by David Liss
“You must have been terrified,” she said quietly.
“Terrified, yes. But strangely liberated. I felt as though I had been waiting for that moment all my life—the moment when I would not return to that house. And suddenly it was upon me. I resolved to take the remaining money and set out on my own. To conceal my whereabouts from him, I took upon me the name of Weaver. It was not many months later that I discovered I could earn my bread—sometimes barely that and sometimes far more than that—by doing what I loved most: fighting. I sometimes fancied I might save my money and return to him with the amount I had taken, but I always postponed this project. I had become attached to my newfound freedom, and I feared that this freedom had tainted me forever. In my mind I had already returned and been cast off, so I felt in my breast as though I had been wronged and was morally obliged to stay away. I imagine that some part of me always knew this idea to be a false one—a mere excuse, for I had never liked being beholden to the laws of our people.”
She said nothing, but her eyes suddenly locked on mine. I had uttered the words she had never dared to say aloud.
“On my own, I could eat what I liked, work when I liked, wear what I liked, spend my time with whom I liked. I let a youthful error grow, and my mistake became in my mind the appropriate response to the harsh and unforgiving treatment of an unjust father. And so I convinced myself until I received the news of his death.”
Miriam stared into her glass of wine, perhaps afraid to look at me. “Yet you stayed away even then.”
I had tried to remain detached as I told the tale; it was one I had told myself so many times that I should have been able to recount it without giving it a single thought. And yet I found myself profoundly saddened—a condition I attempted to rectify by finishing the wine in my glass. “Yes. Even then I stayed away. It is hard to change more than a decade of habit. I always believed, Miriam, that my father was an unnaturally unkind man. But it is strange. Now that I have not seen him in ten years, now that I shall never see him, I begin to wonder if it was I who was not a good son.”
“I envy you that freedom,” she said, eager to change the subject to one that would make me less pensive. “To come and go as you please. You can eat anything—speak with anyone—go anywhere. Did you eat pork? And shellfish?” She sounded at once like an excited child.
“They are but foods,” I said, curious at my desire to diminish the thrill I had felt from the freedom to eat those victuals forbidden by our law. “What signifies one kind of meat or fish over another? What signifies its method of preparation? These things only appeal because they are forbidden, only delight because of the enticement of sin.”
“Englishmen therefore do not enjoy oysters because of their flavor?” she asked skeptically.
I laughed, for I was fond of oysters. “I am not sure I mean that,” I said. “But now it is your turn to answer my questions. Let us begin with your suitor, Mr. Adelman. What think you of him?”
“He is not so much my suitor as a suitor of your uncle’s money,” she said, “And rather old besides. What is your interest in my opinion of Mr. Adelman?”
My pride would not allow me to express the depth of my interest, though I was certainly delighted to learn that Adelman was no rival. “I shared his coach with him last night, and let us say I found his conversation a bit unsettling. He struck me as a devious man.”
Miriam nodded. “He is deeply involved with politics, and many of the papers think very ill of him,” she explained to me, her cheeks ruddy with pride that she knew of these things—usually the province of men. I wondered how my uncle, who cared so little for her knowing of social amusements, felt about her reading the political papers. “Much of the hatred directed against our people,” she continued, “that you find to be so present in fashionable circles, stems in no small amount from a distrust of his influence over the Prince and the ministry. That is reason enough, to my mind, to have nothing to do with him. I should hardly relish being tied for life to a public villain, guilty or no.”
The boldness of her way of expression utterly charmed me. She understood what it would mean to marry a man like Adelman, and I could not but applaud her wish to have no part of it. “And yet my uncle appears to permit this courtship. Does he wish to see you married to Adelman?”
“That is a topic upon which he has remained unclear. I can only imagine that the idea of his son’s widow marrying another man—any man at all, I should think—must sit ill with him. Nevertheless, so near a connection to a man of Mr. Adelman’s status must prove itself a powerful motivation, but Mr. Lienzo has yet to make a case to me on Adelman’s behalf.”
“ ‘Has yet to.’ ” I repeated her words. “You think he may yet?”
“I believe that your uncle’s sentiments about his son must eventually yield to his desire to form a closer bond with Mr. Adelman.”
“And what shall you do,” I asked slowly, “should he attempt to force your hand?”
“I shall seek protection elsewhere,” she said, affecting a lightness I sensed she did not feel.
I thought it odd that Miriam said nothing of setting up her own household; that she believed her only options were the protection of some man or another. But I could find no way to press this point without offending her, so I moved on in another direction. “You say he wishes my uncle’s money, yet he is surely an enormously wealthy man.”
“True, but that is not to say he does not covet more wealth. The belief that one cannot have too much money is, I am told, one of the prerequisites of a successful man of business. And he grows older and wishes for a wife. A wife to him must bring him money, but, I suspect, she must also be a Jewess.”
“Why? Surely a man of his power could marry any of a number of Christian women if he so chose. Such things are not unheard of, and what little conversation I’ve had with Adelman suggests to me that he has no love of his own race.”
“I believe you are right.” Miriam pursed her lips and shrugged. “I suppose he could marry a Christian lady, but it would be unwise for a man in his position.”
I nodded. “Of course. His enemies fear him as a force of consuming Jewish power. Were he to marry a Christian, his inability to . . . contain himself, perhaps, would be perceived as threatening.”
“I also believe he would like to convert and become a member of the Church of England. Not that he has any religious inclinations toward that faith, but because it would be easier for him to do his business. But Adelman also recognizes, I suppose, the enmity this move would produce in both communities. And so he casts his eye upon me, a Jewess who comes with a marriage settlement and who is not tied to the ancient traditions.”
I thought about Miriam’s analysis for a moment. “If I may ask an indelicate question, may I inquire more about Adelman’s desire to acquire my uncle’s wealth? Would it not be your wealth that he would acquire upon marriage?”
She set down her glass of wine, nearly toppling it as she did so. I was sorry to have asked so awkward a question, but she had raised the point after all, and it was important to understand Adelman’s motivations.
“I have brought this question upon myself, so I should answer it with good cheer, I suppose.”
I held up my hand. “If you wish to defer, I shall in no way press you.”
“You are too good, but I shall answer. Aaron, as you know, was a factor for, not with, your uncle. When he died, he owned very little himself, really only what had been settled upon him by my parents’ estate at the time of our marriage. And much of that money had been invested in the venture that Aaron had been upon, a venture that ended disastrously, as you know. I am, myself, mistress of a very small fortune, and I owe much to your uncle’s generosity.”
I sensed something caustic in her last comment, but I did not believe this to be a topic that I might delve into any deeper than I had already. “So, my uncle has offered a settlement on your behalf to Adelman if he should marry you?” I inquired.
“He has not said so,” Miriam
explained, “but I can only speculate that is the case. Your uncle should see it as an investment to purchase such influence of Adelman. Is it true,” she asked quite suddenly, now in a less dire tone of voice, as though she had changed the topic to music or stage plays, “that your father failed to consider you in his will?”
My first instinct was to wave my hand and show my lack of concern, but I knew such a gesture to be a mere façade, and one that I did not wish to erect before this woman. Instead I nodded. “I feel no resentment. Indeed, I consider it a kindness, for had he left me any sizable estate, the guilt at my neglect would surely have been more than I could endure.” Miriam remained silent—not because she judged me harshly, but because, I believe, she did not know what to say. I attempted to turn the conversation to a topic less awkward. “And what of Mr. Sarmento?”
Her face betrayed what I took to be astonishment. “You are a very clever man, Cousin, to have noticed Mr. Sarmento’s attentions. Yes, he too is my suitor.”
“It is sometimes hard to tell if he is not, perhaps, Mr. Adelman’s suitor.”
She nodded grimly. “Yes, that is why I was surprised you noticed him in that capacity. Mr. Sarmento has expressed some interest to my uncle, but he is far more concerned with pursuing matters of business than matters of a domestic nature. Frankly, Mr. Sarmento is more puzzling and repulsive than Mr. Adelman. He is a self-interested and I think deceitful creature. So is Adelman, but at least he is involved in Court politics, and deceitfulness is, I should think, required. What excuse can Mr. Sarmento offer for scurrying about like a rodent? Frankly, I imagine he wishes to replace Aaron in Mr. Lienzo’s heart, so in that sense he is your rival as much as Mr. Adelman’s.”
I chose to ignore that jibe. “He has property enough to make his match?”
“His family is not unsuccessful. They would offer to settle him, I believe, once marriage negotiations are under way. But his family would benefit far more than yours.”
“And what does my uncle think of this rodent?”
“That he is an able man about the warehouse, that he keeps my father’s business ordered, and that, should Sarmento decide to strike off on his own, he should be difficult to replace. I do not believe this sentiment is the same as wishing to stare across a table at him at breakfast each morning for the rest of his life.”
“It is a tricky business, placing a son’s widow upon the marriage market, I suppose.”
“Indeed,” Miriam said dryly.
“And to whom do you cast your eye, may I ask?”
“To you, of course, Cousin,” she said, the words flying instantly off her tongue. I suspect she regretted her flippancy the minute she spoke, and there was a period of profoundly confusing silence in which I neither spoke nor breathed. Miriam let out a nervous laugh, perhaps suspecting she had taken too great a liberty. “Do I presume too much? We should perhaps spend two or three such afternoons thus before I may be flippant with you with impunity. I shall be serious, then. I cast my eye on no one. I am sure I am not ready to become another man’s property. I have few freedoms right now, and I do not know that I want to surrender those I have. Perhaps I desire more freedoms, and I think they should be more readily attained here than in some other man’s house.”
I said nothing for a moment, for I felt myself still hot in the face over the unexpected exposure of the pleasure I took in her company. It took some time before I finally opened my mouth to speak, but I was cut short by the arrival of my aunt and uncle, who cheerily breezed into the room, poured themselves some wine, and told us stories of their youth in Amsterdam.
TEN
THE SUN WENT DOWN, and the Sabbath was over. After dinner I retired with my uncle to his study, where we finally came to the business of discussing my father’s finances at the time of his death. Like my uncle’s private closet in his warehouse, this room was lined with ledgers and maps, but here he also kept histories, travel books, and even some memoirs—all, I suspected, important to an understanding of the places with which he traded. The walls of the room not covered with bookshelves were a distracting clutter of maps and prints he had taken from broadsheets or pulled out of inexpensive pamphlets. Almost all available wall space was covered; parts of prints and woodcuts overlapped one another. Some were pictures of important men, such as the King, or of scenes of domestic life or of trade or of a ship upon the ocean. It was a dizzying array, but Uncle Miguel took pleasure from the endless variety of images.
He sat behind a desk, and I pulled a chair up close that I might hang upon his words. I suppose because contacting my uncle had been such a difficult matter for me, and because he had delayed this meeting for a full twenty-four hours, I believed that he would have things to say that would prove tremendously illuminating.
“The problem is not that your father kept inadequate records,” my uncle began. “He kept copious records. He simply organized his information inadequately. He knew where everything was, but no one else did. It would be a project of months, maybe years, to organize his papers and then cross-examine everything against the issues in his possession at the time of his death.”
“So there is no way of learning whether or not his holdings were disordered, as Balfour claims his father’s were.”
“I fear not. At least not directly. But he was involved in something curious shortly before his death, and it is for this reason that I first became suspicious about this accident. Your father had a true gift for the funds, you know—almost a prescient ability to predict their rise and fall. He liked to discuss the funds with me—about how much this one or that was worth on the current market. I think perhaps I was the only man he could talk to and not fear I would act prematurely on his advice, and thus cause an unpredicted flux in the market. Then, shortly before he died he grew quiet and changed the subject when I asked him what he worked upon. I know that he met several times with Mr. Balfour, but Samuel never told me of their business. That the two of them should die only a day apart—I think you can see why I am suspicious.”
“If I am to make any progress in this inquiry, I must have a better sense of these issues in which he involved himself. I must confess that my father never told me much about his business, and I never cared to learn much of the doings of Exchange Alley in general. What are these funds you speak of? How do they work?”
My uncle settled into his chair, and smiled like a pedant. “The process is quite simple. If you were to find yourself in need of more ready money than you had in your possession, there would be several options open to you, such as borrowing money of a goldsmith or a scrivener. Governments, particularly when they fight wars, often find themselves short of the money they require to pay their troops, manufacture their weaponry, and so forth. In the past in this country, and even today in nations oppressed by absolute monarchs, a king could demand that his wealthy nobles ‘lend’ him money. If the king never paid the money back, there was not much these nobles could do. And once the monarch died, heirs would usually refuse to honor any predecessor’s debts.”
“So this money was not lent but extorted.”
“Precisely. And when the powerful landowners are oppressed by their monarch, it is ever a dangerous circumstance. When King William took the throne away from the villainous Papist, James II, thirty years ago, he immediately made war against the French in order to prevent that nation from gaining mastery of Europe. To pay for these wars, he used the Dutch method of raising revenues. Instead of demanding that men pay the Crown cash, he offered the opportunity to turn cash into investment. When the Kingdom wishes to pay for a war, money can be acquired by selling issues—promises to pay back a certain amount with a particular interest. If you invest one thousand pounds into an issue that promises to pay 10 percent interest, you receive one hundred pounds per year. After ten years, the government has repaid your loan, but you continue to receive an income. Now, this might be a bad investment for someone who has only a thousand pounds in the world, but if a man can spare the money, then the funds provide a regul
ar and dependable source of revenue. More dependable than land, for a landowner’s rents may fluctuate depending upon the economy of the countryside and the bounty of the harvest. Investments in the funds are guaranteed.”
“But for how long?” I inquired. “For how long does the state continue to pay out that hundred pounds a year?”
My uncle shrugged. “It depends on the issue, of course. Some are for sixteen years, some a little more, some a little less. Some issues are life annuities, so as long as the holder is alive, the interest arrives yearly.”
“But if the annuitant dies before the loan has been paid back . . .” I began.
“Then it is a good deal for the Treasury, yes.”
“Is it possible that my father was killed in order to prevent some sort of loan repayment?” I asked, though I considered such a thing unlikely. It was a poor government that murdered its lenders.
My uncle laughed softly. “It is true that King Edward the First expelled the Jews from this island because he did not wish to repay his loans, but I think that things have changed somewhat in the past five hundred years. I think it unlikely that the Treasury or its agents would be so violent in its efforts to reduce the national debt.”
“Adelman spoke to me the other night of reducing the national debt,” I noted, not intending to speak aloud.