An eager buyer was just what he needed, a gift from the heavens. To be rid of this new debt would surely be a sign that the tide of his misfortune had turned. Could he really believe that his enemy had, out of the goodness of his heart, decided to present the solution to Miguel’s most urgent problem? Where could he produce a buyer for these futures, futures that the world knew would only bring debt to their owner?
“I cannot imagine that any man, French or otherwise, would be mad enough to buy my brandy holdings when the market has turned against them. The value of brandy won’t much change in the few days between now and the monthly reckoning.” Unless, Miguel thought, a trading combination plotted to manipulate the price. More than once Miguel had lost when he thought he saw a new trend in prices and only later learned that he had become the victim of a combination’s plot.
“The price may change and it may not.” Parido shrugged. “It should be enough that he is willing to buy something of which you’d like to be rid.”
Before he could respond to the proposal, Miguel heard his name called out and saw it was a boy with bright orange hair and blotchy skin. The unsightly fellow waved a letter and shouted the name Lienzo again, in a voice more loud than shrill. Miguel called him over and offered him a coin for the letter. He recognized the hand at once as Geertruid’s. He took a step backwards before tearing it open.
Senhor,
I hope all fares well with you on the Exchange, but any profits you might make for yourself are but a mere shadow of the wealth that the fruit of the coffee tree can offer you. While you attend to your daily business, let the spirit of this marvelous berry animate your mind and increase your profits. I write these words only in the capacity of one who is your friend.
Geertruid Damhuis
Parido smiled thinly. “It looked to me like a woman’s hand. I hope you aren’t allowing yourself to be distracted by intrigues during hours meant for business. You’re an amorous fellow, but these gates open only two hours each day.”
Miguel returned the false smile. “There’s no intrigue here. It is nothing of consequence.”
Parido scratched at his nose. “Then let’s do something that is of consequence. We’ll find this merchant I know and see if we can’t set things right.”
They forced their way to the south end of the Exchange, where brandy changed hands. Some traders came to fill orders or to sell what their ships brought into port, but increasingly men bought calls and puts and futures, trading in goods they never sought to own and would never see. It was the new way of doing things, turning the Exchange into a great gaming pit where outcome was determined not by chance but by the needs of the markets around the world.
In his earlier days, Miguel had believed he possessed an uncanny ability to predict those needs. He had enjoyed connections among the most influential West Indian merchants and had been able to acquire sugar at excellent prices and then sell at superior ones. The red-brick warehouses of the Brouwersgracht had been bursting with his acquisitions, and all of the Exchange knew Miguel as the man to see for sugar. But then fortune had taken Miguel by surprise, and now all that sugar was washed away.
Toward the corner where men bought and sold brandy, Parido introduced Miguel to a stunted little Frenchman-no taller than a child-with a sad fleshy face and a nose like a walnut. He wore a high ruffled collar, such as had been popular fifty years earlier, and his reddish coat had turned almost brown with Amsterdam mud.
“Never judge worthiness by the clothes,” Parido whispered, assuming his role of the great sage of the Exchange. “Fools may be tricked by baubles and bright colors, but who does not know that a chicken makes better eating than a robin?”
This Frenchman, whom Miguel would have taken for a hard-pressed fellow of the middling ranks, croaked out in his clumsy accent an interest in doing business. He thrust forth his hands in Miguel’s direction. “You are the man with the brandy futures to sell,” he said in halting Dutch. “I’d like to talk about these holdings, but do not think to be grasping with me, monsieur, or you will find you have no sale at all.”
“I always conduct business like a man of honor,” Miguel assured him. His heart knocked in his chest as he explained to the Frenchman that he was in possession of futures for 170 hogsheads of brandy. He kept his voice free of inflection, not wanting to urge his holdings on the merchant. The situation called for a lighter touch.
“That’s what you have!” The Frenchman shouted, as though Miguel had just tipped his hand. “Ha! Not so much as I thought, nor nearly so good neither. But it is worth a little something to me. Six hundred guilders is more than you can expect, but I shall pay it.”
“That is an absurd offer,” Miguel replied, and indeed it was, though not for the reasons he wished to imply. The Frenchman must be mad to enter into a deal almost guaranteed to lose money. Either that or he knew a great secret from which Miguel might profit. Still, Miguel had invested just over five hundred guilders, so the offer could not be dismissed idly; it would mean a slight profit rather than a significant loss.
“I’ll not part with them for less than six fifty,” he said.
“Then you’ll not part with them at all. I have no time for your Dutch haggling back and forth, this way and that way. We’ll make this trade or I’ll find another man and offer him the same, and he will be more grateful than you.”
Miguel smiled by way of excusing himself and led Parido a few feet away.
“Needless to say, you will take his offer,” Parido announced.
Here was the worm dangling so deliciously, and Miguel was the fish. He might well get the worm, but did he want a hook through his cheek for the trouble?
“I’m skeptical,” Miguel said, rolling his thumb and index finger together, as though feeling the air for something suspicious. “Why should he want these futures so badly? It might be wiser to hold them myself so I can profit from whatever it is he knows.”
“Profits on the Exchange are the treasures of goblins, changing from coal to diamond and back to coal once more. You must take your profits where you can find them.”
“I prefer a bolder approach,” Miguel said dryly.
“There are times for boldness and times for prudence. Think a moment. What do we know of this Frenchman? He may want those futures for a scheme of his own that can’t possibly benefit you. He may only wish to thwart an enemy by hoarding what another fellow seeks. He may be mad. He may know the price will triple in value. You cannot tell. You can only know that if you sell now you will have saved yourself a debt and even earned a little profit. That is how a fortune is made-in small pieces and with great caution.”
Miguel turned away. Few men were as well connected on the Exchange as Parido, and if he had decided that he wished to end his animosities with Miguel, this transaction could be the first step in a friendship that would help extricate him from debt. Would Parido attempt to worsen Miguel’s affairs in full view of the world? Still, Parido had been sour for nearly two years, and Miguel sensed something sinister in this new altruism.
His instincts told him to reject the offer, to hang on to these futures and see what the market offered him, but dare he follow his instincts? The thrill of being rid of the cursed futures was tempting. He could end this month with a profit. Next month he could trade in whale oil-another guaranteed gain-and begin his coffee venture. He might at this moment be staring at a turning point in his fortune.