David Liss - The Coffee Trader

His confusion about Hannah’s Romish inclinations was so intense that he did not even consider what she had said about Geertruid for several hours. Once he recalled her words, however, he found himself awake much of the night, regretting his cruelty and wishing there were a way to go to Hannah and ask her questions. And perhaps apologize.

Hannah was first out of the house the next morning, stepping onto the stoop to look for the bread man, whose cries she heard through windows hazy with morning cool. Before her husband had opened his eyes, before Annetje had even washed and begun to prepare breakfast for the house, Hannah had dressed herself, put her veil firmly in place, and stepped outside.

She found the pig’s head. It sat upon the stoop just inches from the door, angled in a congealed pool of blood. Already ants had begun to crawl upon it in such numbers that at first it appeared to Hannah black and writhing.

Her shriek roused the house and the closest neighbors. Miguel had slept badly and had already risen, prayed, and dressed. He sat struggling with the weekly Torah portion when her shrill voice penetrated the tiny windows of the cellar, and he was the first to find Hannah upon the steps, a hand clasped over her mouth. She turned to him and fell into his arms, burying her head in his shirt as she wept.

They called immediately for the doctor, who gave her potions to help her sleep and explained that if she could be kept calm for a day, the danger to her life would pass. Hannah had insisted that she needed no potions, she had been only startled, but the doctor would not believe a woman could receive so great a shock without its disordering her humors and, more important, he explained, the humors of the unborn baby. Daniel shot Miguel hard looks but said nothing, made no accusations. Nevertheless, Miguel could no longer ignore the simple truth that things between himself and his brother would never be the same.

from

The Factual and Revealing Memoirs of Alonzo Alferonda

I returned home one night from evening prayers (yes, evening prayers-there were still, thank God, a few small synagogues that defied the Ma’amad and permitted me to worship among their number so long as I was careful not to be seen), when I felt a hand grip my shoulder. I looked up expecting to see some desperate debtor who, fearing for his life, thought to strike at Alferonda before he could be struck. Instead, I saw Solomon Parido.

“Senhor,” I said, swallowing my relief, “I hardly thought to receive another visit from you again so soon.”

Parido appeared hesitant. He no more liked coming to see me than I liked seeing him. Perhaps he liked it less. I had nothing to lose from these encounters, but he had his pride. “I had not thought to seek you out.”

“And yet,” I observed, “here you are, lurking in the streets, waiting for me.” I had cause to be anxious that he knew I had been at worship, but he said nothing, and I could only conclude that he would not have failed to play so valuable a card. My friends at the small synagogue were safe.

Parido set his jaw as though bracing himself and turned to me. “I want to know more of what you have planned with Miguel Lienzo.”

I picked up my pace, if only a little. It was a trick I learned so long ago I hardly even notice doing it most times. Varying your pace of walking sets your companion on edge. He has to think more about trivial things than he ought, and that takes his concentration from where it needs to be. “I marvel at your presumption,” I said. “What makes you think, if I had anything planned, I would tell my enemy?”

“I may be your enemy, as you style it, but Lienzo is not. You are manipulating him.”

I let out a laugh. “If you think so, why not tell him?”

“Things have gone too far now; he’d never believe me. I’ve asked his brother to warn him off you, but I doubt that will do much good.”

“I doubt it too. A better strategy might have been to have his brother encourage him to do business with me.” I winked at him. “I heard someone left the head of a pig on his brother’s doorstep. I wonder if you, senhor, might know who would do such a thing.”

“How dare you accuse me of so wretched a crime? Listen to me, Alferonda. If you bear any friendship for Lienzo, you’ll stop this. If he crosses me, I’ll destroy him.”

I shook my head. “You think you can destroy anyone you like. You think you can work miracles of destruction. Your power as parnass has corrupted you utterly, Parido, and you cannot even see it. You’ve become a distortion of the man you once were. You threaten me, you threaten Lienzo-you see plots everywhere. I pity you. You can no longer tell what is true and what is your own fancy.”

He stared at me for a moment, and I could tell by his face that I had struck something. This was the oldest trick of them all, but I knew it well. I had practiced it often. The appearance of sincerity can truly unman even the most stalwart foe.

“Think,” I said, eager to press the advantage, “of what you have accused me, of what you have accused Miguel. Do you really think it plausible that men engage themselves in these wild plots? Is it not far more likely that your suspicion and greed have misled you not only to suspect things that are untrue but to do real harm to others?”

“I see I’ve wasted my time,” he said, and turned away.

I was not one, however, to let the fish go, once hooked. “You haven’t wasted your time,” I called after him, “if you will only think of what I have said. You are wrong, Parido. You are wrong about me and wrong about Lienzo, and it is not too late for you to atone for your sins.”

He began to walk faster and hunched his shoulders as if to protect himself from whatever I might hurl at him. And I did hurl: I hurled lies, powerful lies that fell like stones because they so clearly resembled the truth.

In the same way you can make a simple peasant who has given you his last coin think that a mere lout with too much hair on his back is a werewolf. He fears it may be a werewolf, so all you need do is point and whisper a suggestion, and the peasant will hear the howling for himself.

Though still in bed, Hannah ate her soup that evening and chatted calmly with her husband. Miguel and Daniel both showed their relief, though the storm had not yet passed. Miguel had been doing his best to stay out of Daniel’s path, but that night Annetje brought him word that his brother wished to see him in his study. Miguel found him hunched over his writing table, scribbling in the light of a good candle. Three or four more flickered in the breeze of the open window. Daniel had been smoking an acrid tobacco, and Miguel felt a headache gathering its forces.

“How does your wife?” Miguel asked.

“I no longer fear for her life. These frights, you know, can be fatal to a woman’s delicate humors, particularly one in her condition. But the doctor tells me there is no risk to the child.”

“I’m glad. It’s a terrible thing.”

Daniel paused for a moment. He picked up a pen and then set it down again. “It is a terrible thing. What do you know of it, Miguel?”

Though he had considered how he might respond to this line of questioning for the better part of the day, Miguel still had no clear idea of what he could say to put matters at ease. Did Daniel want a confession, or did he want to be comforted?

“I can’t say for certain,” he told his brother at last.

“But you have ideas.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I can’t say that I have no guess, but I have no way of knowing for certain.”

“Perhaps you should tell me about your guess.”

Miguel shook his head. “It would be inappropriate for me to speculate. It is wrong to make accusations where I can prove nothing.”