chose to make his money.
“The business of the Exchange is like the weather,” Miguel had told him once. “You might see signs of rain, but then nature delivers sunshine.”
“But what has happened to my guilders?” Joachim had asked him, after losing a trifling fifty guilders in an East India deal that had not gone quite as Miguel had expected.
Miguel forced a laugh. “Where is the wind after it blows on your face?” He almost added that any man who wonders such things should remove his money from the Exchange and return to selling. Joachim seemed to Miguel ill-suited for this new species of investment, but Miguel did not have so many clients that he could afford to send one away.
Joachim now stood there, panting like a dog, letting his breath blow in Miguel’s face. In the distance the gates to the Exchange opened, and the traders began to file inside, some of the more eager men shoving like unruly boys.
Although everyone had his own affairs to tend to, Miguel worried that someone might see him with this wretch. The burghers of Amsterdam had forbidden Jewish traders to broker for gentiles, and though the Ma’amad claimed to punish this crime with excommunication, Miguel believed it to be the second most violated law in the city (just after the law prohibiting brokers to trade for their own profit as well as their clients’). Nevertheless, a man in Miguel’s situation had to fear being prosecuted for crimes that others could perpetrate with impunity. This conversation with Joachim would have to end quickly.
“I am sorry things have gone hard with you, but I haven’t the time to speak of it now.” Miguel took a tentative step back.
Joachim nodded and stepped closer forward. “I would like to do a little business with you to make up for what I’ve lost. Perhaps, as you say, everything was unintentional.”
Miguel could not think quite how to respond.
Perhaps everything was unintentional.
Did this man have the audacity to accuse Miguel of deceiving him, of having set some sort of trap, as though Miguel’s losses in sugar had been some ruse to get Joachim’s five hundred guilders? Not a day goes by that a broker does not give unsound advice, perhaps ruining those he aims to serve. Those who cannot live with risk have no business in trade.
“I want what you owe me,” Joachim insisted.
At once Miguel recognized Joachim’s ragged voice. He could see it transposed in his mind into an awkward hand, scratchy and uneven. “
You’ve
been sending me those notes.”
“I want my money,” Joachim affirmed. “I want you to help me get back my money. It’s no less than what you owe me.”
With no more room in his life for debt, Miguel disliked this talk of what he owed. He’d made an error in judgment, nothing more. They had both suffered; it should end there.
“What manner of business is this when you send such notes? What am I to make of your strange communications?”
Joachim said nothing. He looked at Miguel the way a dog looks at a man who lectures it.
Miguel tried once more. “We will talk about this when I am at leisure,” he told Joachim, looking about nervously for signs of Ma’amad spies.
“I understand that you are a busy man.” Joachim spread his hands wide. “I, as you can see, haven’t many demands on my time.”
Miguel cast a glance at the Exchange. Every minute here could mean lost money. What if, even now, the man on whom he could unload his brandy futures, at perhaps not too significant a loss, was buying those shares from someone else?
“But I have,” he said to Joachim. “We’ll talk later.” He took another exploratory step backwards.
“When!”
It came out hard, a command more than a question. The word had a power to it, as though he had shouted
stop
! Joachim’s face had changed, too. He now gazed at Miguel sternly, like a magistrate issuing a decree. In the butcher stalls, several people halted in their steps and looked over. Miguel’s heart began to thump a
“The business of the Exchange is like the weather,” Miguel had told him once. “You might see signs of rain, but then nature delivers sunshine.”
“But what has happened to my guilders?” Joachim had asked him, after losing a trifling fifty guilders in an East India deal that had not gone quite as Miguel had expected.
Miguel forced a laugh. “Where is the wind after it blows on your face?” He almost added that any man who wonders such things should remove his money from the Exchange and return to selling. Joachim seemed to Miguel ill-suited for this new species of investment, but Miguel did not have so many clients that he could afford to send one away.
Joachim now stood there, panting like a dog, letting his breath blow in Miguel’s face. In the distance the gates to the Exchange opened, and the traders began to file inside, some of the more eager men shoving like unruly boys.
Although everyone had his own affairs to tend to, Miguel worried that someone might see him with this wretch. The burghers of Amsterdam had forbidden Jewish traders to broker for gentiles, and though the Ma’amad claimed to punish this crime with excommunication, Miguel believed it to be the second most violated law in the city (just after the law prohibiting brokers to trade for their own profit as well as their clients’). Nevertheless, a man in Miguel’s situation had to fear being prosecuted for crimes that others could perpetrate with impunity. This conversation with Joachim would have to end quickly.
“I am sorry things have gone hard with you, but I haven’t the time to speak of it now.” Miguel took a tentative step back.
Joachim nodded and stepped closer forward. “I would like to do a little business with you to make up for what I’ve lost. Perhaps, as you say, everything was unintentional.”
Miguel could not think quite how to respond.
Perhaps everything was unintentional.
Did this man have the audacity to accuse Miguel of deceiving him, of having set some sort of trap, as though Miguel’s losses in sugar had been some ruse to get Joachim’s five hundred guilders? Not a day goes by that a broker does not give unsound advice, perhaps ruining those he aims to serve. Those who cannot live with risk have no business in trade.
“I want what you owe me,” Joachim insisted.
At once Miguel recognized Joachim’s ragged voice. He could see it transposed in his mind into an awkward hand, scratchy and uneven. “
You’ve
been sending me those notes.”
“I want my money,” Joachim affirmed. “I want you to help me get back my money. It’s no less than what you owe me.”
With no more room in his life for debt, Miguel disliked this talk of what he owed. He’d made an error in judgment, nothing more. They had both suffered; it should end there.
“What manner of business is this when you send such notes? What am I to make of your strange communications?”
Joachim said nothing. He looked at Miguel the way a dog looks at a man who lectures it.
Miguel tried once more. “We will talk about this when I am at leisure,” he told Joachim, looking about nervously for signs of Ma’amad spies.
“I understand that you are a busy man.” Joachim spread his hands wide. “I, as you can see, haven’t many demands on my time.”
Miguel cast a glance at the Exchange. Every minute here could mean lost money. What if, even now, the man on whom he could unload his brandy futures, at perhaps not too significant a loss, was buying those shares from someone else?
“But I have,” he said to Joachim. “We’ll talk later.” He took another exploratory step backwards.
“When!”
It came out hard, a command more than a question. The word had a power to it, as though he had shouted
stop
! Joachim’s face had changed, too. He now gazed at Miguel sternly, like a magistrate issuing a decree. In the butcher stalls, several people halted in their steps and looked over. Miguel’s heart began to thump a
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