The Coffee Trader

“I don’t much like the tone you’ve taken with me, Ricardo,” Miguel said, “and I promise you that this incident will not shine favorably on your reputation.”

“You’re a fine fellow to talk about reputations,” the broker answered, as he turned away.

Later that week, Miguel left his brother’s house early and strolled along the Herengracht, whose handsome wide streets were bursting with linden trees newly rich with foliage. Grand houses rose upward on either side of the canal, glories of the prosperity that the Dutch had built for themselves in the last half century. These were enormous red-brick dwellings-too well constructed to require the sealing black tar that covered so many houses in the city-grand structures with ornate angles and dazzling flourishes. Miguel loved to study the gable stones above the doorways, coats of arms or symbols of the source of the household’s wealth: a bound bundle of wheat, a tall-masted ship, an African brute in chains.

Just ahead, a beggar wound his way through the street, stumbling like a drunkard. He was filthy, covered in rags, and missing most of his left arm from an accident still new enough to leave the wound raw and rancid. Miguel, who was kind, sometimes too kind, with the city’s mendicants, felt the pull of generosity. Why should he not be munificent? Charity was a mitzvah, and in a few months’ time he would hardly miss a handful of stuivers.

As he reached for his purse, something stayed his hand. Miguel felt the burn of eyes on him and turned. Not fifteen feet behind him, Joachim Waagenaar flashed his wincing smile.

“Don’t let me stop you,” he said as he approached. “If you, in your goodness, meant to give a few coins to that unfortunate, I would hate to think I stood in your way. A man with money to spare must never be shy in giving charity.”

“Joachim!” he called out, with all the semblance of cheer he could muster. “Well met.”

“Keep your false kindness,” he said, “after you so rudely spurned our meeting.”

Miguel deployed the easy voice with which he convinced men to buy what they did not want. “An unfortunate turn of events prevented me from arriving. It was all very disagreeable, and I assure you I would rather have been with you than those unpleasant gentlemen.”

“Oh, such dreaded circumstances can only be imagined,” Joachim said, raising his voice like a mountebank. “Such horrible circumstances as would prevent you not only from fulfilling a promise but from sending along word to tell me that you could not make it as we had agreed.”

It occurred to Miguel that he ought to be worried about this public encounter. Should he be spotted by a Ma’amad spy, Parido might well undertake an official investigation. A quick glance revealed only housewives, maids, and a few artisans. He had walked a route not generally frequented by those of his neighborhood, and he believed he might continue this conversation, at least for a few more minutes, without risk of exposure.

“I must tell you that I don’t believe any business arrangement between us is possible at this time,” he said, making an attempt to keep a kindly tone in his voice. “My resources are limited, and, if I may speak frankly, I am encumbered by a great deal of debt.” It pained him to say the words aloud to this wretch, but at the moment the truth struck him as the best strategy.

“I too have debts-with the baker and the butcher-and both have threatened action if I do not pay what I owe at once. Therefore, let’s go to the Exchange,” Joachim suggested. “We can put some money into a likely trading ship or some other scheme you devise.”

“What ma

“You’ll lend me the money,” he answered confidently. “I’ll repay you from my portion of the profits, which ought to motivate you to invest more wisely than you have sometimes done in the past-when you invested someone else’s money.”

Miguel stopped walking. “I am sorry you believe yourself wronged, but you must understand that I too lost a great deal in that unfortunate affair.” He took a breath. Better to say it than to endure Joachim’s fantastical notions. “You speak of your debts, but I have debts that would buy your baker and butcher outright. I’m sorry for your need, but I don’t know what I can do for you.”

“You were going to give to that beggar. Why give to him if you will not give to me? Are you not being merely willful?”

“Will a handful of stuivers make a difference to you, Joachim? If so, you may have them with all my heart. I would have suspected that such an amount would only insult you.”

“It would,” he snapped. “A few stuivers against the five hundred you took from me?”

Miguel sighed. How could life hold such promise and such tedium all in the same morning? “My finances are a bit disordered just now, but in half a year I’ll be able to offer you something-I’ll be able to help you in this plan as you’ve suggested, and I’ll do it gladly.”

“Half a year?” Joachim’s voice had begun to grow shrill. “Would you lie in shit-smeared straw and dine on piss gruel for half a year? My wife, Clara, whom I promised to make comfortable and content, now sells pies in the alleys behind the Oude Kerk. She’ll turn whore in half a year. I tried to take her to live with relations in Antwerp, but she wouldn’t stay in that wretched city. You think you can make things easy for us by telling me about half a year?”

Miguel thought about Joachim’s wife, Clara. He had met her once or twice, and she had proved to be a spirited woman with more sense-and certainly more beauty-than her husband.

Thinking about Joachim’s pretty wife left Miguel feeling more generous than he might have been otherwise. “I don’t have very much on me,” he said. “Nor have I much elsewhere. But I can give you two guilders if that will help your immediate needs.”

“Two guilders is but a paltry begi

“I’m sorry you believe yourself injured, but I have business to attend to. I can hear no more.”

“What business is this?” Joachim asked, stepping in front of Miguel, blocking his exit. “Business without money, is it?”

“Yes, so you may find it in your best interest not to hinder my efforts.”

“You should not be so unkind to me,” Joachim said, shifting to heavily accented Portuguese. “A man who has lost everything can lose nothing more.”

Some time ago, when they had been on far more pleasant terms, Miguel had muttered something to himself in Portuguese, and Joachim had astonished him by answering back in that language. Then he had laughed and told Miguel that in a city like Amsterdam one must never assume that a man does not understand the language you speak. Joachim used Portuguese now perhaps to suggest a dangerous intimacy, a familiarity with the ways of the Portuguese Nation, including the power of the Ma’amad. Was the Portuguese a threat, an indication that, if he did not get what he wanted, Joachim would tell the council that Miguel had been brokering for gentiles?

“I’ll not be menaced,” he said in Dutch. He held himself straight.

Joachim pushed Miguel. The gesture lacked power; it was almost contemptuous-just a little shove, enough to make Miguel take a step and a half backwards. “I think,” he said, mocking Miguel’s accent, “that you will be menaced.”

Miguel had no idea what to say. He hated Joachim well enough for threatening him with the Ma’amad, but to threaten him with violence was more than he could endure. But what could he do, strike at him? The dangers of striking a madman aside, Miguel could not risk a violent confrontation with a Dutchman. The Ma’amad would expel him without a moment of hesitation. Back in Lisbon, he hardly would have hesitated to beat this wretch bloody, but here he could only stand impotently.

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