David Liss - The Coffee Trader

Miguel had given her coffee, and now Annetje gave her wine. The world plied her with drink in order to make her do its bidding. This thought saddened her, but even so, Hannah could not quite forget the thrill of having consumed Miguel’s coffee. She loved learning the true nature of that fruit; she loved the way it made her feel animated and alive. It was not as though she discovered a new self; rather, coffee reordered the self she already had. Things at the top sank to the bottom, and the parts of herself she had chained down rose buoyantly. She had forgotten to be demure and modest, and she loved casting off those constraints.

She now recognized, perhaps for the first time, how Miguel had always seen her: quiet, foolish, stupid. Those Iberian virtues of femininity held no allure for him. He enjoyed connivers like Annetje and his wicked widow. Well, she could be wicked too. The thought almost made her laugh aloud. Of course she could not be wicked, but she could want to be wicked.

Annetje came up from the kitchen and stood in the doorway, eyeing, as Hannah had suspected she would, the now-empty goblet. Daniel and Miguel had both left to attend to their business, so the girl took a seat at the table, which she loved to do when they were alone together, poured herself some wine from the decanter, and drank it down quickly, apparently unconcerned with how loose her own tongue became.

“Did you and the senhor have a pleasant talk yesterday?” she began.

Hannah smiled. “You didn’t listen at the door?”

Something violent flickered across Annetje’s face. “You spoke too rapidly in your language. I could hardly understand a word of it.”

“He asked me not to talk of what had happened. I am sure he told you the same thing.”

“He did, but he did not give me any special potions to make me obey. Perhaps he has more faith in my silence.”

“Perhaps he does,” Hannah agreed. “And perhaps you’ve no faith in mine. That’s what you want to know about, yes? If I spoke to him about the widow.”

“Well, I would know if you spoke about the widow. You may count on that. Just as I know from your face now that you haven’t, but that you’ve done something else.”

Hannah said nothing. She cast her eyes downward, feeling the familiar rush of shame that gripped her when she spoke out of turn or made eye contact with a guest of her husband’s.

Annetje arose and took a seat next to her. She took Hannah’s right hand in both of hers. “Are you ashamed of talking so intimately with the senhor?” she asked sweetly, her pretty green eyes locking onto Hannah’s. “I don’t think it so wrong that you should enjoy a little innocent congress. The women of my nation do so every day, and no harm comes to them.” She squeezed Hannah’s hand between hers. Here was the Annetje who had first shown herself, who had lured Hannah into revealing her secrets.

Hannah would have no more of it. “I don’t see anything evil in speaking with him. I may say what I like to whom I like.”

“Of course, you are right,” Annetje cooed. “Let’s forget this incident altogether. Shall we go this afternoon?”

“Go?”

“Has it been so long that you do not recall?” Both had understood from the beginning that the name of the place must never be spoken aloud, not in the house, not in the Vlooyenburg, not anywhere Jews or Ma’amad spies might lurk.

Hannah swallowed. She had known this conversation must come, and she had done all she could to brace herself. Even so, she felt unprepared and perhaps even surprised. “I cannot go.”

“You cannot go?” Annetje asked. “Are you afraid because of that silly widow?”

“It’s not that,” Hannah told her. “I won’t risk it. My child.”

“The child again,” she snapped. “You act like no one has ever been with child before.”

“I won’t take any more chances. God has shown me, He has warned me of the dangers. I was almost caught once, and I would be a fool to ignore His mercy.”

“God did not save you,” Annetje told her, “I did. I am the one who saved you from being discovered. God will damn you to hell if you do not go today, and your child too.”

Hannah shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“You know it’s true,” the maid said petulantly. “We’ll see how many nights you can endure, lying awake, knowing that if you are to die in your sleep, you are destined for hell’s torments. Then you will change your mind.”

“Perhaps,” Hannah said ambivalently.

“In any case,” Annetje announced more cheerfully, “you must remember to say nothing to Senhor Miguel. You must keep silence. Will you promise me to do so?”

“I promise.” As she said the words, she knew she lied and felt a strange new pleasure in how easily the lie came. She knew she would tell Miguel, though she could not say when or why or what would be the consequence of an act that could well mean her ruin.

A week after his conversation with Hendrick, Miguel sat with Geertruid in the Singing Carp. She had sent him a note announcing that she wished to see him, and Miguel had hurried over. He found Hendrick in the midst of telling a story when Miguel arrived, and though Geertruid stretched her pretty neck to kiss Miguel, she made no effort to interrupt.

Hendrick spoke in a rapid rural Dutch, and Miguel had a hard time following the circuitous narrative, which had something to do with a childhood friend and a stolen barrel of pickled beef. When he finished, he laughed in appreciation of himself. “That’s some story, eh, Jew Man?”

“I like it very much,” answered Miguel.

“He likes it very much,” Hendrick said to Geertruid. “He is kind to say so.”

Why did Geertruid not send away this clown? But Miguel could tell that she had been drinking a little too much. Hendrick had been drinking too. “Now it is your turn,” he said to Miguel. He grinned broadly, but his eyes had a kind of cruelty in them. “You tell a story.”

This was a test of some sort, but Miguel had no idea how to proceed. “I have no story to tell,” he answered, “or none that can compete with your pickled beef tale.” In truth, Miguel could not make himself calm. He had only a third of Geertruid’s money remaining, and when the time came, he would have no way of paying Nunes. He’d been able to put the lost money out of his mind, but here with Geertruid he could not bring himself to forget it.

“I have no story to tell,” Hendrick repeated, imitating Miguel’s accent. “Come now, Jew Man. Show yourself to be game for once. You enjoy my generous entertainment, and I would so like you to give something in return. Would you not like to hear a story, madam?”

“I’d love to hear a story,” Geertruid agreed. “The senhor is so witty.”

“I see I’m outnumbered,” he said, making a show of good nature. “What sort of story should I tell?”

“That’s for you to say. Something that tells of your mighty adventures. You can tell us a story of your amorous victories or the strangeness of your race or some incomprehensible plan to conquer the Exchange.”

Miguel had no time to respond, for a man had come behind Hendrick with a tankard in his hand and swung hard, aiming to hit Hendrick in the head. It was his good fortune that Hendrick had leaned in a few inches to make some comment to Geertruid, so the pewter tankard came down hard, but it struck the Dutchman in the shoulder and then flew from the assailant’s hand, spraying beer into Miguel’s face before it clattered upon the wooden floor.

“God’s fucking whore,” Hendrick said, with surprising calm. He leapt from his seat in an instant and turned to face his attacker, a man at least a head shorter than Hendrick and thin-almost shockingly so-but for an enormous belly. His face had turned red with the exertion of his blow and the failure to bring it home.