The Coffee Trader

Miguel stepped back.

“You would be surprised how quickly a poor man learns where to buy maggoty flesh and sour milk. Empty bellies must be filled with something, though my dainty goodwife has no love of rancid victuals. Come.” Joachim took a step closer. He held out his right hand, which was still slick from the meat. “Let us shake upon our new friendship.”

“Get gone.” Miguel hated to cringe but he would not touch the man’s flesh.

“I’ll go when I choose. If you don’t shake my hand like a man of honor, I’ll be insulted. And if I’m insulted, I may have to do something that will harm you forever.”

Miguel clenched his teeth until they began to ache. He hadn’t the energy to spare in wondering when Joachim, in his madness, might decide to tell his story before the Ma’amad. But giving the fool money would not help. He’d drink it and then demand more. Miguel’s only choice was to give him nothing and hope for the best.

“Go now,” Miguel said quietly, “before I lose hold of my anger.”

Miguel turned, wanting to hear no reply, but Joachim’s quiet parting words echoed in his ears as he walked home. “I’ve only just begun to take hold of mine.”

Miguel slammed the door upon his return, sending a ripple through the house and through Ha

She knew he would come for her. He would come for her and calm her, attempt to placate her, silence her as the widow had. That was all they wanted from her, and at least, she thought, silence was something she knew how to provide.

After a moment, he entered the room. He offered her a hapless smile in an effort to appear at ease. His black suit was disordered, as though he had been exerting himself, and his hat sat askew on his head. What was more, his eyes had turned reddish, almost as though he had been crying, which Ha

Miguel then turned to A

The moment A

Miguel returned, sat down in a chair across from Ha

“I trust you are unharmed, senhora.”

“Yes, I am unharmed,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded strange in her own mouth. So long had she been thinking about what he would say, and what she would answer, that speaking at all had an unreal quality.

“Did the fellow say anything to you?”

She shook her head as she spoke. “Nothing of consequence.” It was true enough. He had talked to her softly in thickly accented Portuguese, but his words had been nonsensical, hard to understand. They were about his suffering, much like any beggar might speak, and it had been hard to concentrate, with the wretched odor wafting from his body.

Miguel leaned back now in an effort to appear at ease. “Do you have a question for me?”

Yes, she thought. May I have more coffee berries? Her supply had run out that morning, and she had meant to raid Miguel’s secret sack before he returned, but the girl had not let her alone, and then came the business with the beggar on the street. She’d eaten no coffee in more than a day, and her desire for it made her head ache.

“I don’t understand,” she said, after a moment.

“Would you like to know who he is?”

“I assumed,” she said cautiously, “he was some beggar or other, senhor. I have no need to learn more.” Had she not secrets enough already?

“Yes, that’s right,” he told her. “He is a beggar of sorts.”

Something unspoken remained in the air. “But you know him?”

“He is no one of consequence,” Miguel said rapidly.

She remained silent for a moment, to prove to him that she was calm. “I do not wish to pry. I know how my husband hates when I pry, but I wonder if I have anything to fear from him.” And then, because she found his silence frustrating: “Should we tell my husband?”

“No,” Miguel said. He stood and began to pace about the room. “You must not tell your husband or anyone else. Do not make more of this incident than is necessary.”

“I don’t understand you, senhor,” she said, studying the tiles on the floor.

“He is but a madman.” Miguel waved his arms about. “The city has an endless store of these wretches. You’ll never see him again, and so there is no need to alarm your husband.”

“I pray you are right.” Her voice sounded whiny and weak, and she hated herself for it.

Just then A

Miguel laughed after she had left. “She thinks I’m poisoning you.”

What would the widow say? “There are two bowls, senhor. You are too wise a man to poison yourself as well.”

Miguel cocked his head slightly. “This is the new tea you smelled the other night. It is made of a medicinal fruit from the Orient.” He took his seat once more. “It will enhance your understanding.”

Ha

He laughed. “The drink has its own pleasures.” He handed her a bowl.

Ha

She understood so much now. It was a tea, not a food. She had been eating what she should have been drinking. In its liquid state it filled her with a glowing warmth, a comfort she had not known for years. “It’s wonderful,” she breathed. And it was. It filled an emptiness inside her, the way she had imagined love would when she’d been younger. “It’s wonderful,” she murmured again, and took another sip to hide the moisture in her eyes.

Miguel laughed again, but this time he seemed less superior. “The first time I tasted it, I almost spat it out from the bitterness. How strange that you should like it so. I hope you are not only saying so to be polite.”

She shook her head no and took another cautious sip, lest he see her gulp it. She wanted to drink the entire bowl at once and demand more, but she could not let him see how much she loved this thing that she should not know at all.

“I am not being polite,” she said.

They sat together in silence for some time, sipping and not quite looking at each other, until Ha

“I believe you are trying to distract me, senhor. Do you treat me to this new tea so I shall forget the strange man who spoke to me?”