East India agents just beginning to turn away from the chaos they had created. Without their presence, purchasing would now slow down considerably, and the price would soon fall. The cry went out for fifty quarter tons at fifty-three guilders each. It was time to strike.

Now!
the coffee screamed.
Do it!

“Fifty quarters,” Miguel called out loudly, “for fifty-three and a half guilders.”

A fat little broker named Ricardo, a Jew of the Vlooyenburg, slapped Miguel’s hand to acknowledge the trade. And it was done.

His heart pounded. His breathing came in quick rasps as the prices fell around him: fifty guilders, then forty-eight, forty-five. He had sold at precisely the right moment. Seconds later would have cost him hundreds. The doubt that had been plaguing him, the sluggishness, the murky thinking, were all gone now. He had used coffee to banish them the way a great rabbi uses the Torah to banish demons.

Miguel felt as though he had just run all the way from Rotterdam. Everything had happened so quickly, it had all whirled around him in a murky coffee haze, but now it was done. The space of a few frantic moments had yielded a pure profit of eight hundred guilders.

He could barely keep himself from laughing out loud. It was like waking from a nightmare when he would tell himself that the terrors of the dream world were not his; he need not worry any longer. This debt that tormented him might as well disappear in the wind; that was how little it now mattered.

He hadn’t planned it, but Miguel grabbed a young broker, a fellow fresh to Amsterdam from Portugal. He took this neophyte by the shoulders. “Miguel Lienzo has returned!” he shouted. “Do you understand me? Hide your money in the cellar, fellow. It’s not safe on the Exchange—not with Miguel Lienzo here to win it from you!”

By the clock on the tower, he could see that there was scant time left before the Exchange closed for the day. Why flitter about doing little things? It was time to celebrate. The most wretched time of his life had just come to an end. The indebted, struggling Lienzo was banished, and a new era of prosperity was upon him. He let loose a fresh burst of laughter, caring nothing for how the young broker hurried away as though Miguel might hurt him, caring nothing for the cluster of Dutchmen who now stared as though Miguel were a lunatic. They mattered not at all, but lest he forget the author of all good fortune, he called out his thanks to the Holy One, blessed be He, for sustaining him and allowing him to reach this season.

And then, as though in answer, the idea descended upon him all at once.

It came with unexpected force, and even at the time it seemed as though something had fallen from the heavens, for he did not pull it from himself. It came upon him from outside. It was a gift.

Miguel forgot about whale-oil profits. He forgot about his debts and Parido. In a glorious instant, he knew, with perfect clarity, how he would make his fortune from coffee.

The idea paralyzed him. He understood that if he could truly midwife this idea into the world he would have wealth on an order of which he had only dreamed. Not comfort money, not prosperity money: opulence money. He would be able to marry whomever he wished and at last fill the empty holes in his life; he would be able to bring forth Hebrew children and situate them as he liked; they would not be merchants toiling for their bread as he had been made to do. The descendants of Miguel Lienzo would be gentlemen, rentiers, anything they might choose, and with the leisure to devote their lives to the study of Torah—or, if they were daughters, to marry great scholars. His sons would be dedicated to the Law, they would give money to the charities, sit upon the Ma’amad and give wise rulings, and scatter petty men like Parido to the fringes of Jewish society.