David Liss - The Coffee Trader

Miguel swallowed hard. “What about the money? I know you were not honest with me. How did you get it?”

“Who said I was not honest with you? Who said that? I am very angry.” She lost her balance and held on to the wall, though her gentle swaying continued.

Miguel took her arm, to steady her. “I haven’t time for your anger. I have to know where the money comes from. If it wasn’t left to you by your husband, whence does it come?”

She laughed a little and then covered her mouth. “Oh, it comes of my husband, sure enough. That bastard knew only how to take his fill of me, never thinking of my pleasure. Even in death, that’s how he fucks me.” Her eyes narrowed, and something dark passed across her face. “He left me some little money, but not nearly so much as he should have for what I endured.”

Something twisted in Miguel’s guts. “Where did you get the capital?”

“From the wretched children of his foul first wife. They live with their aunt, his sister, but the bastard left me to guard the funds. He gave me the work of ordering their trust and instructed them that, when they came of age, they should reward me as they saw fit. Can you imagine such treachery?”

Guardians and children from other marriages-none of it made sense. “Tell me the rest.”

“I have some freedom in what I may do with their wealth, though in order to have such freedom, I must convince a wretched old lawyer in Antwerp that I invest for the good of those evil children. Not so easy to do, but I have been known to charm a man or two in my time.”

A lawyer in Antwerp. Now, at least, Miguel could guess to what place she disappeared. She was off lifting her skirts for this pettifogger.

“So, you have used money meant to be held in trust for your late husband’s children. You have done this before.”

She nodded. “Sometimes I have invested it, and sometimes I have simply spent it. There is a matter of a few thousand guilders I should like to replace.”

She had stolen from her husband’s children, and when they came of age there would be a reckoning. “When do they collect their inheritance?”

“The eldest is not of age for another three years, so I have time to set things right.” She reached out and put her arms around his neck. “You must help me, Miguel. You are my only true friend.” She laughed again, her yeasty breath blasting his face. “Not my only friend, but my only true friend, and that is something. Do you not think so?”

“Careful,” a Dutch reveler shouted, “lest you become entangled in Hebrew scripture!”

Geertruid only pulled him closer, but Miguel worked his way out of the embrace, which now only made him uneasy.

He sucked in air until his lungs hurt, and then took her hand and held it in both of his, ignoring the jeers of the drunken Dutchmen. “Please understand that everything I value is at risk. You must tell me who knows of this.”

She shook her head. “No one. Only you and, of course, my lawyer. But he won’t tell, for I have secrets of my own, and he’s afraid to cross me.”

Miguel nodded. His fortunes, he now understood, would be built upon stolen money. It troubled him, but not so much as next morning’s meeting with the Ma’amad, and he now believed that meeting had nothing to do with Geertruid or her trickery.

He cursed himself for the time he had wasted. Night would soon be upon him. It was time to begin his hunt for Joachim.

Because Miguel had no precise knowledge of where Joachim lived, finding him would be time-consuming but yet possible. The fellow said he and his wife had been forced to move to one of the worst parts of the city, the run-down hovels in the shadow of the Oude Kerk where seedy musicos attracted whores and sailors and thieves. Someone in the area would know Joachim; so disorderly a man is always conspicuous.

Before entering the most unsavory part of town, he took out his purse and counted his money. He had more on him than a man in those neighborhoods would like, so he separated his coins, leaving some in his purse, some in his pocket, and some wrapped in a nose cloth.

As he walked toward the Oude Kerk, buildings began to take on a gloomy, dilapidated cast. The people in the street seemed to belong almost to a different race of man than those in the rest of the city. Foreigners often wrote that one of the great marvels of Amsterdam was its absence of beggars. That was untrue, though Miguel knew well enough that compared to most cities in Europe, the beggars were few indeed, at least in most parts of town. Those foreigners had no doubt not crossed into this district, where they would have found enough of the legless and leprous tribe to satisfy anyone’s requirements.

Miguel walked quickly among the poor, among the whores who slouched in doorways, dangling to one side or the other like hanged men, until they spotted a fellow to their liking. More than once in his short walk, Miguel pushed away some greedy she-devil or other who sprang from her lair and attempted to drag him inside.

He was about to ask a man pushing a cart of root vegetables if he knew of Joachim Waagenaar when he saw a woman with a tray of pies round the corner, calling out her goods. Though she was dressed in stained and loose clothes and somewhat dirty in the face, Miguel was sure he knew this woman. And then at once he understood where he had seen her before: she was Joachim’s wife, Clara. No longer quite the beauty he remembered, she remained pretty enough for the sailors to shout out to her with their cheerful obscenities. One approached her, staggering and lecherous, and Miguel thought to step forward, but Clara spoke a couple of pleasant words to the man, who then doffed his cap and wandered off.

Miguel then stepped forward. “Have you pies with no meat?” he asked. He thought it unlikely that she would recollect his face, so he said nothing to her to give himself away.

Her neck linen was torn and stained yellow, but the cap that covered the crown of her head appeared new. Where could she have acquired such a thing? Miguel recalled Joachim’s fears that his wife would turn whore.

“I have an onion and radish pie, sir,” she told him, watching him with evident caution.

Her caution was well founded, Miguel thought. What business had a Jew looking for his evening meal in this part of the city? “I’ll be glad of it.”

He ought not to eat such a thing. He had no knowledge of its preparation, and it had certainly sat upon her tray in close proximity to pork and other unclean meats. But there was no Ma’amad here. If this pie allowed him to obtain wealth and thereby become a better Jew, its preparation hardly mattered. He bit into it and discovered that he was ravenous. He liked his crust flakier, his vegetables less cooked-the Dutch did not consider vegetables done until they were almost turned to liquid.

“Did you bake these yourself?” he asked.

She eyed him while pretending to look upon the dirt. “Yes, sir.”

Miguel smiled. “What is your name, my dear?”

“My name,” she said, holding her hand forward that he might see her little pewter ring, “is Another Man’s Wife.”

“It’s not so pretty a name,” Miguel told her, “but you misunderstand me. If I wished for that sort of companionship, I might easily find it without buying a pie for my troubles.”

“Some men like the sport.” She smiled at him, and her eyes widened slightly. “Yet I take your point. My name is Clara, and I’d be curious to know what your business is, sir. You appear to buy your pie as a means and not an end.”

Miguel felt an unexpected tingle of interest. Were he on a different kind of business it might be no difficult thing to convince her to continue this conversation in the private room of a tavern. But what kind of a man would that make him? Regardless of Joachim’s current treachery, he had-however unintentionally-wronged the poor fellow, and he was hesitant to make matters worse by cuckolding a madman.