“What was that, Master?”
Arnau turned angrily toward Guillem. He could not bear being called that.
“What appearances do we have to keep between the two of us?” he growled. “Nobody can hear or see us.”
“Keep in mind that since you’ve become a money changer, a lot of people are listening and watching you without your realizing it. You have to get used to the idea.”
That same morning, while Arnau wandered along the beach among the boats looking out to sea, Guillem investigated who the owners of the house were. As he had thought, it was the Church. The emphyteutas had died: who better than a money changer to take their place?
That afternoon, they visited the house. The upper floor contained three small rooms. They would furnish two, one for each of them. The ground floor was made up of a kitchen, with a door to what must once have been a small vegetable patch, and, on the other side of a partition, an airy room in which over the next few days Guillem installed a wardrobe, several lanterns, and a long hardwood table, with two chairs behind it and four in front.
“Something’s missing,” said Guillem, and left the room.
Arnau was left sitting alone at what was to be his money-changing table. The long wooden surface shone where he had polished it time and again. He ran his fingers over the backs of the two chairs.
“Choose where you’d like to sit,” Guillem had told him.
Arnau chose the right-hand chair, the one that would be to the left of any future clients. Guillem changed the seats around: to the right he placed an elegant chair with arms, covered in red silk; his own was of less expensive cloth.
Arnau surveyed the otherwise empty room. It was so strange! Only a few months earlier, he had spent his days unloading boats, and now ... He had never before sat in such a wonderful chair! His ledgers were piled up at one end of the table; unused parchment, Guillem had assured him when they purchased them. They also bought quills, inkwells, a balance, several money chests, and a large pair of shears for cutting fake coins.
Guillem took from his purse more money than Arnau had ever seen in his life.
“Who is paying all that?” he asked.
“You are.”
Arnau raised his eyebrows and stared at the purse hanging from Guillem’s belt.
“WOULD YOU LIKE it?” asked the Moor.
“No,” replied Arnau.
In addition to all the things they purchased, Guillem had brought one of his own: a fine abacus with a wooden frame and ivory counters that Hasdai had given him. As he sat, Arnau picked it up and moved the counters from one side to another. What had Guillem told him? The Moor had flicked the counters one way and another, calculating rapidly. Arnau had asked him to show him more slowly, and Guillem had obediently tried to explain how an abacus worked, but... Arnau could not remember the essentials.
He put the abacus down and decided to tidy the table. The ledgers should go opposite his chair—no, better put them in front of Guillem. He would be the one making the entries. The money chests could go on his side; the shears could too, a bit farther away; the quills and the inkwells next to the account books, alongside the abacus. Who else was going to use them?
He was still busy sorting all this out when Guillem reappeared.
“What do you think of it?” Arnau asked him, smiling and showing him all he had done with the table.
“Very good,” said Guillem, smiling back at him, “but that way we will never get any clients, least of all any willing to place their money with us.” Arnau’s face fell. “Don’t worry. There’s only one thing missing. That’s what I went to buy.”
Saying this, Guillem handed him a cloth. Arnau carefully unrolled it: it was a rug of the most expensive scarlet silk, with golden threads round the edges.
“This,” said the Moorish slave, “is what you need on your table. It is the public sign that you have fulfilled all the official requirements and that your countinghouse has been underwritten with the city magistrate for a thousand silver marks. There are severe penalties for anyone who keeps a rug of this kind without proper authorization. Unless you are able to display one, nobody will deposit any money with you.”
FROM THEN ON, Arnau and Guillem devoted themselves to the new business. As Hasdai Crescas had advised, the former bastaix first spent some time learning the basics of the profession.
“The first thing a money changer must be good at,” said Guillem as they both sat behind the table, keeping an eye open to see if anyone was venturing inside, “is exchanging different kinds of money.”
With that he stood up, walked round the table, and dropped a bag of money in front of Arnau.
“Look closely,” he said, taking a coin out of the purse. “Do you recognize it?” Arnau nodded. “It’s a Catalan silver croat. They are minted in Barcelona, only a short distance from here ...”
“I’ve only ever had a few in my purse,” said Arnau, “but I’ve carried a lot more on my back. It seems the king trusts only the bastaix to transport them.”
Guillem smiled and agreed. He dipped his hand into the purse again.
“And this,” he said, taking out another coin and placing it alongside the first one, “is a gold florin from Aragon.”
“I’ve never had any of them,” said Arnau, picking it up and admiring it.
“Don’t worry, you’ll have lots.” Arnau stared at him, but the Moor merely nodded slightly. “This is an old Barcelona coin, the tern.” Guillem put this third coin on the table, and before Arnau could say anything more, he continued pulling out different coins. “Traders use many different kinds of currencies, and you have to be able to recognize them all. There are ones the Muslims use: bezants, mazmudinas, and gold bezants.” Guillem lined one of each of them up in front of Arnau. “Then there are French tournois, the Castillian gold doblas, the gold florins
