With no business to conduct, Miguel wanted to avoid being seen, particularly by Joachim. He visited a bookseller and purchased, on credit, a few pamphlets-and, on a whim, a simple book in the most elementary Portuguese on the basics of holy Law. He would give it as a gift to Hannah. She could not read, but perhaps she might learn someday.
After passing the day in taverns, reading his lurid tales of crime, he took Crispijn’s advice and traveled to the Spaniard’s Lame Horse. Miguel generally avoided musicos of this nature, catering to low sorts of fellows. A band of three string musicians played simple tunes while the whores drifted from table to table, seeking business. Miguel suspected there were rooms in the back, and he briefly considered inspecting them with one buxom beauty with dark hair and fetching black eyes, but his business was with Hendrick and he considered it no good bargain to miss his opportunity while gaining the clap.
Within an hour the whores knew they would get nowhere with him, and they kept their distance, ignoring him except to administer the occasional scowl. Miguel drank quickly and ordered repeatedly. He reasoned that he would have to pay for his seat in beer or the owner might toss him out.
After nearly two hours of steady drinking, Hendrick had not yet shown himself. Sleepy with beer, Miguel wondered if he might not be better off abandoning his station; this was no place for a man to fall asleep unless he wanted to awaken stripped of all his goods.
He lifted his tankard and set it down again. A loud conversation a few tables over began to distract him. Something about cargo, ruin, a lost ship called the Bountiful Providence carrying slaves in the Africa trade.
Then something happened. A drunk fellow rose to his feet and turned toward the sailors. “The Bountiful Providence !” Saliva flew from his mouth. “Are you certain?”
“Aye,” one of the sailors said. “She’s been taken by pirates all right. Vicious Spanish pirates, too. Bloodthirsty bastards. The very worst of the lot. My brother was a seaman aboard her and barely escaped with his life. Do you know the ship, friend, or have kin upon her?”
“I know her.” He put his face in his hands. “I owned stock in her. Good God, I’ll be ruined. I have sunk my fortune in a ship now sunk!”
Miguel stared. Even in the murkiness of beer he knew the scene was far too familiar. It reminded him not only of his recent misfortune with the coffee but of something else, from many months before. It was like watching his own life played on stage before him.
“You might not be entirely ruined,” said one of the sailor’s companions in a voice full of hope, such as one might use with a frightened child. “You see, the news has not yet reached the Exchange, and that might work in your favor.”
The stockholder turned to the new speaker. He alone of the party did not look like a sailor. Not exactly a man of substance, he yet had something more to him than his companions.
“What do you say?” the stockholder asked.
“That you may take advantage of the ignorance still to be found upon the Exchange. Or at least someone could. I would be willing to take those shares from you, sir, for fifty percent of their value. That should be far more lucrative than if you lose it all.”
“And sell them at a discount at the Exchange tomorrow?” the stockholder said, rolling the words about on his tongue. “Why should I not do that as well as you?”
“You are welcome to try, friend, but then you assume the risk. And when the world learns that you have unloaded your stock only hours before news of the loss becomes general, you will become mistrusted. I, on the other hand, do not spend much time upon the Exchange and can escape from such an adventure entirely unscathed.”
The man said nothing, but Miguel could see that he stood on the precipice of acquiescing.
“I might also add,” the prospective buyer told him, “that not every man might sell spoiled goods with an honest look in his eye. You might find yourself ready to sell and with no one to buy because you cannot conduct yourself like a man who has nothing to hide.”
“You, however, do a mighty good job of looking like an honest man,” a new voice, a heroic voice announced, “though as sure as I am standing here, I know you to be a scoundrel.”
And there was Hendrick, dressed in black like a man of business. He stood behind the prospective buyer with his arms crossed, and he appeared nothing if not heroic.
“I know you, Jan van der Dijt,” Hendrick announced, “and you are a liar and a knave.” He turned to the shareholder. “Nothing has befallen your ship, sir. These men are tricksters, who prey upon the fear of investors. They seek to rob you of your shares at half their value and then reap the rewards when the cargo arrives safely.”
The sailors and their companion rose from their seats and hurried out the door. The shareholder stiffened and looked as though he prepared himself to sprint after the cheats, but Hendrick put his arm around the man’s shoulders and held him back.
“Let the villains run,” he said soothingly. “You’ve undone their scheme, and you can’t defeat so large a group. Come.” He led the man to a table and applied pressure upon his shoulder so he would sit.
Miguel had just witnessed the precise events that had transpired when he had met Geertruid and become her friend. But their friendship was a sham and everything had been false. The men who had offered to buy his shares hadn’t been exposed by Geertruid, they had been in her employ. It had been no more than a trick to gain Miguel’s trust.
Making sure the fellow’s back was toward him, Miguel quickly paid his reckoning-indeed, he overpaid, that he might get out quickly and with little conversation. He then found the door and slipped out unseen.
Out in the cool night, he lit his lantern, which barely penetrated the thick fog off the IJ. What did it mean? How could he explain it?
In an instant, all became clear. Geertruid had laid some scheme that involved gaining his trust not for a single night at a single moment but over a period of days or weeks. Then Miguel had lost almost everything when sugar collapsed. Surely that explained why Hendrick appeared so uneasy around him-the man did not understand what Geertruid wanted with this Jew who had now become penniless and of no value to them.
So Geertruid had created value. She had hatched this coffee scheme in order to-to do what? What plot had she constructed? It could not be that Geertruid planned to take anything from Miguel. She had provided money, money that, by her own admission, did not truly belong to her.
Perhaps it did not belong to her late husband’s children either. That story, Miguel realized, had the hollow ring of a lie. How could he have not seen it sooner? He, who made his livelihood by distinguishing truth from falseness, though it was but a scurvy livelihood now. And coffee, which was to save him from his ruin, was now revealed to be but another disaster. But why? Why would Geertruid advance money, why would anyone advance money, to dupe a ruined man into ruining himself further?
There could be only one answer. There could be only one person willing to expend capital on Miguel’s destruction. Geertruid, he concluded with perfect clarity, served Solomon Parido.
27
The idea that one might see things more clearly upon a new day, or that matters of importance could be worked out during sleep, seemed to Miguel foolishness. His restless sleep offered him no answers the next day, nor the day thereafter, the Sabbath. On the following morning, however, he did wake up with one important detail on his mind: standing outside the Singing Carp, Joachim had spoken suggestively about Geertruid. He could remember the precise smell in the air-beer and piss and canal stink-as the wretch suggested he knew something.