David Liss - The Coffee Trader

Hannah nodded helplessly. Still, she had won, hadn’t she? Annetje had demanded that she not keep more secrets, not that she reveal this one. The girl had backed down.

Perhaps her will was worth something after all. But what to do about the widow? She hated to hold something back from Miguel, but what choice had she been given? In any case, the widow was his friend. Perhaps she planned something for him as a surprise. Perhaps she secretly helped him with some business. Yes, that made a great deal of sense. She helped Miguel behind his back and did not want him to know lest his pride be injured. All would be well, she told herself again and again, each time hoping to believe it.

After a disappointing afternoon, nothing would have been so welcome as the cool isolation of his brother’s cellar. Sad home though it was, it offered some retreat from the world.

It had been more than two weeks, and still no word from any of his prospective agents. True, it was still early, but after two weeks it was now within the realm of the possible that he might have word. That was what he had told himself. Don’t look for answers before two weeks had passed, though he had secretly hoped to receive word sooner.

Now all that might comfort him would be a few struck candles, a glass of wine-or perhaps even some coffee. Miguel had stopped by the bookseller that afternoon and found a new tale of Charming Pieter and his Goodwife Mary. It was only eighteen pages long, so he took no more than a glance at it in the shop, not wanting to spoil the pleasure of the discovery.

Miguel had received yet another note from his Muscovy agent that day. The fellow had too many debts and too many creditors pressing for them. He needed to call in his own loans, and if Miguel could not comply there would certainly be consequences.

There were always consequences, he told himself, and he’d ignored his share of similar communications, but not with Dutchmen who might well drag him before the courts-something he could little afford now that he was beginning to order his affairs. So he spent the day in search of Ricardo, but no luck. Instead he ended up at the Flyboat, drinking with Isaiah Nunes.

“What do you know about Ricardo?” Miguel asked his friend.

“Nothing more than you know. He’s just a broker of middling skills.”

“You have no idea who his clients are?”

“That is one thing Ricardo does well: he keeps quiet. He’s very popular among men who don’t want to pay a moment before they choose to pay. I don’t think Ricardo would risk tricking you outright, but it could be another month or even more before he pays. I heard he once sheltered a client for more than a year.”

Miguel had no intention of waiting a year. “I would blacken his eye if I thought he wouldn’t go running to the Ma’amad. Trouble from the council is the last thing I need while I work out this business with coffee.”

“Are you still committed to that project?” Nunes let his eyes wander around the room.

Miguel felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. “Of course.”

“Maybe now is not the best time,” Nunes suggested, half swallowing his words.

Miguel leaned forward. “What are you telling me-that you can’t get what you promised? By Christ, if you can’t, you had better tell me who can.”

“Of course I can get what I promise,” he answered hastily. “I’ll not promise what I can’t do. Even the East India Company would not cross me.” An idle boast, of course.

“I am utterly certain that the East India Company would not hesitate to cross me,” Miguel said, “but I hope you would.”

Nunes let out a nervous sigh. “I only wondered if perhaps, now that you have made a little money in whale oil and are feeling confident, it might be a poor time to invest in something so full of risk. Why not make yourself safe?”

“My brother tried to warn me off coffee too,” Miguel said.

“I’m not trying to warn you off,” Nunes assured him. “If you suggest your brother put me up to this, you are wrong. You know how little I value him. If Parido did not befriend him, he’d be without two stuivers to buy bread. I just don’t want to see you lose in a risky venture.”

“Just do what I pay you to do,” Miguel said, loud enough to make his friend cringe.

On the walk home, he’d begun to regret his words to Nunes. Miguel had lost a great deal of money, and the loss had hit him hard. His friends were right to worry about him, and he had not exactly told Nunes the truth about his coffee venture. He would find Nunes tomorrow, apologize by buying him a few tankards, and the matter would be forgotten.

On entering his brother’s house, Miguel found his plans for a quiet retreat quickly dashed. Daniel sat smoking a pipe in the front room with Hannah, who appeared lost in thought, oblivious to her husband.

“A word, please,” Daniel said, with a little more urgency than his brother liked. “I must speak to you for a moment. Leave the room, wife.”

Hannah picked up her glass of mulled wine and retreated to the kitchen, stealing a glance at Miguel. Their eyes locked for an instant, but she turned away first. She always did.

Daniel rose to meet his brother. He held up a few pieces of paper, which looked very much like letters. “You received these today.”

Miguel took them. The letters appeared on the surface nothing special, but Miguel already recognized the hand on one of them: Joachim.

“That’s the one,” Daniel said, noticing Miguel’s frown. “I can see, just from the handwriting, that the letter is written by a Dutchman. I wonder at your receiving such communications, and receiving them in my house as well. Is this some man for whom you broker? You know that these transactions with gentiles are illegal.”

Miguel checked to make certain that the letter was unopened, but the seal was of simple wax. It could easily have been broken and sealed again.

“I see nothing wrong with receiving any letter at my place of lodging.” He would soon control all the coffee in Europe; even having this conversation was beneath him. “Do you suggest that you never have need to communicate with Dutchmen? All your affairs, from your banking to the acquisition of wall paintings, are transacted only with Jews?”

“Of course not. Please don’t bombard me with absurdities. But I don’t think this letter is of such a nature, and I wish to know what it contains.”

“So do I, but I have not read it.” He leaned forward. “I wonder if you can say the same. I might remind you that we’re no longer in Lisbon,” Miguel said after a moment. “Here a man need not keep so suspicious an eye on his brother.”

“That’s not the point. I charge you to open that letter in my presence, so its contents may be revealed before the community.”

Revealed before the community? Had Daniel grown mad and come to believe that Parido had steered him to a seat on the Ma’amad?

“Shall I translate it for you as well?” Miguel asked. “Would Portuguese or Spanish be more to your liking?”

“Am I to be upbraided for not speaking the language of gentiles?”

“Of course not. Let us continue our conversation in Hebrew. I’m sure your mastery of the tongue is superior to mine.”

Daniel began to turn red. “I think you forget yourself. Now open the letter, if you please, unless you have something to hide.”

“I’ve nothing more to hide than any man of business,” Miguel returned, unable to choke back the words he knew he could not afford to utter. “My letters are my own concern.”

“My wife is with child. I won’t have strange Dutch letters plaguing her quiet.”

“Of course.” Miguel looked downward to hide his mirth. His wife’s quiet surely existed independent of any Dutch letters that came to the house. “If you like,” he proposed, knowing he was now being provoking, “I’ll have all my letters directed to a tavern, where it will be the barkeep’s task to protect his own wife’s quiet.”