The Coffee Trader

Ben Yerushalieem slammed his palm down on the table. “I advise you to think before you speak further.” Veins bulged out in his neck. “You dare liken this council to the Inquisition?”

“I only suggest that we must think about the cost of inquiry, and if the answers are worth the price of the asking.”

“Particularly if those costs are yours,” Parido quipped.

The council laughed, Parido’s comment having eased some of the tension, but Miguel clenched his teeth in frustration. “Yes,” he shot back. “Particularly if they are mine. This council is designed to protect the well-being of the Nation as a whole. It wants nothing so much as to see the Nation flourish. Yet that nation is composed of people. I believe it wrong that you ask one of those people to sacrifice his well-being to satisfy the vague curiosity of the community. Must I give up my chance of regaining some small portion of my fortune so that you may know I have done nothing wrong? Perhaps if there were specific charges; but to force me to reveal secrets that protect my business interests in order that you might learn if they may prove dangerous to the community-this is an injustice.”

No one spoke for a moment. Parido opened his mouth but understood that Miguel’s spirited outburst had changed the council’s tone. He could not push too hard here.

“I believe that Senhor Lienzo has argued an important point,” Desinea said at last. “We need not ask him to expose himself without just cause. Such a pursuit could send a chill throughout the city and discourage others of the Nation from seeking refuge here or embracing their ancestral faith. Moreover, if by speaking here the senhor does any damage to Dutch businessmen, the results could do us greater harm than we can endure.”

“What sort of Dutch businessmen?” Parido demanded. “That is what we must find out. We have already established his unappealing co

“Please, senhor.” Ben Yerushalieem shook his head slightly. “We all know there is a subtle divide between business and improper relations.”

The other parnassim nodded in agreement, all but Parido. “How can we learn the truth if we may not inquire into it?”

“You would smash a vessel, Senhor Parido, to learn its contents, thinking nothing of the value of the vessel itself?” ben Yerushalieem asked.

“Perhaps the vessel has no value.”

Desinea stared at Parido. “You assured this council that you would not allow your personal feelings concerning Senhor Lienzo to affect your judgment.”

“And they have not,” he answered. “I defy him to tell this council how the revelation of his plans will harm him.”

“Can you do so,” Desinea asked, “particularly since you know well that we of the Ma’amad know how to keep secret the i

Miguel surrendered to the urge to smile. Parido had trapped himself within his own scheme, and the world would now see who was the cleverer man. Miguel would win this battle in a ma

“Senhors,” Miguel began, “not very long ago Senhor Parido stopped me on the Exchange and demanded to know, for the sake of his business, the nature of my trades. I refused to tell him at the time, believing silence to best serve the ends of myself and my partners. Now, as a parnass, he demands the same information, claiming that he inquires not for the sake of his own affairs but for the sake of the Nation. You tell me that the workings of this chamber remain in this chamber, but I hope I do not seem overly suspicious if I wonder if every member of this body will honor the tradition of secrecy.”

A chill quiet fell upon the room. Several members of the council glared at Parido. Others looked away in discomfort. Desinea studied a spot on the table.

“Please step outside,” ben Yerushalieem said, after a moment.

Miguel waited, clearing his mind of all expectations while the members of the Ma’amad talked privately among themselves. Occasionally Parido’s voice would pulse through the walls, but Miguel could not discern the words. At last he was summoned to reappear.

“It is the opinion of this council,” Desinea a

Miguel nodded. He had not escaped unscathed, as he had wished, but he had escaped.

“Let me add,” ben Yerushalieem said, “that should this council learn that you have misrepresented your affairs, you will find it far less lenient. If your relationship with this beggar is other than what you have said, or if your business is improper, you will find us unwilling to listen to excuses. Have you anything to add, senhor?”

Miguel told those gathered that he was sorry for his offense and deserving of their punishment, and after thanking the parnassim for their wisdom he silently withdrew.

To be placed under the cherem even for a single day was a great disgrace. It would be the topic of gossip for weeks to come. Men had fled Amsterdam in disgust after being so punished, but Miguel would not be one of them.

He walked home hurriedly, repeating over and over again the prayer of thanks. He had prevailed. Parido had revealed himself, he had sprung his trap, but Miguel had outmaneuvered him. He paused to hug himself and then regained his stride. He had won.

Yet, it was necessarily a temporary victory. Parido had struck and missed, and the signs of his former kindness would dry up, leaving only ashes. More than that, now Miguel knew he had an enemy, an angry enemy, one who no longer needed to act with subtlety or with subterfuge but would attack boldly and surely fiercely.

But why? Why did Parido care so much about Miguel’s coffee trade? If he did not want Miguel excommunicated, his scheme somehow depended upon Miguel’s scheme, which the cherem would ruin. But since Parido could not get what he wanted through the Ma’amad, he surely would in some other way. If he had not thought himself wronged before, he would surely be stinging after Miguel’s victory today. There could be no doubt that Parido was now far more dangerous than ever before.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

I made it a habit to employ a few Dutchmen of the lower sort to perform little tasks for me. They were rough fellows, as inclined to steal as the men to whom I lent, but there was no helping that. These ruffians, Claes or Caspar or Cornelis-who can remember these odd Dutch names?-would help me terrify the wretches who had borrowed money from me and were disinclined to pay me back. I’m sure a few of my guilders found their way into those Dutch purses, but what could a man do? I hadn’t the inclination to order my business with the iron fist of a tyrant, and I discovered that a little laxity in such matters promoted an odd sort of loyalty.

One afternoon I sat in the basement of a dank tavern sipping thin beer. Across from me sat an aging thief, and a pair of my men lurked menacingly behind me. I always had them peeling apples with sharp blades or carving pieces of wood at these moments. It saved me the tedium of uttering threats aloud.

This thief presented a bit of a problem. He was perhaps fifty years of age and looked ancient from his time of toiling upon the earth. His hair was long and clumped together in thin strands, his clothes stained, his skin a web of ruptured veins. He had borrowed some ten guilders of me, at a very unreasonable rate of interest I should add, to pay for the expenses surrounding the death of his wife. Now, nearly a year later, he had given me nothing and, what was more, a