“If you came to me like a decent man,” Miguel said at last, “and only asked me for the money in a humble way, I would help you. But these tricks of yours make me disinclined. Go away. The next time I see you here, I’ll beat you senseless.”
“Do you know what makes me smell so wretched?” Joachim demanded, his voice growing loud and shrill. Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a lump of something gray and slick and-it took Miguel a moment to see that it was not merely a trick of his eyes-moving. “It’s rotten chicken flesh. I put it in my pocket to offend you and your ladies.” He laughed and threw the meat upon the ground.
Miguel stepped back.
“You would be surprised how quickly a poor man learns where to buy maggoty flesh and sour milk. Empty bellies must be filled with something, though my dainty goodwife has no love of rancid victuals. Come.” Joachim took a step closer. He held out his right hand, which was still slick from the meat. “Let us shake upon our new friendship.”
“Get gone.” Miguel hated to cringe but he would not touch the man’s flesh.
“I’ll go when I choose. If you don’t shake my hand like a man of honor, I’ll be insulted. And if I’m insulted, I may have to do something that will harm you forever.”
Miguel clenched his teeth until they began to ache. He hadn’t the energy to spare in wondering when Joachim, in his madness, might decide to tell his story before the Ma’amad. But giving the fool money would not help. He’d drink it and then demand more. Miguel’s only choice was to give him nothing and hope for the best.
“Go now,” Miguel said quietly, “before I lose hold of my anger.”
Miguel turned, wanting to hear no reply, but Joachim’s quiet parting words echoed in his ears as he walked home. “I’ve only just begun to take hold of mine.”
Miguel slammed the door upon his return, sending a ripple through the house and through Hannah’s body. She had been sitting in the drawing room, drinking hot wine. Annetje had tried to comfort her by insisting that she calm herself-though Hannah had shown no signs of agitation-and by assuring her that she did not want to have to slap her.
She knew he would come for her. He would come for her and calm her, attempt to placate her, silence her as the widow had. That was all they wanted from her, and at least, she thought, silence was something she knew how to provide.
After a moment, he entered the room. He offered her a hapless smile in an effort to appear at ease. His black suit was disordered, as though he had been exerting himself, and his hat sat askew on his head. What was more, his eyes had turned reddish, almost as though he had been crying, which Hannah considered unlikely. She knew that sometimes, when he grew intensely angry, a redness spread across his eyes like blood poured into a bucket of milk.
Miguel then turned to Annetje, his expression hard, silently asking her to leave. Hannah tried to hide her smile. At least someone dared to be harsh to the girl.
The moment Annetje stood, however, Miguel went after her. Outside the drawing room, in the front hall, Hannah could hear Miguel whispering to her in rapid Dutch. She couldn’t understand the muffled words, but she sensed that he was giving her instructions, explaining something very carefully, listening to the girl repeat everything back to him.
Miguel returned, sat down in a chair across from Hannah, and leaned forward, hands pressing on his thighs. He appeared somewhat more orderly now. Perhaps he had straightened his clothes in the hall or corrected his hat in the mirror. The buoyant handsomeness that had drained from his appearance had been restored.
“I trust you are unharmed, senhora.”
“Yes, I am unharmed,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded strange in her own mouth. So long had she been thinking about what he would say, and what she would answer, that speaking at all had an unreal quality.
“Did the fellow say anything to you?”
She shook her head as she spoke. “Nothing of consequence.” It was true enough. He had talked to her softly in thickly accented Portuguese, but his words had been nonsensical, hard to understand. They were about his suffering, much like any beggar might speak, and it had been hard to concentrate, with the wretched odor wafting from his body.
Miguel leaned back now in an effort to appear at ease. “Do you have a question for me?”
Yes, she thought. May I have more coffee berries? Her supply had run out that morning, and she had meant to raid Miguel’s secret sack before he returned, but the girl had not let her alone, and then came the business with the beggar on the street. She’d eaten no coffee in more than a day, and her desire for it made her head ache.
“I don’t understand,” she said, after a moment.
“Would you like to know who he is?”
“I assumed,” she said cautiously, “he was some beggar or other, senhor. I have no need to learn more.” Had she not secrets enough already?
“Yes, that’s right,” he told her. “He is a beggar of sorts.”
Something unspoken remained in the air. “But you know him?”
“He is no one of consequence,” Miguel said rapidly.
She remained silent for a moment, to prove to him that she was calm. “I do not wish to pry. I know how my husband hates when I pry, but I wonder if I have anything to fear from him.” And then, because she found his silence frustrating: “Should we tell my husband?”
“No,” Miguel said. He stood and began to pace about the room. “You must not tell your husband or anyone else. Do not make more of this incident than is necessary.”
“I don’t understand you, senhor,” she said, studying the tiles on the floor.
“He is but a madman.” Miguel waved his arms about. “The city has an endless store of these wretches. You’ll never see him again, and so there is no need to alarm your husband.”
“I pray you are right.” Her voice sounded whiny and weak, and she hated herself for it.
Just then Annetje returned with a platter in her hands upon which she balanced two bowls of a dark liquid. Steam poured off from them like twin chimneys. The maid set down the tray and paused to glare at Miguel before departing.
Miguel laughed after she had left. “She thinks I’m poisoning you.”
What would the widow say? “There are two bowls, senhor. You are too wise a man to poison yourself as well.”
Miguel cocked his head slightly. “This is the new tea you smelled the other night. It is made of a medicinal fruit from the Orient.” He took his seat once more. “It will enhance your understanding.”
Hannah did not think she wanted her understanding enhanced. She felt she understood well enough. Unless the drink imparted knowledge and wisdom also, it would hardly do her any service. “You take it as well, but I don’t believe senhor needs his understanding enhanced.”
He laughed. “The drink has its own pleasures.” He handed her a bowl.
Hannah gripped it in both hands and smelled it. It was familiar, like something from a dream. Then she took a sip, and knowledge flowed into her. This was coffee-glorious, glorious coffee-here before her, like a gift from the heavens.
She understood so much now. It was a tea, not a food. She had been eating what she should have been drinking. In its liquid state it filled her with a glowing warmth, a comfort she had not known for years. “It’s wonderful,” she breathed. And it was. It filled an emptiness inside her, the way she had imagined love would when she’d been younger. “It’s wonderful,” she murmured again, and took another sip to hide the moisture in her eyes.
Miguel laughed again, but this time he seemed less superior. “The first time I tasted it, I almost spat it out from the bitterness. How strange that you should like it so. I hope you are not only saying so to be polite.”