The Coffee Trader (13 page)

Sensing Miguel’s hesitation, Joachim flashed his broken teeth with animal menace.

Around him Miguel noticed the glances of passing strangers: a neatly dressed Jew locked in uncomfortable conversation with a beggar. Among the openly curious Catholic Portuguese, this strange pair would have been surrounded by a crowd of curious maids and peasant housewives, staring with open amusement as they wiped their floured hands on their aprons, laughing and heckling as though this conflict were a puppet show staged for their pleasure. Here, among the Dutch, who had taken to heart the introspective doctrine of their Reformed Church, the curious looked away politely, as if to cast their eyes upon someone else’s business was shameful. Surely they had troubles of their own that needed tending.

“We understand each other,” Joachim said. “I’ll take those two guilders.”

Miguel took a step back, but he considered it a defiant retreat. “You’ll get nothing from me now. I offered you kindness, and you repay me with impudence. Keep your distance from me, or shit-smeared straw and piss gruel will seem to you the greatest luxuries in the world.”

Miguel turned in the other direction and headed toward the Exchange, pushing his legs, now heavy and stiff, as quickly as he could, trying to erase the discomfort of the encounter by doing something decisive. He replayed the incident again and again in his mind. He should have given the fellow his two guilders. He should have given him ten. Anything to make him go away.

“Damn my pride,” he murmured. A madman might say anything to anyone, including the Ma’amad. If Parido should learn that Miguel had been brokering for a gentile, all his protests of goodwill would be like smoke in the air.

A few weeks before, Miguel might have even struck Joachim and allowed the consequences to come as they may. Now he had too much to lose. He would not put his new expectations at risk for a disgruntled vagabond. He would see Joachim at the bottom of a canal first.

12

Hannah loved to visit the fish market during Exchange hours because she had to pass along the Dam and would occasionally catch sight of Miguel. He would be oblivious to her presence, locked in conversation with some great merchant or other, his confidence radiating, one hand contemplatively rubbing his bristly beard. He would laugh and slap his friend upon the back. She had never seen him so at ease as when he was upon the Dam, and she liked to believe that this agreeable happy man was Miguel’s secret self, at home in the shadow of the palatial Town Hall and the glorious Exchange, the self he would become once he cleared himself of his debt and his brother’s yoke.

Daniel had grown particularly fond of herring, since their arrival in Amsterdam, and wanted to eat it three times a week, prepared in stews, or in sauces with raisins and nutmeg, and sometimes smothered in butter and parsley. The stall keepers down at the fish market had a hundred ways to sell bad herring, but Annetje knew all their tricks and made herself useful in testing the most handsome specimens for signs of being slicked with oil, dyed, or salted to hide the smell of rot. After the women bought their fish, they crossed the Dam to seek out sellers of vegetables and, as Daniel had been generous with money that morning, fruit for after the meal. As she went about her purchases, Hannah kept her eyes on the Exchange, never knowing when she might be treated to a glimpse of Miguel, aglow in his pecuniary glory.

Annetje had been unusually kind to her since their church outing. She knew nothing of Hannah’s fleeting encounter with the widow, so she could not guess why Hannah had returned to her care so sullen. The girl had brought her home and given her hot wine with extra cloves. She had cooked leafy cabbage for her to improve her blood, but if her blood had improved, Hannah showed no signs of it. Annetje joked with her, snapped at her, coddled her, poked fingers in her sides, and by turns kissed and pinched her cheeks, but nothing worked. The girl eventually settled in with Hannah’s new moodiness and declared she would not waste her time attempting to coax so sad a mope into better spirits.

Hannah had thought to tell her. She wanted to tell someone, but she had been in no mind to share more secrets with the girl, so she said nothing. She lay in bed at night thinking of that wicked stare, and once or twice she had thought to awaken Daniel—or merely shove him, for he was often enough awake with aching teeth—and confess all to him. He would never cast her out, not while she carried his child. Still, she kept her tongue. She thought about telling Miguel. The widow was his friend, after all, but she could not even dream of explaining to him what she had been doing in that part of town.

No one need know, she repeated to herself during those long nights. No one would find out, and there would be no consequences if she just kept silent.

Only the coffee berries comforted her now. She had slipped down to Miguel’s cellar once more and slid a handful into her apron. One handful. How long would that last? So she took another, and then a half handful to be sure she need not come again so soon. Inside the sack, the beans appeared diminished, but Miguel would hardly notice. If he traded in the fruit, he might get more as easily as he pleased. For all she knew, this was a new sack entirely.

Now, as she and Annetje returned to the Vlooyenburg, their baskets heavy with fish and carrots, she chewed on her berries, working them slowly so they might last longer. But even though she had eaten a dozen berries or more, the fear pulled at her, and she began to wonder if the effect of the fruit was no match for the terrors that now lurked everywhere.

She hardly noticed where they walked, so Annetje, observing her absent frame of mind, led her through the narrow and ancient Hoogstraat, where the stones were red with blood from the hog butchers that lined either side. She took obvious pleasure in the idea of trailing pig blood into a Jew’s house. Hannah snapped alert to avoid the congealing puddles, but when they were halfway through the aisle she was distracted by the burn of eyes upon her like the hot breath of a predator. She dared not turn around, so with her free hand she gripped Annetje’s arm, hoping her intent would be clear: let us hurry. It was not. Annetje sensed something was amiss, so she stopped and turned to look. There was nothing left for Hannah but to turn around too.

Pretty as a portrait, the widow approached her, smiling her wide irresistible smile. She hardly looked where she walked, but her natural grace steered her past the puddles of blood and offal. A few paces behind lagged her man, young, fair-haired, and handsome in the most menacing way imaginable. He held back, to keep a watchful eye on her.

“My dear,” the widow said to Hannah, “do you understand my language?” She turned to Annetje. “Girl, does the senhora understand?”

Hannah was too frightened to lie or even to answer. Her head clouded with the pungent scent of pigs’ blood. Surely the widow now wanted something for her silence, and if Hannah could not provide it, she would find herself, her husband, her child destroyed. To save himself, Daniel would surely divorce her. He might be able to repair his reputation in the community by acting cruelly to the wife who had defiled his name. And then what would Hannah do, throw herself and her child upon the mercy of some convent?

“She understands well enough,” Annetje said, making no effort to hide her confusion. She knew who the widow was and could not imagine her business with Hannah. “But her tongue is too ill made to form the sounds of Dutch.”

Wicked though she might be, Annetje proved her worth now. If Hannah could not speak, it would shorten their conversation, force the widow to be clear and direct.

“Very well, sweetheart, you just nod if you understand me and shake your head if you do not. Can you do that, my dear?”

Hannah nodded.

“You are a stout girl, you know, and a pretty one too, under those cruel clothes. How sad such beauty must be hidden. Senhor Lienzo has often spoken of how pretty you are, and of his brother’s good fortune to have such a pretty wife.”

Hannah did not know if she should nod. It seemed to her immodest to affirm her own beauty. But Miguel thought her pretty, and that was something.

Unable to resist, she reached into her apron and grabbed one of the last coffee berries, dirty with lint and street dust. With it clutched in her fingers, she lifted her hand, as though holding it to her mouth in fear, and slipped the hard fruit inside. It was too soon to chew, she told herself, and took comfort in clenching the berry with her molars. A little too much pressure, and the bean split. It would be fine if she just chewed it carefully.

“On Sunday.” Annetje was repeating some words Hannah had missed. The girl’s mind churned through possibilities. “Near the Weigh House?”

“Near the Weigh House,” the widow agreed affably. “The senhora and I saw each other. Is that not right, my dear?”

Hannah nodded again: a fine opportunity to work at some of the larger pieces of the berry.

“I saw you chasing after your girl. I can hardly imagine what she had done to make her mistress chase after her, but I suppose that is none of my concern.”

Annetje clucked her tongue. “I am certain the antics of youth are a distant memory to you, and so they appear puzzling.”

“Such a witty slut. I’ll indulge you your barbs, so I may sooner get to the heart of my meaning.” She looked at Hannah. “I only want you to know that I happened to be near the Weigh House all morning. Indeed, I saw you as I came by way of the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, and I saw from which house you came. I know what it would mean if the world were to know you were inside it.” She reached out and pressed her fingers ever so gently on Hannah’s belly. Just for an instant. “I only wanted to beg you to be more careful. Do you understand?”

Hannah nodded once more.

“What does she care for your concern, old woman?” Annetje demanded.

The widow smiled thinly. “You probably know nothing of who I am. I cannot imagine dear Senhor Lienzo speaks of me to you, so I must think you concerned about this knowledge I now possess. I only wanted to tell you that you needn’t fear anything from me. I have many talents, dear senhora, but none so precious to me as that of keeping secrets. You may sleep at night knowing I will never speak of what I saw to a living soul—not to Senhor Lienzo, though he is a great friend of mine; not even to my dear Hendrick.”

Hendrick bowed at Hannah.

“All I ask in exchange,” began Geertruid, but she stopped herself. “No, not in exchange. I won’t make a bargain with you; I won’t have you believe my silence some precious thing, easily broken. I will keep your secret, yet I would ask a favor of you, lamb. May I do so?”

Hannah nodded and swallowed the last of her coffee.

“I’m so very glad. You see, I only ask that you not speak of what
you
saw—not to Senhor Lienzo or your husband or your friends or even to this sweet girl here, upon whom you depend. I think it best we both forget we saw each other that day. Do you not think so?”

Another nod.

“I’m so glad. May I kiss you?” This time Geertruid did not wait for a nod. She leaned in and put her soft lips against Hannah’s veil, pressing through so she could feel the warmth the widow’s mouth. “Were things ordered differently, I’m sure we could be friends. It’s sad that it cannot be, but know that I always wish you well. Good-bye, my dear.”

Geertruid turned and walked toward Hendrick, who offered the ladies another bow.

“Christ,” Annetje said loudly. “I hope the senhor doesn’t fuck anything that withered.”

Hannah began walking quickly. Annetje remained a moment, watching them depart, and then hurried after her mistress.

“By Jesus,” Annetje swore, “you had better tell me what that was about.”

Hannah kept her eyes straight ahead. A group of women, thick-waisted matrons, passed them by, glancing at Hannah’s veil.

“You may speak now,” Annetje urged. “There’s no harm in it.”

“I won’t speak of it,” Hannah said. She felt as though the widow had been some kind of witch, that a spell had been cast, and that to defy the widow’s wishes would bring down her curses. How could she be sure the widow was
not
a witch?

“Don’t be a silly,” Annetje urged quietly. “Because that old whore says it doesn’t mean it must be so. She can’t know of what we speak.”

“If I’m to hope she keeps her silence, I must keep mine.”

“A peculiar sort of logic.” Annetje clicked her tongue. “I want to know her secret.”

Hannah stopped. She looked Annetje full in the face. “My child is in danger. I beg of you not to speak a word of this to anyone. You must promise me.”

Annetje laughed airily. “I will not,” she said. “I can ruin you more easily than that widow can, and I’ll not make any vow because you tell me.”

Hannah did not turn away. She would not be intimidated, not about this. “You will promise me, and honor your word too.”

Annetje’s laugh ended, and her smile retracted into her face like a cat’s claws. “You want my promise? I promise that if you keep secrets from me, I’ll tell what I know of them to your husband. There is my promise. Keep your affairs hidden from me again, and you’ll have cause to regret it,” she said. “Now stop staring at me like a puppy and let’s go.”

Hannah nodded helplessly. Still, she had won, hadn’t she? Annetje had demanded that she not keep
more
secrets, not that she reveal this one. The girl had backed down.

Perhaps her will was worth something after all. But what to do about the widow? She hated to hold something back from Miguel, but what choice had she been given? In any case, the widow was his friend. Perhaps she planned something for him as a surprise. Perhaps she secretly helped him with some business. Yes, that made a great deal of sense. She helped Miguel behind his back and did not want him to know lest his pride be injured. All would be well, she told herself again and again, each time hoping to believe it.

13

After a disappointing afternoon, nothing would have been so welcome as the cool isolation of his brother’s cellar. Sad home though it was, it offered some retreat from the world.

It had been more than two weeks, and still no word from any of his prospective agents. True, it was still early, but after two weeks it was now within the realm of the possible that he might have word. That was what he had told himself.
Don’t look for answers before two weeks had passed,
though he had secretly hoped to receive word sooner.

Now all that might comfort him would be a few struck candles, a glass of wine—or perhaps even some coffee. Miguel had stopped by the bookseller that afternoon and found a new tale of Charming Pieter and his Goodwife Mary. It was only eighteen pages long, so he took no more than a glance at it in the shop, not wanting to spoil the pleasure of the discovery.

Miguel had received yet another note from his Muscovy agent that day. The fellow had too many debts and too many creditors pressing for them. He needed to call in his own loans, and if Miguel could not comply there would certainly be consequences.

There were always consequences, he told himself, and he’d ignored his share of similar communications, but not with Dutchmen who might well drag him before the courts—something he could little afford now that he was beginning to order his affairs. So he spent the day in search of Ricardo, but no luck. Instead he ended up at the Flyboat, drinking with Isaiah Nunes.

“What do you know about Ricardo?” Miguel asked his friend.

“Nothing more than you know. He’s just a broker of middling skills.”

“You have no idea who his clients are?”

“That is one thing Ricardo does well: he keeps quiet. He’s very popular among men who don’t want to pay a moment before they choose to pay. I don’t think Ricardo would risk tricking you outright, but it could be another month or even more before he pays. I heard he once sheltered a client for more than a year.”

Miguel had no intention of waiting a year. “I would blacken his eye if I thought he wouldn’t go running to the Ma’amad. Trouble from the council is the last thing I need while I work out this business with coffee.”

“Are you still committed to that project?” Nunes let his eyes wander around the room.

Miguel felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. “Of course.”

“Maybe now is not the best time,” Nunes suggested, half swallowing his words.

Miguel leaned forward. “What are you telling me—that you can’t get what you promised? By Christ, if you can’t, you had better tell me who can.”

“Of course I can get what I promise,” he answered hastily. “I’ll not promise what I can’t do. Even the East India Company would not cross me.” An idle boast, of course.

“I am utterly certain that the East India Company would not hesitate to cross me,” Miguel said, “but I hope
you
would.”

Nunes let out a nervous sigh. “I only wondered if perhaps, now that you have made a little money in whale oil and are feeling confident, it might be a poor time to invest in something so full of risk. Why not make yourself safe?”

“My brother tried to warn me off coffee too,” Miguel said.

“I’m not trying to warn you off,” Nunes assured him. “If you suggest your brother put me up to this, you are wrong. You know how little I value him. If Parido did not befriend him, he’d be without two stuivers to buy bread. I just don’t want to see you lose in a risky venture.”

“Just do what I pay you to do,” Miguel said, loud enough to make his friend cringe.

On the walk home, he’d begun to regret his words to Nunes. Miguel had lost a great deal of money, and the loss had hit him hard. His friends were right to worry about him, and he had not exactly told Nunes the truth about his coffee venture. He would find Nunes tomorrow, apologize by buying him a few tankards, and the matter would be forgotten.

On entering his brother’s house, Miguel found his plans for a quiet retreat quickly dashed. Daniel sat smoking a pipe in the front room with Hannah, who appeared lost in thought, oblivious to her husband.

“A word, please,” Daniel said, with a little more urgency than his brother liked. “I must speak to you for a moment. Leave the room, wife.”

Hannah picked up her glass of mulled wine and retreated to the kitchen, stealing a glance at Miguel. Their eyes locked for an instant, but she turned away first. She always did.

Daniel rose to meet his brother. He held up a few pieces of paper, which looked very much like letters. “You received these today.”

Miguel took them. The letters appeared on the surface nothing special, but Miguel already recognized the hand on one of them: Joachim.

“That’s the one,” Daniel said, noticing Miguel’s frown. “I can see, just from the handwriting, that the letter is written by a Dutchman. I wonder at your receiving such communications, and receiving them in my house as well. Is this some man for whom you broker? You know that these transactions with gentiles are illegal.”

Miguel checked to make certain that the letter was unopened, but the seal was of simple wax. It could easily have been broken and sealed again.

“I see nothing wrong with receiving any letter at my place of lodging.” He would soon control all the coffee in Europe; even having this conversation was beneath him. “Do you suggest that you never have need to communicate with Dutchmen? All your affairs, from your banking to the acquisition of wall paintings, are transacted only with Jews?”

“Of course not. Please don’t bombard me with absurdities. But I don’t think this letter is of such a nature, and I wish to know what it contains.”

“So do I, but I have not read it.” He leaned forward. “I wonder if you can say the same. I might remind you that we’re no longer in Lisbon,” Miguel said after a moment. “Here a man need not keep so suspicious an eye on his brother.”

“That’s not the point. I charge you to open that letter in my presence, so its contents may be revealed before the community.”

Revealed before the community? Had Daniel grown mad and come to believe that Parido had steered him to a seat on the Ma’amad?

“Shall I translate it for you as well?” Miguel asked. “Would Portuguese or Spanish be more to your liking?”

“Am I to be upbraided for not speaking the language of gentiles?”

“Of course not. Let us continue our conversation in Hebrew. I’m sure your mastery of the tongue is superior to mine.”

Daniel began to turn red. “I think you forget yourself. Now open the letter, if you please, unless you have something to hide.”

“I’ve nothing more to hide than any man of business,” Miguel returned, unable to choke back the words he knew he could not afford to utter. “My letters are my own concern.”

“My wife is with child. I won’t have strange Dutch letters plaguing her quiet.”

“Of course.” Miguel looked downward to hide his mirth. His wife’s quiet surely existed independent of any Dutch letters that came to the house. “If you like,” he proposed, knowing he was now being provoking, “I’ll have all my letters directed to a tavern, where it will be the barkeep’s task to protect his own wife’s quiet.”

“No,” Daniel answered, too quickly. “No, perhaps I shouldn’t interfere with your business. A man has a right to order his own affairs.”

“You are very kind.” Miguel had not meant for his words to sound quite so bitter.

“I only inquire into your business out of curiosity. Brotherly curiosity, you know. For example, I should love to learn more of this coffee trade you mentioned.”

Miguel felt the tingle of panic. “I told you, I have no such trade.”

“Let’s be open with each other. I’m certain it must be a safe topic within these walls.”

“I have no plans,” Miguel said as he walked away, “but if you think the coffee trade so promising, I’ll be certain to look into it.”

Miguel passed through the kitchen, where Hannah and Annetje busied themselves with moving carrots and leeks from this place to that in an effort to appear as though they had been tending to the meal and not listening at the door.

Once in his cellar, he struck a few candles and then ground some beans with the mortar and pestle he had not yet returned to the kitchen, and which had not yet been missed, and heated some wine. Only once he had poured the mixture into a bowl and allowed it to settle did he break open the letter from Joachim.

Senhor Lienzo,

When we spoke earlier, I may have grown unnecessarily heated. Nevertheless, I think you will agree that my anger is well justified and that you indeed owe me more than you have been willing to admit. Therefore, please accept my regrets. I wish you to know I am glad that we may enter into a matter of business that will serve our mutual interests. I remain your servant,

Joachim Waagenaar

He took a sip of his drink, though he might have been drinking beer for all he noticed the bitterness. Surely this man was far madder than Miguel had imagined. Had Joachim understood nothing of their conversation, even his own part?

After folding the letter and placing it upon the fire, Miguel went through the rest of his correspondence, which included more troubling lines from the Muscovy trader, who, it seemed, had taken to writing twice a day now. Miguel had not the heart to reply to these meddlesome words and, instead, took out his new pamphlet, but the tricks of Charming Pieter held no allure for him.

He set down the little volume when he heard footsteps upon the stairs. He thought he might have to face Annetje, whose silliness would only irritate him, but instead he saw that Hannah had descended halfway down to the cellar. She held a smoky candle in her hand, and she peered with seeming difficulty into the dimly lit room.

“Are you there, senhor?” she called softly.

Miguel could not think how to reply. Hannah had never before come into the cellar, and that she did so without knocking seemed to him unthinkable. He might have been undressed. He recalled that he had not closed the door, so perhaps Hannah believed that to be a sign of his willingness to receive guests. Such a mistake, he determined, must never again be permitted.

“I’m here, senhora.” He set down his bowl of coffee and moved toward the foot of the stairwell. “Do you require me?”

“I smelled something strange,” she told him, taking a few more steps down. “I wanted to make certain all was well.”

No odor, other than fire or vomit, ought to provoke such a response. The coffee was certainly the culprit. Since he had received the beans of Geertruid, Miguel had grown accustomed to the aroma but recognized that it might smell alien to someone unfamiliar with it.

“Oh, the floor is all wet,” Hannah observed. “Have you spilled something?”

“It is the canal, senhora. It floods at night.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I worry that you’ll grow ill.”

“I do well enough, senhora. And it is better to sleep in the damp than in a heated room with no windows. I inquired of a physician.”

“I wanted to see about the odor.” She sounded confused, as though she had taken too much wine. Now that he thought about it, her voice did have a loose, unformed quality. She seemed to be making an effort to say something more, as though she could not bring herself to her topic. He knew she took undue pleasure in his company, that she loved to look upon him and make idle chatter with him, but to descend to the cellar—had she discovered some new boldness?

“There is no need to so trouble yourself, senhora. The smell is nothing but a new kind of tea. I am sorry it disturbed you.”

“A new kind of tea!” she nearly shouted, as though this had been what she had longed to hear. Miguel, however, did not quite believe it. It was more, he thought, as though she had latched onto some opportunity. Hannah now ventured another step, until she hovered only a few inches above the wet. “Daniel thinks tea a waste of money, but I love it.”

Miguel noticed that Hannah’s scarf had come askew and he could see a thick lock of her black hair dangling across her forehead. As a woman who had returned to Jewish ways only recently, she perhaps did not feel to the depth of her soul the force of the Law that prohibited a married woman from showing her hair to any man but her husband. Miguel had found the injunction strange when he had first arrived in Amsterdam, but he had absorbed its urgency to such a degree that he would hardly have been more shocked had she exposed to him her bare breasts—which were large and of significant interest to him.

As it was, he found this lock of hair strangely exciting. “Perhaps you might taste it someday,” Miguel said, in rapid words that betrayed his discomfort. His face grew hot, and his pulse quickened. His eyes fixed upon this lock of hair. In an instant, he knew what it must feel like to the touch—smooth and brittle at once—and he could smell its musty aroma. Did she know she so exposed herself? Miguel could hardly think so. He wanted to say something so she might undo the error before Daniel discovered it, but if he were to tell her that she had so disrobed herself, mortification might overwhelm her.

“I’ll be happy to share the tea with you some other time,” he told her. “I hope you will close the door to the room when you depart.”

Hannah could not mistake his meaning. “I am sorry to have bothered you, senhor.” She retreated up the stairs.

He thought to call out, to say she had not bothered him. He could not let her walk away feeling foolish. But he knew that was precisely what he ought to do. Let her feel foolish. Let her come down here no more. No good could come of it.

Miguel returned to his writing table and finished his drink. He would not allow himself to think about her, having trouble enough without letting thoughts of his brother’s wife confuse him. Better he should think of how to extract Joachim Waagenaar from his affairs.

Miguel stumbled upon no solutions though the problem kept him awake. Many hours after the household had fallen into quiet, he slipped up to the attic to awaken Annetje, and only after he had spent himself with her did he find any rest.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

Since Miguel Lienzo developed an interest in the wondrous fruit, I had been meeting him in a little coffee tavern in the Plantage run by a Turk I called Mustafa. This may have been his true name or it may not; I have no way of knowing. It was the name of the Turk in a play I had seen once, and this fellow reminded me of that fictional Mohammedan. If he objected to my calling him by that name, he never told me so.