The Coffee Trader

“I did promise, and I have kept my promise. I know nothing of your ruling council, though I believe I now know something of it. I know that you fear I should speak to it.”

“Damn you, you scurvy devil,” Miguel spat. He felt his fist clench and his arm tighten.

“It is all the more shame to you that you should need to be tricked to rescue an old associate from so horrible a fate as the Rasphuis. But you will find me not without gratitude. I’ll thank you now and be on my way.” Joachim bowed deeply and then ran into the night.

It took a moment before Miguel could begin to collect his thoughts. He could not even allow himself to consider how he had just humiliated himself before his mad enemy. It was of far more importance that the Ma’amad had called him forward and he did not yet know why. If it had not been Joachim who had reported him, this appearance must be the work of Parido. The spies he sent to Rotterdam had seen nothing they could use. Was it the matter of Joachim in the street with Ha

21

Miguel was out of bed before first light. After urinating furiously from the coffee he’d taken before bed-to keep his thoughts active in his sleep-he washed and said his morning prayers with a kind of pleading enthusiasm. He dressed, ate a breakfast of bread and dried cheese, and hastily drank a large bowl of coffee.

Last night, he had been driven by desperate need to do something to further his cause, but in the silence of his room he could not escape the hard ball of fear that tightened in his belly. This was no ordinary summoning. There would be no indulgent lectures on the importance of the dietary laws or on resisting the charms of Dutch girls.

Could he really turn his back on everything as Alferonda had done? Instead of remaining in Amsterdam, a usurer and a known villain, Alonzo could easily have gone elsewhere, changed his name, settled into another community. There were other Jews in the world besides those in Amsterdam, and Miguel need not remain here. But the cherem would mean more than having to choose between being a Jew elsewhere and an outcast in Amsterdam. To leave the city would mean abandoning his plans in the coffee trade, abandoning the money Ricardo owed him. If he stayed, his creditors, no doubt including his sanctimonious brother, would descend upon him and pick his bones clean. Even if he did move to a city where no one knew him, how would he live there? A merchant without co

Miguel made his way to the Talmud Torah unobserved by anyone from the community. At this hour the Vlooyenburg had just begun to stir, and though he heard the early morning cries of the milkmen and bakers, he crossed the bridge unheeded by all except a pair of beggars, who sat eating a loaf of stale and mud-splattered bread while eyeing Miguel suspiciously.

The Ma’amad held its meetings in the same building as the synagogue, but a separate entrance led to the chambers. At the top of a winding stairwell, Miguel stepped into the small familiar room where supplicants awaited their summonses. A few chairs had been set along the wall with semicircular windows behind them, allowing the early morning light to filter into a room smelling strongly of mildew and tobacco.

No one else awaited the call that morning but Miguel, and that was something of a relief. He hated making conversation with other penitents, whispering resentments and laughing off accusations. Better to wait alone. He paced back and forth and played out in his mind fantasy after fantasy: complete exoneration, excommunication, and all imaginable variations.

The worst would not happen, he told himself. He had always extricated himself from the council’s anger. And there was Parido-Parido, who was surely not Miguel’s friend but who wanted something from him. Parido, who had long known enough to have Miguel cast out and yet had not. There was no reason to believe he would let Miguel be cast out now.

He waited for nearly an hour before at last the door opened and he was ushered into the chamber. At a table at the far end of the room sat the seven men who would pass judgment. On the wall behind them was mounted the great marble symbol of the Talmud Torah: an immense pelican feeding its three young, the congregation having been formed of smaller synagogues some years before. The room reflected the wealth of the community’s elite with its lush India rug, handsome portraits of former parnassim, and an ivory cabinet in which records were stored. The men sat behind a massive dark table and looked both solemn and princely in their rich attire. To be a parnass a man must have the wealth to dress like a parnass.

“Senhor Lienzo, thank you for answering the summons.” Aaron Desinea, who led the council, spoke with a kind of arch seriousness. “Please.” He gestured to the narrow too-short chair that sat in the center of the room where Miguel would sit while in discussion with the council. One of the legs was shorter than the rest. It took far more concentration than Miguel could spare to keep from wobbling.

In the middle of his seventh decade, Desinea was the oldest of the parnassim and had begun to display signs of the ravages of age. His hair had gone from a stately gray to a sickly white and now had the coarse quality of dead leaves. His beard had grown spotty and molten, and it was generally known that his eyes were failing. Even now he stared beyond Miguel, as though looking for a friend in the distance. But Desinea had sat on the council many times, serving his three-year limit, standing down for the required three years, and then finding himself always reelected.

“You know everyone here, so I’ll dispense with introductions. I shall read the charges against you, and you will have an opportunity to answer them. Do you have any questions?”

“No, senhor.” Miguel felt himself longing for another bowl of coffee to sharpen his senses. Already he had become distracted, and he had to fight the childish urge to fidget.

“Of course.” Desinea allowed himself the vaguest hint of a smile. “By now you know the procedure well.” He held out a piece of paper, but his eyes made no contact with it. He must have memorized it earlier. “Senhor Miguel Lienzo-who is also known by and does business under the names Mikael Lienzo, Marcus Lentus, and Michael Weaver-you are charged with irresponsible conduct bringing shame before the Nation. You are accused of consorting with dangerous, disreputable, and inappropriate gentiles and bringing such gentiles into our own neighborhood, where they have behaved disruptively. Do you wish to respond to these charges?”

Miguel suppressed a smile, though he succumbed to the urge to breathe in the sweetness of the air. The meeting might be brought to its conclusion now, for the council would do him no harm. They did not know Joachim’s name or Miguel’s relationship with him. All the parnassim wanted was to hear an explanation and to issue a warning.

“Senhors, I should like to begin by offering my sincere apologies to this council and to the Nation. The man you mention is a Dutch unfortunate with whom, I admit, I have been friendly, but I can assure you that my intentions were always good.” He disliked lying in so holy a place, for it is written that a liar is no better than one who worships idols. But it is also written that the Holy One, blessed be He, hates a man who speaks one thing with his mouth and another with his heart. Therefore it seemed to Miguel that if he believed in his heart that his lie was justified, it was not so sinful after all.

“He is a sad man, ruined in a business misadventure,” he continued, “and seeing him begging upon the street, I gave him a few stuivers. Some days later, he engaged me in conversation, and not wishing to be rude, I made small chatter with him. The next time I saw him, he became aggressive and began to follow me, shouting things. Finally, he came into our own neighborhood and accosted members of my brother’s household. I then spoke to him harshly, warning him that if he continued to behave thus I would be forced to report him to the city authorities. I believe he won’t disturb our quiet again.”