The Coffee Trader (33 page)

“You wished to speak to me about something,” he said.

Her voice cracked as she tried to talk. “I wish to speak to you about your brother.”

“What about my brother?” His eyes shifted momentarily to her belly.

A moment of hesitation. “He is out of the house,” she said.

When he was a boy, he and his friends had a favorite rock from which they would leap into the waters of the Tagus. They fell five times the length of a man. Who could say how far it was now, but in the thrill of childish excitement it seemed halfway to eternity. Miguel remembered the twisting and terrifying feeling of freedom, like dying and soaring at once.

Without moving he now felt the same terror and excitement. His gut twisted; his humors rushed to his brain. “Senhora,” he said. He rose, planning to escape as quickly as he could, but she must have misunderstood. She stood as well and walked to him until she was only a few inches away. He could smell the sweet perfume of her musk, feel the heat of her breath. Her eyes locked upon him, and with one hand she reached up and pulled the scarf from her head, letting her thick hair fall around her shoulders and down her back.

Miguel heard himself suck in his breath. The urges of his body would betray him. He had been so resolved only an instant before. This beautiful, eager woman could not, he reminded himself, be made any more pregnant than she was already. Her body emitted its own heat and closed in on him. Miguel knew he need only lift his hand and put it upon her arm, or run it along her face, or touch her hair, and nothing else would matter. He would be lost in the mindless revel of senses. All his determination would be for nothing.

And why should he not give in? he asked himself. Had his brother treated him so well that he should not pluck this illicit fruit of his hospitality? Adultery was surely a great sin, but he understood that such sins were born of the need to maintain order in households. It was not bedding another man’s wife that was the sin; it was getting her with child. Since that could not happen, it would be no sin to take her here upon the floor of the drawing room.

And so he leaned in to kiss her, to finally feel the press of her lips. And in the instant he thought to pull her closer to him, he felt something much darker. He knew with perfect clarity what would happen if he kissed her. Would she be able to return to her husband’s bed without revealing what had happened? This poor, abused girl—she would, in a thousand silent ways, betray him before a day had passed.

He took a step backwards. “Senhora,” he whispered, “it cannot be.”

She bit her lip and looked down at her hands, which were twisting her scarf so hard as to almost destroy it. “What cannot be?” she asked.

Let us pretend then, Miguel silently agreed. “I beg your pardon,” he told her, as he took another step back. “I seem to have misunderstood something. Please forgive me.” He hurried out of the room and into the dark hall to feel his blundering way to the cellar.

There, in the damp and the dark, he sat mutely, listening for some sign of her anguish or her relief, but he heard nothing, not even the creaking of floorboards. For all he knew she remained motionless, her hair exposed to the empty space. And strangely, Miguel felt the heat of tears on his own face. Do I love her so much? Perhaps he did, but he did not cry out of love.

He wept not for her sadness, or even for his own, but for the knowledge that he had been cruel, that he had led her to believe what he had always known must be impossible. He had acted out the fancies of his imagination upon her without thinking that for her to abandon those fancies might crush her. He had been cruel to a sad woman who had done nothing worse than be kind to him. He wondered if he had indeed played his hand so badly in all other spheres.

31

Just before noon, outside the Exchange, excitement was building upon the Dam. Two weeks had passed since Miguel’s conversation with Geertruid. Today was reckoning day on the Exchange, and today Miguel’s investments came due. He stood in the crowd, awaiting the opening of the great gates, and scanned the faces about him: hard and intense stares into the distance. Dutchman, Jew, and foreigner alike all clenched their teeth and maintained a martial watchfulness. Any man who had spent enough time on the Exchange could sense it, like the smell of coming rain. Great schemes were ready to be unleashed that would affect everyone who traded. Every reckoning day was charged, but today something more than the usual would happen. Everyone knew it.

As he had made himself ready that morning, Miguel felt a troubling peace. His stomach had been in a twist for weeks, but now he felt the calmness of resolve, like a man walking to the gallows. He had slept surprisingly soundly but still drank four large bowls of coffee. He wanted to be wild with coffee. He wanted coffee to rule his passions.

He could not have been more ready, but he knew some things were beyond him. Five men, knowingly or not, were his creatures, and he depended on them to act their parts. It was all so fragile. This enormous edifice could in an instant crumble into dust.

And so he prepared himself as best he could. He cleansed himself before Shabbat at the mikvah and dedicated himself to prayer on the holy day. The next day he continued in prayer, and he fasted from sunup to sunset.

He could not survive two ruins. The world might blink at the first one, forgive it as bad luck. Two ruins would crush him forever. No substantial merchant would ever entrust such a failure with his daughter. No man of business would ever offer Miguel a partnership. To fail today would mean he would have to abandon the life of a merchant.

With his teeth gritty from ground coffee berry, Miguel had stepped outside and breathed in the early morning air. He felt more like a conquistador than a trader. Only a few wisps of clouds drifted across the sky, and a light breeze came rolling in from the waters. A superstitious Dutchman might see clear skies as a good omen, but Miguel knew the skies were clear for Parido too.

Outside the Dam, Miguel waited in the unusually silent crowd. No arguments or bursts of laughter. Nowhere did the sound of early trading set off a ripple of exchanges. When men spoke, they spoke in whispers.

Parido’s calls, like Miguel’s puts, were to come due at the close of the day. That meant Parido needed to keep the price high, and the higher it went the more he would profit, just as the lower it went, the more Miguel would earn. If Miguel did nothing, Parido would gain on his investment and Miguel would lose. As Parido held the coffee shipment that was meant to be Miguel’s, he would hold on to his goods until after tomorrow. He might then slowly sell what he had at the inflated price.

“If you were Parido,” Alferonda had reasoned, “you would want to use your trading combination. You could spread the rumor that his combination was planning to dump holdings, which would bring down the price. But you don’t have that kind of power. Parido does.”

“Why does he not simply spread the rumor that his combination will be buying, thus causing the price to rise even higher?”

“The rumor game is a delicate one. If a combination overuses it, no one will believe rumors associated with that combination anymore, and it has lost a valuable tool. This business with the coffee is Parido’s, not his combination’s. The other members would be unwilling to expend the capital of rumor on his behalf here, not unless the promise of wealth were sufficiently compelling. But there are other ways he can use his combination.”

“He can instruct his men not to respond to me.”

“Precisely. Parido will assume that you will try to sell such coffee as you have acquired, and make it seem as though you have more than you do, thus causing a fall in the price. Alternatively, you will sell what you don’t have. Now, he knows this is tricky, because if you can set off a selling frenzy, you can then buy cheap what others unload, and if anyone challenges the sale you can produce what you have promised. But he will surely have instructed his combination to spread the rumor that you will not have what you pretend to sell, and no one will buy of you.”

Miguel smiled. “Can it be as simple as that?”

“Parido is a very powerful man,” Alferonda said. “He has made his money not by being overly clever but by seeing to the simple things. You’ve demonstrated in the past that you work alone, you work without much strategy, and you tend to follow your instincts rather than clear business plans. I see you are insulted, but you cannot deny it is true. You’ve made mistakes, Miguel, but those mistakes will serve you very well when you step forth onto the Exchange this time. Parido will be expecting a very different opponent from the man he finds.”

The clock upon the tower of the great Town Hall struck noon, and the gates to the Exchange opened in a burst of shouting that echoed across the Dam. Miguel pushed his way in, along with the hundreds of other traders, and slowly made his way toward the East India corner of the courtyard, ignoring the traders who called out to him with their goods.

A larger crowd than was usual milled around the East India traders. Many of the men were of Parido’s combination. They wore the bright colors and feathered hats of the Portuguese, and they held themselves like imperious hidalgos. They were there as a favor to their friend. It would cost them nothing to monitor the trade in coffee, to sell nothing themselves, and to muscle out anyone who might respond to Miguel’s efforts. It was all as he and Alferonda had speculated.

Off to the side, talking with some traders Miguel recognized, stood Isaiah Nunes. He nodded at Miguel. Miguel nodded back. There would be time for accusations later, but for now he put forth his best face. What would Nunes expect to see from Miguel? Disappointment, of course. He knew about the puts. Still, he had to make a certain show of determination.

In the open courtyard where the Hamburg merchants did their business, Alferonda conferred with the few Tudescos on the Exchange. These long-bearded Jews nodded their sage heads as the usurer explained something at great, probably needless, length.

Miguel looked up and saw Parido in front of him. “This day has a familiar feel to it. Does it not remind you of the day the price of sugar fell?”

“No.” Miguel smiled back. “As a matter of fact, this day feels utterly new.”

“Surely you don’t think you can orchestrate a downturn in coffee prices. You were warned to keep away from the coffee trade, but you would do things your own way. That is how it must be. I’ve anticipated your moves, and I’ve taken steps to prevent their success. The kindliest advice I can give you is to walk away. Accept your losses at the day’s end. At least you’ll be spared a public humiliation.”

“I appreciate your advice. But you might wish to keep in mind that you will be pressing your lips to my ass before the day ends.”

“You forget to whom you speak. I am only trying to spare what remains of your reputation. A lesser man than I would have held his tongue.”

“There is no lesser man than you, senhor.”

Parido clucked his tongue. “Do you really believe you can outmaneuver me?”

“I have my business well in hand.” Miguel did not like the wavering of his own voice. Parido seemed too confident. What if he knew the details of Miguel’s plans? What if he had taken steps to prevent Alferonda’s clever scheme to circumvent Parido’s influence? What if Joachim had betrayed him?

“How in hand do you truly have it?” Parido asked.

“I don’t understand your question.”

“It’s quite simple. Do you believe so firmly that you can prevail today and bring down the price that you are willing to make a wager?”

Miguel locked his eyes upon his enemy’s. “Name it.” Parido was foolish to offer a wager. Miguel had already gambled everything.

“The price of coffee now stands at seven tenths of a guilder per pound, which means I have raised it to forty-two guilders per barrel. I only need keep it above thirty-eight guilders to make my money. You need it to fall below thirty-seven to make any profit from your puts. At thirty-seven or greater, you make nothing, and your brother answers for your bad investment.”

Miguel felt himself redden.

“You thought no one knew of your reckless use of his name? You thought you could keep secrets from me on this bourse? And now you think you can outmaneuver me when I am determined not to be outmaneuvered? I admire your optimism.”

It meant nothing, Miguel told himself. He might have learned of Miguel’s trick from his broker. It did not mean Parido knew everything. “You’re doing nothing but boasting, senhor.”

“Very well, I’ll do more than boast. If you can bring the price to thirty guilders a barrel or below, I’ll allow you to buy ninety barrels from me at twenty guilders each.”

Miguel attempted to appear skeptical. “Where would you hope to get ninety barrels of coffee? Can the warehouses of Amsterdam have so much?”

“The warehouses of Amsterdam contain surprises that men such as you cannot imagine.”

“Your wager seems one-sided. What do you get if I cannot defeat you?”

“Well, you’ll be ruined, so I’m not sure you’ll have anything to give me but your person. So let us say this: if you lose, then you will confess to the Ma’amad that you lied about your relationship with Joachim Waagenaar. You will tell the
parnassim
that you are guilty of deceiving that council, and you will take the punishment that so grave a deception deserves.”

Cherem.
It seemed like madness to agree to such a thing, but if he lost he would have to leave Amsterdam regardless. The banishment would make no difference.

“I agree. Let us draw up a paper to that effect, though what it is that I’ve agreed to will have to be kept between us, lest that paper later fall into the wrong hands. But I would like a surety of some kind. You see, I’d hate to win my wager only to discover you guilty of a
windhandel
—of not having the ninety barrels you promised.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Only this. I’ll take your wager, and we’ll put it all to paper. And if, by some chance, you can’t supply the coffee at the price you mention, you will instead pay me what those barrels are, at this moment, worth. That would be”—he took a moment to calculate—“thirty-eight hundred guilders. What say you?”

“It is an empty bet, for I never sell what I do not have.”

“Then you agree?”

“Of course not. Why should I agree to a foolish wager that includes the possibility of my paying almost four thousand guilders?”

Miguel shrugged. “I won’t accept otherwise. I require the surety.”

Parido let out a sigh. “Very well, I’ll agree to your silly conditions.”

He quickly drew up the contract, insisting on writing out both copies himself. Miguel therefore had to waste more time reading it over, making certain his rival had not inserted any trickery into the language. But all appeared well, and the contract was witnessed by one of Parido’s friends who stood close by. Each man now had his copy in his pocket. The clock tower told him he had lost a quarter of an hour. It was time to begin.

Miguel took a step backwards and called out in Latin, “Coffee! Selling twenty barrels of coffee at forty guilders each.” The price hardly mattered, as Miguel had none of it himself. This, after all, was a
windhandel
. He had to make the price low enough to attract attention, but not so low that his call would arouse suspicion. “I have coffee at forty,” he called again. He then repeated the call in Dutch and again in Portuguese.

No one replied. Parido’s men began to move in, menacing Miguel like a pack of dogs. A minor trader from the Vlooyenburg glanced over at Miguel and appeared on the verge of taking the sale, but Parido locked eyes with him and the merchant turned away, muttering. It was clear that no Portuguese Jew would want to incur Parido’s anger by breaking the blockade.

Casting his eyes about the Exchange, Miguel saw Daniel hovering on the perimeter of their little crowd. He had dressed in his best trading suit today—not bright enough to wear on Shabbat but a handsome ensemble: matching crimson doublet and hat with a blue shirt beneath, black breeches, and shiny red shoes with enormous silver buckles. He looked at Parido’s men and at Miguel and then down at the ground.

Silence had descended over their little section of the Exchange. In the near distance he could hear the shouts of other transactions, but no one among the East India traders said a word. The battle had begun, and it surely appeared to the spectators that Miguel was already defeated. Parido smiled and whispered something in the ear of a member of his combination, who answered with a hoarse laugh.

Miguel called out his price again. A few Dutchmen looked on curiously but, seeing the crowd of menacing Jews, kept their distance. Miguel had nothing to offer that was sweet enough to either entice the Portuguese Jews to defy Parido or draw the Christians to trouble themselves with what was so obviously a duel among aliens. Standing alone in the midst of a circle, Miguel looked like a lost child.

He called out once more. Again, no reply. Parido met his gaze and smiled. His lips moved silently.
You’ve lost.

Then Miguel heard the call in poor Latin. “I’ll buy twenty at thirty-nine.”

Alferonda had worked his contacts among the Tudescos. One of that nation, a man whose usual trade was in the discounting of bank notes, stood forth and repeated his call. He wore black robes, and his white beard swayed as he shouted out his bid. “Twenty barrels at thirty-nine!”

“Sold!” Miguel shouted. He could not help but smile. It was not the usual trader who hoped his buyers would keep lowering his price. But his business today was to sell cheap.

“I’ll buy twenty-five at thirty-eight and a half,” cried another Tudesco, whom Miguel recognized as a dealer in unminted gold.

Miguel pushed his way through the wall of Parido’s men to acknowledge him. “Twenty-five barrels at thirty-eight and a half, sold!”