The Origin of Sorrow (15 page)

“I know one way. When I lie awake at night, I don’t spend my time undressing Guttle Schnapper.”

“You don’t?”

“Not until recently.”

At once, Meyer feared he’d misspoken, that he might have wounded his friend. But Yussel just grinned. He evinced no jealousy. This was one of the advantages of the Judengasse. With people living almost inside each other’s shoes, the worst indulgences of the heart — envy, jealousy — had to be smothered quickly. Still, the mention of Guttle created a silence between them, until Yussel spoke. “I’m loathe to say this, but maybe you shouldn’t be so ambitious about making a fortune.”

“Why not?”

“There are thirty thousand people in Frankfurt. Ten times as many as there are Jews in the lane. Almost all of them are Lutherans. Including those in power.”

“The rancid monk has been dead two hundred years.”

“But not his diatribes. You want to know what’s behind what we saw in the courtroom? I can lend you one of his books.”

“That pleasure I’ll skip. The way I look at it, they hate a Jew whether he’s poor or rich. So I might as well be rich.”

“Rich, you never know what they might do to you.”

“Rich, you never know what I might do to them.”

Yussel wiped the sweat from his forehead, rubbed his hand on his breeches. “It’s impossible to talk to you.”

“We’re talking, aren’t we? What’s impossible, maybe, is convincing me.”

Yussel smiled the smile of the eternally resigned. He made coffins, after all. Meyer shifted his position on the cobbles, extended a leg in front of him. The spring mud of the lane had long since dried into fine dust, and coated the cobbles with its paleness. A small cloud rose at his feet, like gnats. As the dust settled back, they saw at the northern gate the thin figure of the rag dealer, returning from town. Perhaps, unconsciously, that’s who they had been waiting for.

“Ephraim Hess!” Yussel called out. “Back so soon? Come tell us what happened at the trial.”

The rag dealer was happy to be summoned by these gentlemen, to be a bearer of information they did not have. “It was quick. There was only one witness. The Gentile who was robbed. He swore it was him. Said this Rafe Isaacs robbed him of five gulden.

“And the verdict?” Yussel asked.

“Guilty, of course.”

“Why ‘of course’?”

“A Gentile’s word against a Jew’s.”

“He may well be guilty, Jew or not,” Meyer said. “What did they fine him?”

“No fine.”

“No fine? Then the oath was worse than the sentence.”

“They’re going to hang him.”

Meyer and Yussel quit drawing breaths.

“Hang him?” Yussel asked. “For stealing five gulden?”

“He’s a Jew,” the rag dealer repeated.

“A Jewish thief,” Meyer said. “Not a good marriage.”

“The way the Gentiles see it, murder is only a crime against the person you kill. But robbery — that’s a threat to all who own property.”

From across the lane the rag dealer’s young wife, Eva, came to greet her husband. She was holding the baby Solomon.

“This … deed … of supreme justice,” Meyer said, selecting his words with care so as not to upset Eva. “Did they say when they will carry it out?”

“During the Fair. In the Town Square. They want to set an example.”

The baby gagged. Eva patted his back until he burped.

Guttle had to press against the wall and slide sideways to get through the alley that led to the Hinterpfann, which had become the most colorful place in the lane, clogged with bolts of silk and cotton piled high on wooden pallets to keep them from touching the ground. Meyer’s two brothers, Kalman and Moish, were adding more bolts to the piles. In anticipation of good sales at the Fair, they had imported from England more textiles than the house could hold. The alley was covered by an overhang, but still they hoped the weather didn’t break into rain before they moved their stock. Dry goods didn’t sell well wet.

Greeting the brothers, Guttle admired the fabrics, fingering the edges of a bright green silk, a beige silk, a burgundy. Any number she would have loved to shape into blouses, or have Dvorah’s mother turn into a stunning dress — not that she had occasion to wear a stunning dress. Leaving the silks, she entered the house and found more fabric piled high on the office table. Two carrying cases on the floor, she figured, must hold the coins she and Meyer would sell at the Fair.

“Is that you, Guttle?” His voice came from up the stairs. “Come up to the kitchen. We’ll write the letter here.”

She had never been up the steep stairs. Climbing slowly, lifting her beige cotton skirt so she would not step on it, she gripped the coarse rope that passed for a balustrade. Rope splinters pricked her palms; she knew that Meyer’s hands sometimes had sores from them. She found him seated at the kitchen table, on which he’d placed quills, ink, paper, like a meal for a scribe. He was reading a newspaper she did not recognize. Through an open door to the left she could see his narrow bedroom. The third and fourth floors, she knew, were occupied by Kalman, by Moish, his wife and three children, and by the Bauers. She’d heard from Meyer that the windows on the top floor were higher than the ghetto walls, and overlooked the city — but that they’d been boarded up, in accordance with Frankfurt law. Jews were not permitted to look out from their homes into the public gardens and the Christian streets. Constables made unannounced visits to make sure the laws were obeyed.

Hanging on the dingy yellow kitchen walls were blackened pots and pans. Dishes sat on a counter beside the woodstove. In a corner was a pile of newspapers higher than the table. Meyer folded the one he’d been reading and placed it on the pile.

“You look very nice today,” he said, standing. She thanked him for the compliment. Knowing she was coming here, she had worn a white blouse with lace ruffles that circled her wrists and neck. It was her favorite blouse, one she usually reserved for the High Holy Days.

“You read a lot of newspapers,” she said, looking at the pile. “Or maybe the problem is you don’t read them.”

“Oh, I read them. From Vienna, Berlin, Kassel, pretty much everywhere. The problem is that when they get here they’re three weeks old. I need to get them sooner. For the latest exchange rates.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“All the money changers in the lane, do you know what they do?”

“Not really.” She only knew that Viktor’s father was one.

“You’ll see it at the Fair. We’ll be doing it as well. To buy anything in Frankfurt, you have to use Frankfurt money. Kreuzer, gulden. But every little town and principality mints it’s own money. When people come to Frankfurt, they have to change their money in order to shop. Ducats, carolins, thalers, louis d’ors. Everything. The money changers do that. They charge a fee, of course, that’s how they stay in business. But there’s another way they can make a profit. Let’s say they know what the exchange rate is for guldens in Hanau. If they give a traveler ten guldens for a certain amount of Hanau coins, and then go to Hanau and get eleven guldens back for the same coins, that’s a nice profit.”

“Let’s write the letter,” Guttle said.

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to bore you with business.” He pulled a chair out for her.

“You weren’t boring me.” As she sat she had her back to him. “Special couriers.”

“What did you say?”

“Special couriers. If you don’t want to wait for the newspapers, you could pay couriers in each town to ride here with the latest exchange rates. You’d have them ahead of anyone else.”

Meyer tapped her temple lightly with his curled index finger. “You’ve got a head for business. I’ve been thinking about that very idea. Set up a relay system of our own couriers. Perhaps in time for next year’s Fair. Depending on what it would cost.”

She pulled up the sleeve on her right hand, to protect her lace cuffs. She lifted a quill and dipped it in the ink. “Shall we begin?”

Meyer became flustered. She seemed impatient to be done and leave his company. He did not know why. Clearly she had worn a special blouse to come see him. And her hair down over her shoulders, freshly washed and lustrous in the lamplight. Maybe she was going to see someone more important afterwards. Viktor Marcus, perhaps. He’d noticed the Cantor’s eyes undressing her at every opportunity.

He did not like the thought. He could not help focusing on her shapely wrist with its small wrist bone. He picked up his scrawled notes and began to dictate the letter slowly, while Guttle wrote.

“It has been my particular and high fortune to make several deliveries to Your Lofty Princely Serenity … ”

Guttle turned to look at him. “Your Lofty Princely Serenity?”

“Just write, bitte. I know what I’m doing.”

She shrugged, returned to her writing as he continued.

“ … to Your Highest gracious satisfaction. I now stand ready to exert all my energies and my entire fortune to serve Your Lofty Princely Serenity … “

She looked at him again. “More lofty serenity? Isn’t that a bit obsequious?”

“You don’t know these nobles, Guttle. They thrive on obsequious. Write, bitte.”

“ … whenever in the future it shall please You to Command me. A special and powerful incentive to this end would be given me if Your Lofty Princely Serenity … ”

This time she set down her quill in protest, and turned. “How lofty do you plan to make him?”

“Lofty enough so he can look down from his high perch and see a Jewish supplicant. Which is how he sees the world. Which, unfortunately, is how the world is.”

She frowned, but resumed writing, dipping her quill carefully into the ink.

“ … deigned to grace me with an appointment as Court Factor.”

She inhaled sharply, bit back a smile. And kept writing.

“I make bold to raise this request in the conviction that by so doing I am not giving any trouble.”

He finished with the necessary salutations, leaned over her and signed the document. Carefully she wiped the quills on a bit of cloth. She stood to stretch her muscles.

“That’s exciting, Meyer Amschel. Do you think he’ll do it?”

“We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Is that like being a Court Jew, like my father?”

“Not exactly. But it’s the first step. Wilhelm has bought a number of antique coins from me. He’ll inherit a huge fortune from his father some day. He’ll need someone who knows how to invest that money.”

“He doesn’t mind that you’re a Jew?”

“Most of the Princes don’t seem to. They know we’re good at business.”

Pulling down her sleeve, she looked at him, hesitated. She seemed to be struggling with something within herself. He saw this, and waited. Finally, she spoke. “Meyer Amschel, can I ask you something I shouldn’t?”

Meyer tried to clear his throat. It remained dry. “If you shouldn’t ask me, maybe you shouldn’t ask me.”

She looked at the floor — it could use a sweeping — then at him again. “But I want to.”

“Then I imagine you’re going to.”

“I suppose I am. Are you planning to ask my father something any time soon?”

He frowned. So that’s why she seemed irritable. He went to the counter and poured water into a glass from a pitcher. He drank. It wasn’t very cold. Nothing remained cold in this heat.

“Guttle, that’s not the way it works. You know that. With my father dead, your father has to come to me.” He’d been about to say, “with an offer.” He swallowed those words in time.

“But how will he get the idea?”

“Oh, he’s already got the idea.”

“But when? Maybe I should ask him.”

“Don’t do that, Guttle. Be patient. Your father needs to know he’s in control. That he makes the choice. Besides … ” He paused.

“Besides what?”

“Be patient till the Fair is over. If the Prince makes me a Court Agent … ”

“Then my father will be impressed by your prospects!”

“Let’s just say it wouldn’t hurt.”

“You’re a sly one, Meyer Rothschild.” She came to him and put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his chest.

“Is that bad? Being sly?”

“I like sly,” she murmured.

He nuzzled his nose into her hair. The fragrance, the pliancy, offered sweet promise.

Footsteps resounded on the stairs. Guttle pulled away.

The doorway was dark. The footsteps grew louder. The boards creaked, the rope squealed. She thought of fairy Gentiles told their children. Of hungry giants coming up the stairs. Which she’d been forbidden by her mother to repeat. Which she used to tell Avra in their bed at night till Avra peed from fright. Which Avra no doubt was telling the little ones.

A sweating figure filled the doorway. It was only Kalman, seeking a drink of water.

Guttle had been holding her breath. She turned to Meyer. His face was a comfort. “How long will it take for the Prince to receive the letter?” She could tell he had been watching her.

“It’s hard to say. You can never predict the post.”

Mischief lit her eyes. With splayed fingers she lifted her dark locks high above her head, with all that did to stretch taut her torso, her blouse, and she said, with the most charming air of innocence she could muster, “Maybe you could send a courier.”