The Coffee Trader

On the tables, at each of which sat ten or twelve banqueters, were piles and pots of food: oysters, boiled fowl, a steaming vessel of hutsepot with the leg of some unclean animal thrust outward like the desperate grasp of a drowning man. There were enormous wheels of cheese and plates of herring, pickled, baked, and stewed. There were bowls of hot milk with melted butter floating at the top; also white breads, figs and dates, roast parsnips, and Dutch sla, made of chopped raw cabbage and carrot. While Miguel struggled to preserve himself, Geertruid feasted.

Buxom girls moved from table to table, pouring drink into cu

At the table nearest the entrance, a man with one eye and one arm took notice of Miguel. In his remaining hand, his left, he clutched his goblet tight, unable to let go, even to dine. “Ho, there,” he shouted above the din. “Who called for a Jew?”

Miguel had not noticed Geertruid until that moment. Even from a distance, the length of two or three men, he could see the gracelessness of her movements and the unfocused wonders of her eyes. With one hand, she pushed herself from her chair and walked unsteadily to meet him by the door.

“Sober yourself,” Miguel snapped. “I must have words with you. What is this, anyhow? With whom do you feast?”

“It is the Brewers’ Guild,” she said.

“What business have you with these men?” he demanded.

“Oh, Miguel, I may have friends and acquaintances outside your approval, you know. Now tell me what has happened.” Her eyes went as wide as a child’s.

“It is the Ma’amad. It has summoned me to appear before it tomorrow morning.”

She let out a loud laugh that pierced through the clamor of drunken revelry. “You and your Mohammed. Are you a Jew or a Turk?”

He took a deep breath. “Geertruid, I must have some answers.” He hardly ever called her by her given name. He recalled that he had done so the night he had tried to kiss her, and the memory still left him mortified. “Have you spoken of our business to anyone?”

“Of course not.” She shook her head rapidly, and then reached up with one exploratory hand to make sure her prim little cap, beaded with rubies, had not been knocked out of place.

“Ho, Jew,” one of the men from her table called. “Send us back our merry friend.”

Geertruid waved them off: a quick, gawky gesture with the back of her hand.

“You haven’t told Hendrick?”

“Hendrick,” she repeated. “That ox. I would not trouble him with the secret of making rocks sink in a canal.”

Miguel swallowed hard. “What about the money? I know you were not honest with me. How did you get it?”

“Who said I was not honest with you? Who said that? I am very angry.” She lost her balance and held on to the wall, though her gentle swaying continued.

Miguel took her arm, to steady her. “I haven’t time for your anger. I have to know where the money comes from. If it wasn’t left to you by your husband, whence does it come?”

She laughed a little and then covered her mouth. “Oh, it comes of my husband, sure enough. That bastard knew only how to take his fill of me, never thinking of my pleasure. Even in death, that’s how he fucks me.” Her eyes narrowed, and something dark passed across her face. “He left me some little money, but not nearly so much as he should have for what I endured.”

Something twisted in Miguel’s guts. “Where did you get the capital?”

“From the wretched children of his foul first wife. They live with their aunt, his sister, but the bastard left me to guard the funds. He gave me the work of ordering their trust and instructed them that, when they came of age, they should reward me as they saw fit. Can you imagine such treachery?”

Guardians and children from other marriages-none of it made sense. “Tell me the rest.”

“I have some freedom in what I may do with their wealth, though in order to have such freedom, I must convince a wretched old lawyer in Antwerp that I invest for the good of those evil children. Not so easy to do, but I have been known to charm a man or two in my time.”

A lawyer in Antwerp. Now, at least, Miguel could guess to what place she disappeared. She was off lifting her skirts for this pettifogger.

“So, you have used money meant to be held in trust for your late husband’s children. You have done this before.”

She nodded. “Sometimes I have invested it, and sometimes I have simply spent it. There is a matter of a few thousand guilders I should like to replace.”

She had stolen from her husband’s children, and when they came of age there would be a reckoning. “When do they collect their inheritance?”

“The eldest is not of age for another three years, so I have time to set things right.” She reached out and put her arms around his neck. “You must help me, Miguel. You are my only true friend.” She laughed again, her yeasty breath blasting his face. “Not my only friend, but my only true friend, and that is something. Do you not think so?”

“Careful,” a Dutch reveler shouted, “lest you become entangled in Hebrew scripture!”

Geertruid only pulled him closer, but Miguel worked his way out of the embrace, which now only made him uneasy.

He sucked in air until his lungs hurt, and then took her hand and held it in both of his, ignoring the jeers of the drunken Dutchmen. “Please understand that everything I value is at risk. You must tell me who knows of this.”

She shook her head. “No one. Only you and, of course, my lawyer. But he won’t tell, for I have secrets of my own, and he’s afraid to cross me.”

Miguel nodded. His fortunes, he now understood, would be built upon stolen money. It troubled him, but not so much as next morning’s meeting with the Ma’amad, and he now believed that meeting had nothing to do with Geertruid or her trickery.

He cursed himself for the time he had wasted. Night would soon be upon him. It was time to begin his hunt for Joachim.

20

Because Miguel had no precise knowledge of where Joachim lived, finding him would be time-consuming but yet possible. The fellow said he and his wife had been forced to move to one of the worst parts of the city, the run-down hovels in the shadow of the Oude Kerk where seedy musicos attracted whores and sailors and thieves. Someone in the area would know Joachim; so disorderly a man is always conspicuous.

Before entering the most unsavory part of town, he took out his purse and counted his money. He had more on him than a man in those neighborhoods would like, so he separated his coins, leaving some in his purse, some in his pocket, and some wrapped in a nose cloth.

As he walked toward the Oude Kerk, buildings began to take on a gloomy, dilapidated cast. The people in the street seemed to belong almost to a different race of man than those in the rest of the city. Foreigners often wrote that one of the great marvels of Amsterdam was its absence of beggars. That was untrue, though Miguel knew well enough that compared to most cities in Europe, the beggars were few indeed, at least in most parts of town. Those foreigners had no doubt not crossed into this district, where they would have found enough of the legless and leprous tribe to satisfy anyone’s requirements.

Miguel walked quickly among the poor, among the whores who slouched in doorways, dangling to one side or the other like hanged men, until they spotted a fellow to their liking. More than once in his short walk, Miguel pushed away some greedy she-devil or other who sprang from her lair and attempted to drag him inside.