by David Liss
After the meal, in the best English fashion, we four gentlemen retired to a private chamber with a bottle of wine. Adelman, on several occasions, attempted to discuss affairs of business with my uncle, who made it clear that he would not talk of these things on the Sabbath. Sarmento again turned the conversation to the rumors of another Jacobite uprising here in England. The topic of the followers of the deposed King was of interest to my uncle, and he had much to say. I listened intently, but I blush to own I did not follow politics very closely, and many points were lost upon me.
Adelman, whose interests were so clearly tied to the success of the current dynasty, dismissed the Jacobites as a mindless rabble, and condemned the Pretender as a Popish tyrant. My uncle nodded in mute agreement, for Adelman had merely encapsulated Whiggish sentiment. But Sarmento hung on Adelman’s every word, praising his ideas as those of a philosopher and his words as those of a poet.
“And what of you, sir?” Sarmento turned to me. “Have you no thoughts on these Jacobites?”
“I concern myself so little with matters of politics,” I said, meeting his gaze. I believed his question was not about my political views, but how I should respond to his boldness.
“Surely you are not a detractor of the King?” Sarmento pushed on.
I could not guess his game, but in this era in which rebellion always threatened the Crown, this was more than mere idle chatter. A public accusation of Jacobitical sympathies could ruin a man’s reputation—perhaps even result in an arrest by the King’s Messengers. “Must one who is not an active supporter be a detractor?” I inquired carefully.
“I am sure,” my uncle volunteered hurriedly, “that my nephew has raised a bumper many times to the King.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “though I confess that when I drink to the King’s health it is more often for the sake of the drinking than the King.”
My uncle and Adelman both laughed politely, and I thought my quip should tire Sarmento. I was mistaken. He merely took a new topic. “Tell me, sir,” he began when the laughter died down. “Who do you like—the Bank or the Company?”
The question confused me, and I suspected it had been meant to. The matter of this financial rivalry was of some interest to me, for I knew Old Balfour to have made investments based upon his notions of this competition, but I so little understood the terms of these companies’ antagonisms that I could hardly think of how to answer. Any pretense on my part that I understood the topic should only expose me as a fool, so I spoke plainly. “Who do I like for what?”
“Do you believe the Treasury is best served by the Bank of England or the South Sea Company?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if giving commands to a half-witted servant.
I offered him my most polite smile. “I was not aware that a man should find himself required to takes sides.”
“Oh, not everyone, I suppose. Only men of means and business must.”
“Must they?” my uncle inquired. “Cannot a man of business simply observe the rivalry without taking sides?”
“But you take sides, do you not, sir?” His question, as a clerk addressing his employer, struck me as impertinent, but if my uncle took offense he showed no sign of it. He merely listened to Sarmento palaver on. “Has not your family always believed that the Bank of England should maintain its monopoly on funding government loans? Have I not heard you argue that the South Sea Company should not be permitted to compete with the Bank for this business?”
“You know, Mr. Sarmento, that I do not wish to discuss such issues on the Sabbath.”
He bowed slightly. “You are quite right, sir.” He turned to me again. “You, sir, feel no such restriction, I suppose. And as all men of business and means must have an opinion, may I assume that you have one that you are only hesitant to share?”
“Tell me who you like, sir, and perhaps I shall have a model that I might emulate.”
Sarmento smiled, but not at me. He turned to Mr. Adelman. “Why, I like the South Sea Company, sir. Particularly when it is in such capable hands.”
Adelman bowed slightly. “You know full well that we Jews may not invest in the Companies. Your assertions, while flattering, may perhaps do my reputation some harm.”
“I only repeat what is spoken of in every coffeehouse. And no one thinks less of you for your interest in these matters. You are a patriot, sir, of the highest order,” Sarmento continued in his dull voice, which poorly matched the passion of his words. “For while the nation’s finances are protected by men such as the South Sea directors, we need little fear uprisings and riots.”
Adelman appeared unable to think of a response, and merely bowed again, so my uncle stepped in, no doubt hoping to move our conversation away from matters of business, and he announced that for the second time in almost as many years the churchwardens of the parish had elected him to the office of Overseer of the Poor. This revelation produced a hearty laugh from Adelman and Sarmento that I did not understand.
“Why should they elect you to this office, Uncle? Does it not involve attending church services each Sunday?”
All three men laughed, but only Sarmento laughed with hearty pleasure at my ignorance. “Aye,” my uncle agreed. “It means attending the Church on the Christian Sabbath, and it means swearing a Christian oath upon a Christian Bible. They do not appoint me because they wish me to perform the duties of the office. They elect me because they know I shall refuse to do so.”
“I confess I do not understand.”
“It is but a way to generate revenue,” Adelman explained. “Your uncle, he cannot perform the duties they have honored him with, so he must pay a fine of five pounds for refusing. It is common for the churchwardens to appoint many Jews in the course of a year—even poor Jews. They know that others will find the money to pay the fine. In this way they raise much money.”
“Can you not complain?”
“We pay many taxes,” my uncle explained. “You were born here, so you are free of the alien taxes, but Mr. Adelman and I are not. And though we have both received denizenship of Parliament, our taxes are still much higher than those of freeborn Britons. This appointment is but another tax, and I pay it quietly. I save my complaints for issues of importance.”
We conversed for another hour on a variety of topics until Adelman stood abruptly and announced that he must return home; I used his departure as the excuse for my own. Prior to my leaving, however, my uncle took me aside. “You are angry.” His eyes glowed with a strange warmth, as though he had forgotten the anger he had felt toward me at my father’s funeral, as though there had been no rift between me and my family.
“You broke your promise,” I said.
“I have only delayed it. I said I would talk to you after dinner. I did not say how long after. Come to the synagogue for prayers tomorrow morning. Spend the rest of the Sabbath with your family. When the sun goes down, I shall tell you what you want to know.”
I hardly knew how to respond or even how his offer affected me. “Uncle Miguel, time is not a luxury I possess. I cannot simply spend my day praying and making idle chatter.”
He shrugged. “That’s my price, Benjamin. But”—he smiled—“it is a one-time cost. I shall make no further demands on you, even if you need information weeks from now, or months.”
I knew I could not persuade him; he would let his own brother’s murderer run free rather than back down once he’d made up his mind. And I must say I liked the idea of spending the afternoon with Miriam, so I agreed to meet him the next morning.
Adelman and I stepped out the door together, and I was struck by the opulence of his gilt carriage, which was parked outside my uncle’s home. Upon seeing his master, a boy of perhaps fourteen years and a brownish complexion—East Indian, I guessed—dressed in a gaudy red-and-gold livery, opened the door and stood like a statue.
“Lienzo”—Adelman grabbed my arm with a practiced congeniality—#8220;may I drop you off somewhere? You live in Covent Garden, do you not?”
; I bowed to show my acceptance and thanks.
I admit that this confinement in so small a space with a man of Adelman’s prominence made me uneasy, for if my trade often placed me in the company of great men, it rarely did so under such circumstances. Here we were engaged, not in business, but in an amicable ride across town.
As the carriage lurched forward, Adelman drew the curtains along the windows, enveloping us in near-complete darkness. He kept silent for some time, and I could think of no way to begin a conversation, so I remained still, feeling the wheels of the carriage roll over the unforgiving London roads. Each time I shifted in my seat, the noise I made seemed distractingly loud. I could hear nothing from across the carriage where Adelman sat.
Finally he cleared his throat, and I believe he took a pinch of snuff. “I understand,” he began, “you have had a visit from a Mr. Balfour.”
“You astonish me, sir.” I nearly shouted in my surprise. I own that I felt a shiver run down my spine. There was nothing in Adelman’s voice, you understand, to make me fearful. He maintained his polished and measured Germanic tone. There was, however, something in the question itself—in the knowledge that produced the question. What could a man of Adelman’s stature know or care of these matters? I regretted that in the darkness I could learn nothing of his face, though I suspect he was too well practiced in his expressions to have offered me any information on that front. I too could mask my feeling, however. “I cannot express my shock at learning that my dealings should attract your notice,” I told him with utter calm.
“You are part of an important family, Mr. Lienzo.”
“I go by the name of Weaver,” I told him.
“I meant no disrespect,” he explained quickly. “I thought perhaps it was a name you used only when you fought.” He paused for a moment. “I shall be blunt with you. I admire you, sir. I admire that you have decided to abandon the ancient suppositions of our race and make your way on your own. Pray, don’t misunderstand me. I respect your uncle to a prodigious degree, but I find his clinging to rites and rituals a dangerous hindrance to our people. You, on the other hand, have shown Englishmen everywhere that Jews are not to be mocked or laughed at. Your exploits in the ring are legendary. Even the King, sir, knows your name.”
I bowed in the darkness. He spoke the truth when he said I had turned my back on the rites and rituals of my people, yet I found his celebration of this neglect made me uneasy. Perhaps because I had always viewed my neglect of matters religious something born of idleness, where he saw it as liberated philosophy. “You honor me with your words,” I said after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “But I am unsure what all this has to do with Mr. Balfour, nor why my business with him should interest you, sir.”
“Yes, you are a man of business. I delight in a man of business. Let me say, Mr. Weaver, that I was saddened to hear of the death of your father, but the admiration I felt for him does not make me see what is not there. His death was a tragic accident; nothing more. I knew Michael Balfour as well. He was a good man, I should guess. Good enough, at any rate. But like his son, Balfour was weak. He made mistakes in his dealings, and he could not salvage himself nor face the consequences of his ruin. To the untrained eye, the fact that two men of business who were friends died so short a time apart may appear to be strange, but there is nothing to connect them. Tell me,” he said with a theatrical change of voice, “what has Balfour offered you to pursue this matter?”
I told him the nature of our agreement.
He let out a brief laugh, rather like a bark. “You will receive no money—I doubt that he can produce twenty farthings, let alone pounds. His estate, you know, cannot be recovered. Balfour lost all, and it is no secret that his mother has naught but contempt for her son. You will earn nothing for your time, sir, but the enmity of powerful men who do not like to see someone meddling in their affairs. As it happens, I may be in a position to offer you an alternative. Your skills have not gone unnoticed, and your discretion is as commented upon as your cunning. These are rare qualities, and there are many men—in the South Sea Company, in Parliament, in the Court itself—who would be glad to have at their disposal a man of your talents. What say you, Mr. Weaver, do you wish to place this unpleasantness behind you? These men I know can make your fortune.”
I pretended not to find his offer intriguing. “What you propose is undeniably generous,” I said, “but I am still uncertain why you are interested in my business with Balfour or why you should like me to cease perusing the matter.”
“The matter is a delicate one. To begin with, I would not want to see any stench stirred up in regard to our people. Should the newspapers get wind of your search, I fear it should reflect badly upon the Jews of England, and that is bad for all of us—rabbis, brokers, and pugilists alike, yes? The second reason is that the South Sea Company involves itself in some exceedingly complex renegotiations of the dispersal of public funds. I cannot go into detail, but suffice it to say that we are concerned about the high rate of interest on the funded national debt, and we are in the process of convincing Parliament to proceed with measures to aid in lowering the interest, thus freeing the nation of a terrible financial burden. Our plan cannot work if people lose confidence in a web of credit that most find befuddling. Any public suspicion that there is some connection between Balfour’s death and the funds would harm us irrevocably. If the people believe that the funds are rife with murder and intrigue, then I am afraid we shall fail in our plans to ease the national burden of debt, and you, sir, will have cost your King and your Kingdom, quite literally, millions of pounds.”
“I should not like to do such harm,” I said cautiously, “but there is still the matter of Balfour’s concerns. He believes that these deaths are not what they appear, and I believe that I must look further into that matter.”
“You will only be squandering your time and harming your Kingdom.”
“But surely you can accept the possibility that these deaths are more than coincidence.”
“I cannot,” he told me with utter confidence.
“Then how do you explain the fact that Balfour’s own clerk cannot account for the ruin of the estate?”
“Matters of credit and finance are, even to those who make their livings in dealing with them, fantastical, unfathomable things,” he explained in a sharp tone, no longer so polished and friendly. “They are, to most men, on the order of the supernatural rather than the physical. I daresay there is hardly a broker in England, if his death was unexpected, whose papers would not reveal themselves to be inextricably tangled and appear to be lacking.”
“Mr. Balfour’s death was not unexpected,” I observed. “Not to himself, if his death was indeed self-murder.”
“Balfour is hardly a valid example. He took his own life, which proves his inability to order his own affairs. Come, Mr. Weaver, let us not prove our Christian neighbors correct about us by being overly rabbinical in our examination of these things.” He handed me his card. “Forget this Balfour nonsense, and come visit me at Jonathan’s. I shall provide you with introductions to men who will make you rich. Besides,” he said, with a smile I could sense even in the darkness of the coach, “it will save you the trouble of spending the morning in the synagogue with your uncle.”
I politely thanked Adelman as the coach came to a halt outside Mrs. Garrison’s house. “I shall, sir, give this very serious consideration.”
“It should require but little,” he said. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weaver.”
I stood and watched the coach drive away, considering his offer in my mind. Perhaps it would be a wonderful thing if I were the sort of man who could dismiss with ease what Adelman had proposed, but the thought of serving such men as he knew had a powerful allure. All he asked in return for his favors was that I not trouble his business, and what objection could I offer to abandoning an inquiry into the death of a father for whom I could recall no fondness?
I turned toward Mrs. Garrison’s house an
d entered into the warmth of her front hall, but somehow, before I reached the top of the staircase, I had dismissed Mr. Adelman’s offer forever. I could not say if it was because I did not relish the idea of dealing perpetually with men like Adelman, men who believed their wealth gave them not only influence and power, but also a kind of innate superiority to men such as myself. I could not say if it was because there was something compelling in the unexpected ease I had known in the presence of my uncle and aunt, or the displeasure I felt at the notion of severing a connection with a household wherein lived my cousin’s lovely widow. Perhaps it was a combination of these, but I understood before I had even struck a single candle that my duty was clear.
It might be an awkward thing having to tell Mr. Adelman of my decision, but it then occurred to me that I should be surprised if my inquiry brought me again into contact with so busy a man. At that time I could not have even guessed how intricately his affairs would intertwine with my own.
NINE
IT WAS WITH ambivalent feelings that I met my uncle the next morning and proceeded to the Bevis Marks synagogue. Perhaps I should mention that not all Jews are so nice in their observation of the Sabbath as my uncle. Some are far more observant, of course, but an even greater number care little for this day of the week or that. Even my uncle’s short beard was thought by many Jews to be of ill fashion, for it was something of a truism that any Jew with a beard upon his face was either a rabbi or a recent immigrant.