Free The Coffee Trader by David Liss Page A

and poured beer and served sausage or herring or cheese; in houses hardly more than huts, a man could buy delicacies of a more human kind.
    Miguel located the meeting place with difficulty, after asking several other proprietors for directions. Finally he came upon what he suspected was the right building, a poor wooden structure built at crazed angles, hardly looking fit to withstand a rainstorm. Miguel found the door locked, but a nearby brothel keeper had assured him that it was the right place, so he knocked loudly.
    Almost at once the door opened a crack and Miguel stared at a dark-skinned Turk in a yellow turban. The man said nothing.
    “Is this the coffee tavern?” Miguel asked.
    “Who are you?” the Turk grunted in muddled Dutch.
    “Is the tavern private? I did not know.”
    “I did not say it was. I did not say it wasn’t. I only asked who you are.”
    “I’m not sure my name will mean anything to you. I am Miguel Lienzo.”
    The Turk nodded. “Senhor Alferonda’s friend. You may come in. Senhor Alferonda’s friends will always find themselves welcome here.”
    Senhor Alferonda’s friend? Miguel had no idea that Alferonda had even heard of coffee, but apparently he was well known among the Mohammedans. Miguel followed the Turk into the building, hardly more impressive on the inside than the outside. Rough chairs and tables sat on a damp earth floor. At once he was overwhelmed by the scent of coffee, far more intense and pungent than what he had smelled at Geertruid’s cousin’s tavern. On a half dozen or so benches sat an odd assortment of men: Turks in turbans, seafaring Dutchmen, a hodgepodge of foreigners—and one Jew. Alonzo Alferonda sat conversing with a tall Turk in faded blue robes. He whispered something as Miguel approached, and the Turk departed.
    Alferonda stood to greet Miguel, though standing only emphasized his shortness. He was a rounded fellow with a wide face and large eyes hidden behind a thick beard of slightly graying black. Miguel could scarce believe there were many men who trembled before this pudgy face. One night they had walked together after drinking at a tavern near the docks. A pair of thieves had leapt from an alley, knives brandished, set to take their purses. One look at Alferonda, and they scurried away like frightened cats.
    “I was surprised you asked to meet here,” Alferonda said. “I had no idea you had any taste for coffee.”
    “I might say the same of you. I’ve only just learned of it. I wanted to see what a coffee tavern would be like.”
    Alferonda gestured for them to sit. “It is not much, but they obtain good fruit, and the demand is low enough that they rarely run out.”
    “But supplies are sometimes short?”
    “They can be.” The usurer studied Miguel. “Coffee is controlled by the East India Company, and as there is not much demand in Europe, the Company doesn’t import a great quantity. It mostly trades the fruit in the East. What do you care about the supplies?”
    Miguel ignored the question. “I’d forgotten you’d lived in the Orient. Of course you know coffee.”
    He opened his hands wide. “Alferonda has lived everywhere and has connections everywhere, which is why you seek him out.”
    Miguel smiled at the hint. “You have information?”
    “Excellent information.”
    Miguel had asked Alferonda to inquire into a rumor he’d overheard regarding Parido’s involvement in an impending whale-oil trade. He’d been hesitant to pursue this affair; it would be dangerous to oppose the
parnass
in matters of business. Still, Miguel only sought information, he told himself. He needn’t act on it.
    “You were certainly right about Parido,” Alferonda began. “He has a spy inside the East India Company.”
    Miguel raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought that beyond even his ambition.”
    “The Company is not so powerful as it would have you believe. Gold works for Company men as it does for everyone else. Parido has learned