The Coffee Trader

Two or three months. He might yet avert disaster. With their agents in place, surely they could delay that long. Yes, there was no good reason why they could not delay. A few months meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, not if they had their coffee in the end. A year from now, they would laugh at those two or three months.

Then there was the matter of his investments, the puts that depended on the arrival of that shipment. The puts he had bought with his brother’s money.

Miguel had bet a thousand guilders on the price of coffee going down, and with no coffee to flood the market he had no way of manipulating the price. If he lost that money on coffee months before the shipment arrived, he could face a new ruin to make his last look like a mere inconvenience. Once the world knew that Miguel had committed Daniel without his brother’s permission, his name would be a byword for deception. Even if he avoided prosecution, he might never do business on the Exchange again.

“There is something else.” Nunes sighed. “The price of coffee, as you are aware, has gone up since we struck our first deal. Coffee has risen to sixty-five hundredths of a guilder per pound, which makes it thirty-nine guilders per barrel. Of course you knew that; you bought puts and such. In any case, you’ll have to pay another five hundred and ten guilders, half of which I’ll need immediately along with the five hundred you now owe, or you must reduce your order from ninety to seventy-seven barrels to cover the price difference.”

Miguel waved his hand in the air. “Very well,” he said. He had nothing to lose now by risking more debt. “I must have the ninety barrels, cost what they may.”

“And the money? I hate to be so insistent, but I am, myself, somewhat extended, if you take my meaning. Had I but a little room for my own affairs, I would not so trouble you, but right now seven hundred and fifty-five guilders signify quite a lot to me.”

“I’ve just now spoken to my partners.” The words sounded like gibberish to him, but he had told such lies so many times he knew he could tell them again, and tell them convincingly, in his sleep if he had to. He slapped his hands together and rubbed vigorously. “I’ll have to speak to them again, of course. They will be disappointed, but they love a challenge as much as I do.”

“And the money?”

Miguel put a hand on Nunes’s shoulder. “They promise to put the money in my account no later than tomorrow. Or the next day. I promise you will be paid by then.”

“Very good.” Nunes twisted out of Miguel’s embrace. “I am sorry about the delay. This sort of thing was always a possibility, you understand. Surely you considered a delayed shipment in your plans.”

“Absolutely. Please keep me informed of any news. I have a great deal to tend to.”

Miguel suddenly found the tavern unbearably hot, and he hurried outside, charging into the street-and without seeing Joachim until the man stood only a few feet away. If anything, the fellow looked worse than when they had last met. He wore the same clothes, which had grown filthier, the sleeve of his outer coat had a rip from the wrist almost up to the shoulder, and his collar was streaked with blood.

“I’m sorry I haven’t had much time for you of late,” Joachim said, “but I’ve been occupied.” He swayed back and forth a little, and his face flushed red.

Miguel did not pause to consider or contemplate or measure. Black swirls of hatred clouded his vision. He could feel nothing but all the rage in his guts, spurred on by the coffee, turning his humors black and evil. In an instant he was no longer himself but a beast, beyond all thought. He came toward Joachim and shoved him hard, using both hands and without breaking his stride.

The pressure against his flesh felt good and right. There was a momentary sensation of a fragile body against his hands-and then Joachim was gone, blasted out of existence. Miguel felt joy. Elation. He felt like a man. With a simple push he had banished Joachim from his life.

Only Joachim did not stay banished for long. Miguel had intended to continue walking, but he saw from the corner of his eye that his enemy landed somewhat harder than he had intended. He went down on his side, sliding like a fish tossed along a slick dock.

Miguel froze in his tracks. Joachim was dead. Only a dead man would lie like that, limp and motionless and defeated.

He struggled to break free from the haze of dreamlike disbelief. All his hopes had been dashed in a single act. What might he now expect? Trial and execution, scandal and shame. He, a Jew, had struck down a Dutchman; the Dutchman’s lowness would not matter.

Then Joachim moved. He stirred briefly and, with his back to Miguel, pushed himself to his feet. A crowd had gathered and there was a gasp as the onlookers saw his face, which had been scraped hard against the brick of the road. He turned slowly to show the injury to Miguel.

The skin on his right cheek looked all but torn away, as did the very tip of his nose. Neither wound bled very much, but both bled steadily, and the image of blood and dirt sickened Miguel. Joachim looked straight ahead and remained motionless, as though on display before a body of judges. Then, after a moment, he spat out a mouthful of blood and what looked like the better part of one of his precious remaining teeth.

“The Jew attacked that poor beggar, and without cause too,” he heard a woman say. “I’ll call the constable’s men.”

The relief vanished. Were he to be arrested for attacking a Dutchman for no reason-and there were witnesses aplenty to testify that the attack had been unprovoked-the Ma’amad would have no choice but to issue the cherem, and no temporary one either. All lay in ruins.

Except that Joachim saved him. Joachim had the power to destroy him in his hands, and he held back. Miguel had no illusions. He knew that Joachim had saved him only that he might continue his torments. A destroyed Miguel served no purpose.

“No need to send for anyone,” Joachim called out, his words slow and syrupy. He was surely drunk, though it seemed likely that the injury to his mouth also made speaking difficult. “I am content to settle this matter privately.” He took a halting step forward and spat another thick mass of blood. “I think we should make a hasty departure,” he said to Miguel, “before someone chooses to send for the law despite my best efforts to protect you.” He put one arm around Miguel’s shoulder, as though they were wounded comrades fresh from the field of battle.

Joachim stunk of vomit and shit and piss and beer, but Miguel ignored it all. He dared not show his disgust as he helped the poor fellow limp away from the crowd.

They walked toward the Oude Kerk with a slow and deliberate pace. Miguel couldn’t spare the energy to worry about who might see them. He only wanted to keep moving.

Once they were in the shadow of the church, Joachim pulled himself free of Miguel and leaned himself against a building, settling into the grooves in the stone. “You needn’t have attacked me,” he said. He put his free hand up to his cheek and then examined the blood.

“Have you not threatened to kill me many times?” Miguel answered blankly.

“I only greeted you, and you knocked me down upon the street. I wonder what this Ma’amad of yours would think, were I to report this incident.”

Miguel looked around, as though something might offer him inspiration. There were only thieves and whores and laborers. “I’ve grown weary of your threats,” he said weakly.

“Maybe so, but what does that matter now? You tried to fuck my wife. You have attacked me. Perhaps I should go right away to that fellow you mentioned, Solomon Parido.”

“I have no heart for this,” Miguel said wearily. “I never touched your wife. Tell me what you want so we may end our conversation the sooner.”