grip and made some little quip, but it was clear that Miguel had crossed a line she would not have him cross again. The next time she saw Miguel, she handed him a tiny volume as a present:
‘t Amsterdamsch Hoerdom,
a guide to the whores and bawdy houses of the city. Miguel had thanked her with good cheer but in truth had felt a humiliation greater than that of his bankruptcy, and he vowed never again to fall victim to her amorous nonsense.
And then there was the matter of Hendrick, a man some fifteen years her junior. Geertruid kept him at her feet almost all the time. He would sit sometimes apart from her at taverns while she chatted with men of business, but he always kept one eye upon her, like a half-sleeping hound. Was he her lover, her servant, or something else Miguel could not quite fathom? She would never say, eluding his questions with graceful ease so that Miguel had long since ceased to ask them.
Often when they met, Hendrick would slink off, glowering at Miguel for a moment before he took himself to wherever such a man might go. Yet he never quite acted with resentment. He called Miguel Jew Man, as though to do so were the height of wit or a sign of their private friendship. He would clap Miguel on the back, always just hard enough to seem something other than amicable. But when the three of them sat together, if Miguel grew quiet or preoccupied with his troubles, it was always Hendrick who tried to draw him out, Hendrick who would burst into a bawdy song or tell some ribald tale, often at his own expense, such as the time he nearly drowned in a trough of horse dung. If such a thing had happened to Miguel, he was sure he’d never recount the tale, not even to bring cheer to the Messiah.
Miguel resented Geertruid’s refusal to talk about her companionship with Hendrick, but he understood her to be a woman well able to keep a secret, and that was a quality not to be underestimated. She knew their friendship could cause Miguel problems with the Ma’amad and so rarely showed herself at taverns where Jews congregated—or, if she did have business there, she pretended not to know Miguel. Certainly he had been seen speaking to her a little intimately once or twice, but that was the very beauty of her being a woman—she was invisible to the men of the Nation. If they saw her at all, they saw her as Miguel’s whore; he had even been teased once or twice for liking his Dutchwomen overripe.
6
Miguel arrived at the Dam a quarter of an hour before noon, when the Exchange gates would open. Already the din of trade had begun to echo off the walls of the surrounding buildings. The burgomasters had limited the hours of trade from noon until two because the guilds complained that the din of commerce disturbed all manner of business across the city. Miguel thought the charges absurd. The sound of trade was a monetary aphrodisiac; it drove men to empty their purses. If the hours of trade were twice as long each day, the city would be twice as rich.
Miguel loved the excitement that spread across the plaza in the moments before the Exchange gates opened. The conversation quieted to a hum. Dozens of men looked like racers, awaiting the signal to begin their sprint.
All along the Dam, peddlers hawked bread and pies and trinkets in the shadow of the great wonders of the plaza, the monuments of Dutch grandeur: the massive and imposing Town Hall, which stood like a civic cathedral; the Nieuwe Kerk and the Exchange; and, puny by comparison, the Weigh House. Along the Damrak, fishmongers shouted their wares in the busy market, and whores cast their lines for amorous investors; moneylenders operating outside the law looked for the eager and desperate; fruit and vegetable sellers wheeled their pushcarts through the maze of merchants eager to spend newly got money on anything polished or juicy or bright with color. Tradesmen joked amiably with fat-pursed merchants, and women attempted to shock men into purchases with talk so bawdy
‘t Amsterdamsch Hoerdom,
a guide to the whores and bawdy houses of the city. Miguel had thanked her with good cheer but in truth had felt a humiliation greater than that of his bankruptcy, and he vowed never again to fall victim to her amorous nonsense.
And then there was the matter of Hendrick, a man some fifteen years her junior. Geertruid kept him at her feet almost all the time. He would sit sometimes apart from her at taverns while she chatted with men of business, but he always kept one eye upon her, like a half-sleeping hound. Was he her lover, her servant, or something else Miguel could not quite fathom? She would never say, eluding his questions with graceful ease so that Miguel had long since ceased to ask them.
Often when they met, Hendrick would slink off, glowering at Miguel for a moment before he took himself to wherever such a man might go. Yet he never quite acted with resentment. He called Miguel Jew Man, as though to do so were the height of wit or a sign of their private friendship. He would clap Miguel on the back, always just hard enough to seem something other than amicable. But when the three of them sat together, if Miguel grew quiet or preoccupied with his troubles, it was always Hendrick who tried to draw him out, Hendrick who would burst into a bawdy song or tell some ribald tale, often at his own expense, such as the time he nearly drowned in a trough of horse dung. If such a thing had happened to Miguel, he was sure he’d never recount the tale, not even to bring cheer to the Messiah.
Miguel resented Geertruid’s refusal to talk about her companionship with Hendrick, but he understood her to be a woman well able to keep a secret, and that was a quality not to be underestimated. She knew their friendship could cause Miguel problems with the Ma’amad and so rarely showed herself at taverns where Jews congregated—or, if she did have business there, she pretended not to know Miguel. Certainly he had been seen speaking to her a little intimately once or twice, but that was the very beauty of her being a woman—she was invisible to the men of the Nation. If they saw her at all, they saw her as Miguel’s whore; he had even been teased once or twice for liking his Dutchwomen overripe.
6
Miguel arrived at the Dam a quarter of an hour before noon, when the Exchange gates would open. Already the din of trade had begun to echo off the walls of the surrounding buildings. The burgomasters had limited the hours of trade from noon until two because the guilds complained that the din of commerce disturbed all manner of business across the city. Miguel thought the charges absurd. The sound of trade was a monetary aphrodisiac; it drove men to empty their purses. If the hours of trade were twice as long each day, the city would be twice as rich.
Miguel loved the excitement that spread across the plaza in the moments before the Exchange gates opened. The conversation quieted to a hum. Dozens of men looked like racers, awaiting the signal to begin their sprint.
All along the Dam, peddlers hawked bread and pies and trinkets in the shadow of the great wonders of the plaza, the monuments of Dutch grandeur: the massive and imposing Town Hall, which stood like a civic cathedral; the Nieuwe Kerk and the Exchange; and, puny by comparison, the Weigh House. Along the Damrak, fishmongers shouted their wares in the busy market, and whores cast their lines for amorous investors; moneylenders operating outside the law looked for the eager and desperate; fruit and vegetable sellers wheeled their pushcarts through the maze of merchants eager to spend newly got money on anything polished or juicy or bright with color. Tradesmen joked amiably with fat-pursed merchants, and women attempted to shock men into purchases with talk so bawdy
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