The Coffee Trader

“I have seen that you are a man who knows something of how to defend himself,” Miguel explained with some difficulty; it pained him to offer Hendrick even this brutal flattery. “I recall how well you reacted in the tavern.”

“Make no excuses, my friend. I understand that you ca

“His name is Joachim Waagenaar, and he lives by the Oude Kerk.”

“If he lives by the Oude Kerk, I suppose any number of accidents might befall a fellow in that part of town without the world taking notice. Of course, good feelings between us being what they are, such things cost money. Fifty guilders should do nicely.”

Miguel blinked several times, as though this price had poked him in his eye. Just what did he hope Hendrick might do? Joachim was a madman, so why did Miguel feel so uneasy about this transaction? “That’s rather more than I thought.”

“We may be friends enough now, but I still take a risk, you understand.”

“Of course, of course,” Miguel said. “I did not say I absolutely would not pay it. Only that it was more than I thought.”

“Think as much as you like. When you’ve made up your mind, come see me.”

“I will do so. And in the meantime-”

Hendrick gri

Miguel took his hand once more. “I offer you my thanks. Knowing that I may depend upon you has put my mind at ease.”

“I’m happy to serve you.” He blew out a cloud of smoke and returned to the tavern.

A light mist had begun to fall; it was just the sort of weather for a villain who might hide himself in fog and dark. The rain mixed with his perspiration, making him feel heavy and encumbered in his clothing. Nevertheless, having spoken to Hendrick made him more comfortable already. He had options; he could concoct a strategy of his own. Joachim had not outmatched him.

Perhaps, he considered, it was not necessary to have Hendrick give Joachim a thorough beating. Now that he had almost commissioned the job, he winced at its brutality. If there was a way to avoid it, it would be best avoided. After all, he had not sought out Hendrick to harm Joachim but to make himself feel safer, and the simple act of having discussed the option of the beating rid him of many concerns. He might see that Joachim came to harm at any time he wished; having that power, the righteous thing would be to spare the creature. Mercy, after all, was one of the seven highest qualities of the Holy One, blessed be He. Miguel, too, could aim to be merciful.

He would wait. Joachim surely never meant to actually kill Miguel, but should he again make these threats, he would learn that Miguel understood justice as well as mercy.

Before he reached the Vlooyenburg, the mist had turned to rain.

Miguel wanted nothing so much as to change his clothes and sit before a fire, and perhaps read a little Torah-all this contemplation of mercy left him longing to feel closer to the holiness of the Most High. First he might review the story of how Charming Pieter had tricked the greedy horse trader, a tale always certain to cheer him.

Once inside, he removed his shoes, after the Dutch fashion, so as to avoid tracking mud through the house, though his stockings had soaked through, and he left wet footprints upon the tiled floor. He had only gone a little way toward the entrance to the cellar when he saw Ha

“Good afternoon, senhora,” he said, too hastily. There could no longer be any doubt of her intentions. Her eyes, wide and moist under her black scarf, fixed on him greedily.

“I must speak with you,” she said, in a quiet voice.

He replied without thinking. “You wish another taste of my drink?”

She shook her head. “Not now. I must say something else.”

“May we go to the drawing room?” he asked.

She shook her head again. “No, we mustn’t. I can’t have my husband finding us there together. He will suspect.”

He will suspect what? Miguel almost blurted out. Did she believe them already lovers? Had she so lively an imagination that it did not end with women scholars? Miguel too had indulged in the delicious crime of flirtation, but he did not believe he could take it to the next stage, that of secret meetings, of hiding from her husband, of reveling in one of the worst of sins. No one cherished the delights of a fanciful mind more than Miguel, but a man-a person-must know where fancy ends and truth begins. He might hold Ha

“We must speak here,” she said, “but quietly. We ca

“Perhaps you’ve made a mistake,” Miguel offered, “and we needn’t speak quietly at all.”

Ha

“I am not mistaken, senhor. I have something to tell you. Something that concerns you very nearly.” She took a deep breath. “It is about your friend, senhor. The widow.”

Miguel felt a sudden dizziness. He leaned against the wall. “Geertruid Damhuis,” he breathed. “What of her? What could you have to tell me of her?”

Ha

“Betrayal? What do you say?”

“Please, senhor. I am trying. Not very long ago, only a few weeks really, I saw the Dutch widow on the street, and she saw me. We both had something to hide. I don’t know what she had to hide, but she seemed to think I did, and she threatened me to keep silent. I thought it could do no harm, but now I am not so certain.”

Miguel took a step backwards. Geertruid. What could she have to hide, and what did it mean to him? It could be anything: a lover, a deal, an embarrassment. Or it could be a matter of business. It made no sense. “What did you have to hide, senhora?”

She shook her head. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you, but I have made up my mind to do so. I know I can trust you, senhor, and if you must confront her, and you make it clear you already know my secret, perhaps she won’t tell others, and the worst may be spared. Can I tell you and trust that you will tell no one else?”

“Of course,” Miguel said hastily, though he wished desperately that he could somehow avoid this entire conversation.

“I am ashamed,” she said, “and yet not ashamed to tell you this, but I saw the widow on my way from a sacred place. A church of Catholic worship, senhor.”

Miguel stared at her with unfocused eyes until she blended into the dark wall. He hardly knew what to think. His own brother’s wife, a woman for whom he had cared and felt desire, had revealed herself a secret Catholic.

“You have betrayed your husband?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed hard. The tears had not yet come, but they would come soon. They filled the air like a coming rain. “How can you speak of betrayal? I was never told until the eve of my wedding that I was a Jew. Have I not been betrayed?”

“You betrayed?” Miguel demanded, once again forgetting to keep his voice quiet. “How can you say so? You live in the new Jerusalem.”

“Have you or your brother or the rabbis spoken to me of what is in your Torah or Talmud other than to tell me what I must do to serve you? When I go to your synagogue, the prayers are in Hebrew and the talk is in Spanish, yet I may not learn these tongues. If I have a daughter, must I raise her to serve an arbitrary God who will not even show His face only because she is a girl? It is well for you to talk of betrayal when the world hands you all you desire. I am offered nothing, and if I wish to take for myself some comfort, am I to be condemned?”