The Coffee Trader

“Aye,” one of the sailors said. “She’s been taken by pirates all right. Vicious Spanish pirates, too. Bloodthirsty bastards. The very worst of the lot. My brother was a seaman aboard her and barely escaped with his life. Do you know the ship, friend, or have kin upon her?”

“I know her.” He put his face in his hands. “I owned stock in her. Good God, I’ll be ruined. I have sunk my fortune in a ship now sunk!”

Miguel stared. Even in the murkiness of beer he knew the scene was far too familiar. It reminded him not only of his recent misfortune with the coffee but of something else, from many months before. It was like watching his own life played on stage before him.

“You might not be entirely ruined,” said one of the sailor’s companions in a voice full of hope, such as one might use with a frightened child. “You see, the news has not yet reached the Exchange, and that might work in your favor.”

The stockholder turned to the new speaker. He alone of the party did not look like a sailor. Not exactly a man of substance, he yet had something more to him than his companions.

“What do you say?” the stockholder asked.

“That you may take advantage of the ignorance still to be found upon the Exchange. Or at least someone could. I would be willing to take those shares from you, sir, for fifty percent of their value. That should be far more lucrative than if you lose it all.”

“And sell them at a discount at the Exchange tomorrow?” the stockholder said, rolling the words about on his tongue. “Why should I not do that as well as you?”

“You are welcome to try, friend, but then you assume the risk. And when the world learns that you have unloaded your stock only hours before news of the loss becomes general, you will become mistrusted. I, on the other hand, do not spend much time upon the Exchange and can escape from such an adventure entirely unscathed.”

The man said nothing, but Miguel could see that he stood on the precipice of acquiescing.

“I might also add,” the prospective buyer told him, “that not every man might sell spoiled goods with an honest look in his eye. You might find yourself ready to sell and with no one to buy because you ca

“You, however, do a mighty good job of looking like an honest man,” a new voice, a heroic voice a

And there was Hendrick, dressed in black like a man of business. He stood behind the prospective buyer with his arms crossed, and he appeared nothing if not heroic.

“I know you, Jan van der Dijt,” Hendrick a

The sailors and their companion rose from their seats and hurried out the door. The shareholder stiffened and looked as though he prepared himself to sprint after the cheats, but Hendrick put his arm around the man’s shoulders and held him back.

“Let the villains run,” he said soothingly. “You’ve undone their scheme, and you can’t defeat so large a group. Come.” He led the man to a table and applied pressure upon his shoulder so he would sit.

Miguel had just witnessed the precise events that had transpired when he had met Geertruid and become her friend. But their friendship was a sham and everything had been false. The men who had offered to buy his shares hadn’t been exposed by Geertruid, they had been in her employ. It had been no more than a trick to gain Miguel’s trust.

Making sure the fellow’s back was toward him, Miguel quickly paid his reckoning-indeed, he overpaid, that he might get out quickly and with little conversation. He then found the door and slipped out unseen.

Out in the cool night, he lit his lantern, which barely penetrated the thick fog off the IJ. What did it mean? How could he explain it?

In an instant, all became clear. Geertruid had laid some scheme that involved gaining his trust not for a single night at a single moment but over a period of days or weeks. Then Miguel had lost almost everything when sugar collapsed. Surely that explained why Hendrick appeared so uneasy around him-the man did not understand what Geertruid wanted with this Jew who had now become pe

So Geertruid had created value. She had hatched this coffee scheme in order to-to do what? What plot had she constructed? It could not be that Geertruid pla

Perhaps it did not belong to her late husband’s children either. That story, Miguel realized, had the hollow ring of a lie. How could he have not seen it sooner? He, who made his livelihood by distinguishing truth from falseness, though it was but a scurvy livelihood now. And coffee, which was to save him from his ruin, was now revealed to be but another disaster. But why? Why would Geertruid advance money, why would anyone advance money, to dupe a ruined man into ruining himself further?

There could be only one answer. There could be only one person willing to expend capital on Miguel’s destruction. Geertruid, he concluded with perfect clarity, served Solomon Parido.

27

The idea that one might see things more clearly upon a new day, or that matters of importance could be worked out during sleep, seemed to Miguel foolishness. His restless sleep offered him no answers the next day, nor the day thereafter, the Sabbath. On the following morning, however, he did wake up with one important detail on his mind: standing outside the Singing Carp, Joachim had spoken suggestively about Geertruid. He could remember the precise smell in the air-beer and piss and canal stink-as the wretch suggested he knew something.

At the time, Miguel had assumed Joachim had somehow learned about Geertruid’s money, but now Miguel thought that unlikely. The business with the husband’s children was almost certainly a lie, a plausible deception meant to sound like a dishonest but forgivable means of generating capital. Surely it was more likely that Solomon Parido had provided the money.

But if Geertruid did Parido’s work, why did the parnass not know the details of Miguel’s plans? Would Parido let Miguel and Geertruid obtain their monopoly on coffee and then strike, ruining Miguel for his partnership with Geertruid and splitting the proceeds?

“No,” Miguel said aloud. He sat upon his cupboard bed, throwing the heavy feather duvet aside in the morning heat. None of it made sense, but someone-Geertruid, Hendrick, Parido-someone would make a mistake that would reveal the truth, and he would be ready when they did.

Two days later, A

“You’ve lost your mind,” Miguel said calmly.

Joachim wore new clothes-where had they come from?-and while they were not the finery he had once been used to, he presented himself neatly and with dignity, much like a tradesman in his white shirt, new doublet, and close-fitting woolen jersey. The wound on his face belied any hint of gentility, but it also made him less recognizably a mendicant, and he certainly no longer carried with him the stink of decay.

“I must speak with you,” he said, in an even voice Miguel hardly recognized. Had a bath and new clothes driven out his madness? “I’m already in your house. To cast me out now would do you no good, particularly if I made a great deal of noise about it. Surely you would be better off if I left quietly when my business is done.”