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.”
Here was a handsome situation. How could I avoid cutting off his little fingers-fingers he volunteered for their severing-without revealing myself to be the sort of man who simply re-frained from those sorts of cruelties? I truly believed he had forced my hand and I had no choice but to cut off the man’s fingers-though, being merciful, I was prepared to cut off only one. How else could I save my fierce reputation? I know not what dark path I might have followed if I had not been rescued by the most unlikely of men.
As I stared at the old fellow and contemplated his fate, I heard the slap of metal on wood. I and my Dutchmen turned and saw a figure standing in the dim light, erect as a royal guard. It was none other than Solomon Parido.
“Here is the ten guilders he owes you,” he said coolly. “I won’t allow this thing to transpire.”
“I had no idea you possessed such charity in your heart,” I said.
“I cannot stand by and see a man mutilated by so cruel a beast. This display sickens me, but I am at least gratified to know that the moral judgment I made of you has proved sound.”
“Senhor, the air circulates poorly in this room, and I fear your sanctimoniousness will suffocate us all. Nevertheless, I’m sure our friend here is grateful for your intervention.”
The old thief, knowing an opportunity when he saw one, chimed in. “Ten guilders is but the principal. You have neglected the interest.”
Claes and Caspar looked at me, awaiting orders. I did not want this farce witnessed, so I sent them all out of the room. I told the Dutchmen to free the thief with a slap or two for good measure, and they were gone. I sat facing my old enemy in the thin light of a musky closet. I had not had private words with Parido since my exile. There had been a few barbs exchanged on the street or in taverns where we crossed paths, but nothing like this.
It occurred to me that here was a fine opportunity for revenge. Why could I not have Claes and Caspar remove his little fingers or give him a slap or two for good measure? But that was not the sort of revenge I craved.
“Have you come to apologize to me?” I asked. I gestured for him to sit on one of the old stools in the room and lit my pipe by dipping a large splinter into the oil lamp and then into the packed bowl.
Parido remained standing, too great a man to place his ass on a stool that one such as I might use. “You know I haven’t.”
“I know you haven’t,” I agreed. “Well, then. It must be something for you to come here. I believe it to have worked this way: you had your Ma’amad spies track me to this place and you thought it perfect, for surely no one would see you enter or leave. You were willing to tear open your purse for that old thief because you could not imagine a more private meeting than this, and you were willing to take the opportunity when it presented itself. So now that we know all that, let us move on.” I blew smoke at him. “What do you want, Parido?”
His dignity would not permit him to swat at the smoke, but I could see him struggling not to gag. “I have questions for you to answer,” he said.
“I suppose then we’ll see if I feel like answering, but I can promise you nothing. You see, Parido, I can’t think of any reason why I should want to help you or provide you with answers about anything. You treated me as no Jew should treat another. This is not the Ma’amad chamber of the Talmud Torah, this is the belly of Amsterdam, and if I decide you are never vomited out, no one will hear from you more.”
“Don’t threaten me,” he said evenly.
I admired his courage and laughed at his stupidity-perhaps I had not secured my villainous reputation as carefully as I ought. He had every reason to be frightened yet did not seem to know or care. I only shrugged in return. “I suppose we’ll see what’s a threat and what isn’t. In the meantime, I am nothing short of astonished at your pluck, showing up as you have, as though I might be happy to forgive your wrongs.”