David Liss - The Coffee Trader

“Please, senhor.” Ben Yerushalieem shook his head slightly. “We all know there is a subtle divide between business and improper relations.”

The other parnassim nodded in agreement, all but Parido. “How can we learn the truth if we may not inquire into it?”

“You would smash a vessel, Senhor Parido, to learn its contents, thinking nothing of the value of the vessel itself?” ben Yerushalieem asked.

“Perhaps the vessel has no value.”

Desinea stared at Parido. “You assured this council that you would not allow your personal feelings concerning Senhor Lienzo to affect your judgment.”

“And they have not,” he answered. “I defy him to tell this council how the revelation of his plans will harm him.”

“Can you do so,” Desinea asked, “particularly since you know well that we of the Ma’amad know how to keep secret the inner workings of this chamber?”

Miguel surrendered to the urge to smile. Parido had trapped himself within his own scheme, and the world would now see who was the cleverer man. Miguel would win this battle in a manner worthy of Charming Pieter.

“Senhors,” Miguel began, “not very long ago Senhor Parido stopped me on the Exchange and demanded to know, for the sake of his business, the nature of my trades. I refused to tell him at the time, believing silence to best serve the ends of myself and my partners. Now, as a parnass, he demands the same information, claiming that he inquires not for the sake of his own affairs but for the sake of the Nation. You tell me that the workings of this chamber remain in this chamber, but I hope I do not seem overly suspicious if I wonder if every member of this body will honor the tradition of secrecy.”

A chill quiet fell upon the room. Several members of the council glared at Parido. Others looked away in discomfort. Desinea studied a spot on the table.

“Please step outside,” ben Yerushalieem said, after a moment.

Miguel waited, clearing his mind of all expectations while the members of the Ma’amad talked privately among themselves. Occasionally Parido’s voice would pulse through the walls, but Miguel could not discern the words. At last he was summoned to reappear.

“It is the opinion of this council,” Desinea announced, “that you have ignored the laws of our Nation without malice but to ill effect. We have therefore decided to invoke the cherem, to place you under the ban, for a period of one day, beginning with sunset tonight. During that period you may not attend the synagogue, consort with Jews, or involve yourself in any way with the community. At the conclusion of that period, your place among us will be as it was.”

Miguel nodded. He had not escaped unscathed, as he had wished, but he had escaped.

“Let me add,” ben Yerushalieem said, “that should this council learn that you have misrepresented your affairs, you will find it far less lenient. If your relationship with this beggar is other than what you have said, or if your business is improper, you will find us unwilling to listen to excuses. Have you anything to add, senhor?”

Miguel told those gathered that he was sorry for his offense and deserving of their punishment, and after thanking the parnassim for their wisdom he silently withdrew.

To be placed under the cherem even for a single day was a great disgrace. It would be the topic of gossip for weeks to come. Men had fled Amsterdam in disgust after being so punished, but Miguel would not be one of them.

He walked home hurriedly, repeating over and over again the prayer of thanks. He had prevailed. Parido had revealed himself, he had sprung his trap, but Miguel had outmaneuvered him. He paused to hug himself and then regained his stride. He had won.

Yet, it was necessarily a temporary victory. Parido had struck and missed, and the signs of his former kindness would dry up, leaving only ashes. More than that, now Miguel knew he had an enemy, an angry enemy, one who no longer needed to act with subtlety or with subterfuge but would attack boldly and surely fiercely.

But why? Why did Parido care so much about Miguel’s coffee trade? If he did not want Miguel excommunicated, his scheme somehow depended upon Miguel’s scheme, which the cherem would ruin. But since Parido could not get what he wanted through the Ma’amad, he surely would in some other way. If he had not thought himself wronged before, he would surely be stinging after Miguel’s victory today. There could be no doubt that Parido was now far more dangerous than ever before.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

I made it a habit to employ a few Dutchmen of the lower sort to perform little tasks for me. They were rough fellows, as inclined to steal as the men to whom I lent, but there was no helping that. These ruffians, Claes or Caspar or Cornelis-who can remember these odd Dutch names?-would help me terrify the wretches who had borrowed money from me and were disinclined to pay me back. I’m sure a few of my guilders found their way into those Dutch purses, but what could a man do? I hadn’t the inclination to order my business with the iron fist of a tyrant, and I discovered that a little laxity in such matters promoted an odd sort of loyalty.

One afternoon I sat in the basement of a dank tavern sipping thin beer. Across from me sat an aging thief, and a pair of my men lurked menacingly behind me. I always had them peeling apples with sharp blades or carving pieces of wood at these moments. It saved me the tedium of uttering threats aloud.

This thief presented a bit of a problem. He was perhaps fifty years of age and looked ancient from his time of toiling upon the earth. His hair was long and clumped together in thin strands, his clothes stained, his skin a web of ruptured veins. He had borrowed some ten guilders of me, at a very unreasonable rate of interest I should add, to pay for the expenses surrounding the death of his wife. Now, nearly a year later, he had given me nothing and, what was more, announced he could give me nothing. Now, here was not one of those men who claimed he could pay nothing while his ringed fingers stroked a belly big with bread and fish. No, he truly had nothing, but though I pitied him, I could not forgive the debt. Where then would I be?

“Surely you must have some article of value you can pawn,” I suggested. “Some clothes you have failed to mention, old jewels perhaps. A cat? I know a pawnbroker who will give a fair price for a proven mouser.”

“I have nothing,” he told me.

“You are a thief,” I reminded him. “You can steal it. Or have I, in some way, misunderstood the nature of thievery?”

“I am not much of a thief anymore.” He held up his hands. “My fingers are no longer nimble, and my feet are no longer swift. I dare not make the attempt.”

“Hmm.” I scratched at my beard. “How long has this been going on-this clumsy-finger and leaden-foot difficulty? Awhile?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“A long while? Let us say, more than a year?”

“I would say so, yes.”

“So when you borrowed this money of me, you knew you would not be able to repay? Am I a charitable board to hand out alms? Do you come to me because you have heard of my generosity? You must tell me, because I am confused.”

I admit this harangue served no function but to buy myself time as I decided what course of action to follow. Rarely did I find someone who could pay me nothing and who had no skills I could put into service for myself.

“What,” I asked him, “do you think I should do with one such as you?”

He gave this some long consideration. “I think,” he said at last, “that you should cut off the little fingers from each of my hands. I haven’t the skill of a cutpurse any longer, so I won’t much miss them except as any man would miss parts of his body. And in doing this, you can let the world know that you are determined not to be cheated. I think that would be the merciful thing.”