A Conspiracy of Paper (27 page)

“There is a matter I must discuss, Mr. Weaver. I know not how to account for the generosity you showed in sending me so enormous a sum, and I do not wish to insult you, but considering the accompanying note, I believe there has been some small error. Your letter suggested that I had made a request of you. I cannot say how you made this error. Though I admit I am none the most sufficient in money, I am afraid I cannot accept a gift that is clearly not intended for me.”

She handed me the envelope, which I absently dropped into my pocket. “Do you mean to say,” I began incredulously, “that you sent me no note requesting this amount?”

“I fear I know not of what you speak.” She looked down to conceal the blush that spread along her face and neck. “I sent no note.”

I had been dealing with thieves and felons too long not to know when someone unpracticed in the art ineptly attempted a lie. Miriam now had reasons for not wishing to accept the money of me, and I would not press her to say why, or act as though I misbelieved her.

“I am greatly sorry to have caused such an embarrassment. I fear some prankster must have played a little joke upon us. We shall say no more of it.”

Miriam smiled with gratitude and told me she wished to visit the market at Petticoat Lane, but by the time Miriam and I arrived it was late for the market, and much of the best of the perishables had been taken. Consequently, the market was not bursting with activity—yet it was far from empty. Around us was a busy crowd, principally of Jewish women, who strolled from vendor to vendor, examining the wares. Around us the hawkers shouted at us in Spanish, Portuguese, English, and even the language of the Tudescos—a curious mixture of Hebrew and German.

Miriam had, I was beginning to learn, a sense of purpose about her that ordered the chaos of the marketplace. She took her time, strolling from one stall to the next, examining this piece of linen or that of silk. Many of the merchants—mostly men of middle years who found themselves seduced by Miriam’s beauty—called out to her as she passed. She offered a bow to each, but stopped only where she wished to examine goods.

“Mr. Lienzo prefers that when I make purchases, I buy all I can here,” she explained to me. “He likes that the money should remain among our people.”

“He is a conscientious man,” I observed.

She said nothing at first, but there was a look of mischief in her eyes. “Too conscientious, I sometimes think. It is certainly possible to be overly nice in one’s dedication to his community, don’t you agree? If we are to be accepted in England, surely we must learn to act as the English do.”

“We shall never be accepted here,” I said with a conviction that surprised me. I did not think of myself as having strong feelings on this subject, but when she asked, I found these words flowed freely: “This is not our country. We shall never be English and our children will never be English. If we convert and join the Church of England, then our descendants shall always be known as the Jews who converted. We are what we are.”

Miriam let out a little laugh—as though I had said something witty. “For an apostate, you are certainly very concerned about these matters, Cousin.”

“Perhaps apostasy is but an opportunity to consider what is otherwise impossible to see,” I said with a shrug.

A vendor called to Miriam in Portuguese, wanting her to examine his collection of household trinkets, but she waved him off and shouted a few friendly words in his tongue. “You are probably right,” she said to me. “But even so, I think Mr. Lienzo could be a bit more”—she paused to consider her words—“a bit more English in his ways, I think. There is no need for him to wear that beard. No one else does. It only makes him look backward.”

“I disagree,” I said. “I think it shows he is his own man.”

“You are your own man,” Miriam observed, “and you wear no beard.”

I laughed. “There are many ways to show one’s independence.”

Miriam stopped again and fingered a roll of India cloth. She held it up to the light for a moment and then to her own skin. It was a bright aqua blue—just the sort of color I knew her to admire.

“It look very nice for you,” the stall-keeper told her eagerly.

“Thank you, Mr. Henriques,” she said absently. “But I’m afraid I can ill afford it.”

“I take you credit,” he said eagerly.

Miriam looked at me for an instant. Perhaps owing to the nature of her original, and now-disavowed, request, she had no wish to have me see her take goods upon credit. She politely thanked the man and moved on.

“Do you ever wonder what I do with my time?” she asked me abruptly.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said. Indeed I did wonder, but only in the way a man does when he finds a woman attractive. The thought of her doing anything—sewing or playing upon the harpsichord or practicing French—struck me as utterly charming.

“Do you wonder what I do to keep myself occupied?”

“I suppose it is like the life of any woman of means,” I stammered, feeling somewhat foolish. “You take lessons in order to become accomplished in music and painting and languages. You learn to dance. You make social visits. You read.”

“Only those books that are acceptable for young ladies, of course,” Miriam said as we avoided a group of children who ran through the market paying no attention to the people or things with which they collided.

“Of course,” I agreed.

“I think you have a superior understanding of the typical day of a woman of means,” she said. “What is a typical day like for you, Benjamin?”

I almost stopped walking. “How do you mean?” I asked foolishly.

“In a typical day, what do you do? Surely it cannot be such a difficult question. I have asked Mr. Lienzo about his affairs, and he has given me a rather dull answer having to do with shipments and ledgers and letter-writing. I wonder if your life is less dull.”

“I don’t find it dull,” I told her cautiously.

“Then perhaps you could tell me about it.”

I could hardly do any such thing. How could my uncle ever forgive me if I told his daughter tales of beating upon prigs and hauling impecunious gentlemen to prison for their debts? “You understand that my business is to help people who require a man to find things for them,” I began slowly, “sometimes people and sometimes goods. That is what I spend my time doing—finding things.” I was rather delighted with the ambiguous way I had found to describe my activities.

She laughed. “I was hoping you would describe this process more fully. But if you feel the topic is too indelicate to discuss with a young woman, I quite understand.” A devilish smile crossed her lips. “We may talk about something else instead. Tell me—do you have plans to marry?”

I could not imagine how she had summoned the courage to ask me so improper a thing, and yet she had—and boldly too. She knew she was being indecorous, and she cared not a whit. Indeed, she took some pleasure in violating the strictest rules of polite behavior in my company. I wondered if I should take this as a sign of her favor or of her belief that I was such a ruffian that I would know no better.

“There are women I, shall we say, admire,” I told her. “But I have no marriage plans at the moment.”

“I see.” She continued to smile, taking pleasure in my discomfort. “It must be a fine thing to be a man and to go wherever you so please.”

“It is a fine thing,” I said, thrilled to think so quickly of a gallant reply, “but in the end, we only go wherever the women we admire please, so perhaps we have not the freedom you imagine.”

“I hope you will marry well, Cousin.” Her voice seemed carefully regulated. “Marry into money. That is my advice.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Advice your late husband took.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I hope you will take better care of your wife’s fortune than Aaron did of mine. I suppose he did not choose to be lost at sea, but he might have chosen not to take my independence with him. And anyone who would try to take away what little liberties I have—would he not be a villain?”

I was not sure I understood her. “Do you mean Mr. Sarmento?”

Miriam appeared prepared to respond, but then changed her mind. “I am done here,” she explained. “We may return home. I know you have business to attend to.” We began to walk toward Houndsditch. “Perhaps you could take me to the theatre one night,” she suggested.

My heart leapt at the suggestion. “I should like nothing better. Do you believe my uncle would approve of your attending the theatre with me?”

“He may not relish the idea,” she explained, “but he has permitted it in the past, provided I had protection against the dangers of that place. I believe your protection would be adequate.”

“I would certainly never let any harm befall you.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” she said.

We were not at all far from my uncle’s house, just turning upon Shoemaker Lane, when I noticed a large crowd at the end of the street. Perhaps twenty people gathered in a semicircle, hooting and laughing with what sounded to my ears like malice. I cautiously measured the composition of the crowd, which I saw to be mean and lowly.

“Miriam,” I said deliberately, “you must get to safety.” There was a milliner’s shop not one hundred feet from us on the High Street. “Go into that shop and remain there. If there is a manservant, send him for the constable.”

She screwed her face into a look of exasperation. “Surely you do not think me incapable—”

“Now!” I commanded through clenched teeth. “Get to that shop. I shall come for you in a moment.” I watched her turn away and head toward the High Street.

No citizen of London requires that I speak of the danger of the crowds of this great metropolis. There was no saying when a mob would form, but once it did, it could rain violence and terror as sure as any storm, and it could dissipate just as quickly. I had seen riots begin over almost nothing at all, such as the apprehension of a pickpocket. I had once witnessed a mob form to guard a fellow caught nabbing a watch. I cannot say why or how it began, but as it awaited the constable, the crowd began to grow violent with the fellow, tossing him back and forth as though he were a dead dog at the Lord Mayor’s Show. Out of anger and rage and frustration, this fellow struck back, laying one of his tormentors upon the ground with a mighty blow to the jaw. In retaliation, the mob jumped upon him, and someone—whose only motivation was the thrill of the act itself—found a loose piece of brick and threw it into the window of a glazier’s shop. Under these fragile conditions, the noise was as a spark to dry kindling. Men and women were grabbed and beaten at random. A house was set afire. A little boy was trampled, nearly to death. Yet, within a half an hour, the mob was gone, like a wave of locusts, leaving nothing in its wake. Even the pickpocket had disappeared.

Having been witness to London riots, I knew to approach this crowd with caution, for anything at all might inflame it. As I grew closer, I could hear applause and shrill laughter, and I saw that the circle of rioters surrounded the old Tudesco who had given me the hourglass. A large man with a shaved head, punctuated with a bushy and drooping mustache of a dazzling orange color, stood holding the old man by his beard. He appeared to be a laborer of some sort—his clothing was cheap wool, torn and stained, showing dirt and muscle though the rips in the fabric. As I moved forward, the laborer pulled hard on the old man’s beard, and the Tudesco staggered, held from the ground only by the force of the hand upon his whiskers.

“Stop!” I shouted as I pushed my way through the crowd. I could taste in the air their hatred and violence and rage. Day after day of hard and underpaid labor had left them hungry for a poor sod upon whom to exact revenge. These people might live in a different world from the men of Sir Owen’s club, but they heard the same stories. Jews corrupted the nation, taking wealth away from Englishmen, attempting to turn a Protestant country into a Jewish one. I had been told of this manner of attack, but I had never before witnessed one. Not like this. I knew these people would not think kindly of my interference, and I concentrated on hiding my fear. “Let him go,” I said to the laborer with the mustache. “If there has been a crime, send someone to fetch the constable.”

This mustachioed man complied with the first part of my command. With a malicious grin he opened his hand and the old man fell to the ground. I could see he was conscious and not terribly hurt, but he lay still as though dead. Perhaps that was what he had learned to do in Poland or Russia or Germany, or whatever barbaric nation he had fled for the safety of Britain.

“No need to get a constable,” the rude laborer told me. “We know ’ow to ’andle a thievin’ Jew.”

“What did this man do?” I demanded.

“ ’E crucified Our Lord!” the mustache shouted to the crowd, who rewarded him with cheers and laughter. Several people shouted for me to get out of the way, but both the mustache and I ignored them. “And besides that,” the ruffian continued in a much-softened voice, “ ’e tried to pick me pocket, ’e did.”

“Do you have witnesses?”

“Aye,” he said, again in his mountebank voice, “these good people. They saw it all.”

Again, laughter and cheering, now joined by shouts calling for the Jew to be tarred and feathered, crucified, have his nose slit, and, inexplicably, to be circumcised.

I held up my hand to silence the crowd, hoping my performance of authority would have some sway with them. It seemed to for a moment. “Hold with your rough music, friends,” I said. “If there is justice to be done, I’ll not stand in your way. But let me hear what the peddler says.”

I reached down and helped the man to his feet. He looked around, his eyes hard and bloodshot. I suppose I expected him to stand with quivering lips, like a child trying not to cry, but he only looked like a man out in the cold with insufficient clothing, braced against the elements, knowing he could do naught but endure them.

“Tell me the truth, old fellow,” I said. “I shall do my best to see that it goes as easy as possible with you. Did you try to pick this man’s pocket?”

He turned to me and began to speak excitedly in a language I did not understand. It took me a moment to realize that he spoke Hebrew, but with the strangest accent I had ever heard. True, had he spoken it with an orator’s clarity, I should have had some trouble understanding him, but in his frantic speech I managed to fix upon a few words:
“Lo lekachtie devar.”
I did not take a thing.