Tsing-Boum

by Nicolas Freeling

  His peace was gone and he fidgeted about unhappily, trying to think it out. It was too bad, really. Say what she liked, he had a job in which he could respect himself. And in the three years he had had it he was a new man. What had he ever done before? A pack of rubbishy salesman jobs in Brussels, till he had had the luck to meet Conny one day, and over a drink Conny had said ‘By God this is a stroke of luck’ with a conviction not only fervent but genuine.

  Conny had found the wilderness of fields and tumbledown farm buildings. He had his first plane, and a tiny bit of money. He was giving all he had to persuade the bank to back him up, and a few business men to give him a loan. And he had worked; how he had worked. But he had to be constantly away, nourishing and watering the ‘tap roots’ as he called them, and he knew no one whom he could trust or who would work at the day-to-day unglamorous task of turning the depressing mudheap down in Limburg into an aeroclub. Laforêt was his man.

  A bad man? He had known Conny’s reputation as a barrack-room lawyer. A fiddler, shifty, dishonest; servile and insolent in turn. But a good sergeant, whom his men liked, and who could get the best out of them. A driver. And that had been in the army, and Conny was not a soldier, it was plain to see. He was a businessman, and he didn’t want to become sergeant-major – he wanted to become rich, to be respected, to carry weight. To forget all the little mean tricks and extortions to which he had been forced to resort in his frenzy to climb out of the ruck of anonymity.

  Laforêt himself got on with Conny. They both knew that in the past of the other were some not very brilliant episodes. And they disregarded it. It was as though each was determined to show the other the best that was in him. And together they had worked. It had grown to be a genuine powerful bond between them, the work that they did together. They had built the aeroclub literally brick by brick, themselves, just the two of them. Laforêt had spent weeks on end isolated in that dump, day and night, guarding the little heaps of pathetic equipment as though it were Fort Knox. And Desmet had been away nearly every day, but nearly every evening he had returned, bearing loot. A few bags of cement in the old Mercedes (they still used it to tow gliders), a mysterious wheezing junkheap lorry he had picked up for two sous and which had been cajoled and bullied into carrying sand. For concrete was what they needed before anything, since for nine months in the year the place was a bog, and neither car nor plane could manoeuvre in the clinging mud.

  Desmet used to bring supplies of anything he could pick up – a bag of potatoes or a box of oatmeal had sometimes been the only food they had. Sometimes sausage, crates of beer, great lumps of smoked meat. No matter how hard his day had been Conny would carefully wash a shirt, press a suit, polish his shoes – ready for next day. And then get his overalls on and lumber about like a bull. He was tremendously strong, and it was good to see him sweating and bawling, thundering across wobbly planks with the wheelbarrow full of liquid concrete.

  He remembered the triumph with which Conny had brought home the puttering one-horse cement mixer, the friendly architect who had drawn plans for them (he was now one of their best customers), the plumber who had advised about drainage, old Pete the mechanic who was fed up with his bankrupt Antwerp garage – he was no businessman. Old Pete wouldn’t shovel sand, but he could and did make the plane and the precious auto go, and he ate what they did, slept where they did – he was one of the team. But he, Laforêt, he had built this place, he and Conny.

  And Conny was never discouraged, never failed in his confidence, his tough gaiety, his songs and laughter, even when things had gone badly, these long evenings of the first summer when the bank withdrew support and it all seemed doomed. On Sundays he would put on his good suit and walk around like the big businessman come to see how his investment is getting on, to impress the Sunday drivers, the tourists who stopped out of curiosity and asked what was going on. He would take the plane up, just simple circuits over the field. ‘To believe that this will be a real aeroclub they’ve got to see a plane flying,’ he used to say. ‘Otherwise to them it’s just another cattleshed.’ He had taught Laforêt to fly, those summer Sundays, had brought back parachutes and harnesses fiddled heaven knew where, and they had made whitewashed circles for a jump target out by the road to give a free exhibition the moment more than half a dozen cars had parked there of a Sunday afternoon.

  He couldn’t let Conny down.

  For they had won, in the end. Conny had bought the Chevrolet (it too now towed planes and gliders) before he had got the Dodge. And before he had the Dodge he had come back with the Fiat, which was a demonstration model from a big agency, as good as new. Italian racing red, the twin carburettor high-performance model, throwing the keys to Laforêt and saying, ‘This one’s yours, cocker. You’ve been stuck here damn near two winters, as good as never going out. Now’s the moment to take off for a week. Go to Brussels and live it up a bit.’

  From that day they hadn’t looked back. There had been money in the bank. People had started coming, for lessons, flips. Conny had gone on, never looking back, never sitting still, never contented with himself. Charters, gliders, the gymnasium where the enterprising could learn jumps on the static line.

  The flat too had been Conny’s idea. He still slept in a cupboard affair behind the bar, along with the fuseboxes and the fire extinguisher, but he had insisted that Laforêt should have proper living quarters.

  ‘And this is not just to impress customers. This is needed for you. Hell, for every night I’m here there’s one I can sleep in hotels, have a proper bath, go into the restaurant and pick up a menu. You have to have something to give you self-respect.’ And the flat had been built, with its kitchen and bathroom, and the cleaning woman had been found. Laforêt drove most mornings into Hasselt to pick her up; by then she would have done the marketing, and would bring food, fresh vegetables and fruit. A wine merchant from Liège came out and stocked the bar. Conny knew how to get licences and permissions – never once were they held up with administrative paperwork. And now there was even a girl receptionist to keep accounts and plan schedules. Daisy thought she ran the whole place singlehanded … Conny’s doing again. He knew how to manage women!

  One could not let Conny down. He was puzzled, worried, and bit his nails more than he had in ten years.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  He mentioned it himself, finally. And as soon as he had he saw from Conny’s expression that he himself was just a simpleton. What had he ever been but the pick and the shovel? Conny Desmet was the brains. He had known how to flannel round regulations and how to wheedle ten thousand francs. He knew how to swing hardheaded business men off their feet, as well as how to put the girls floating horizontal. And above all, he knew how to be patient, never to hurry a deal, never to show himself anxious or nervous, never to appear pinched or crowded. A good business man, who will hold on to the slightest little thing that may turn out one day to have value. Stow it away and let it accumulate interest, and when you have a market for it you can hold out for a good bargain. Laforêt could never do that. He wouldn’t know how.

  When he did finally mention Esther’s name he understood that Desmet had been waiting quietly for this moment, sure it would come, sooner or later. Had been playing with him the way a cat would with a mouse.

  Has Conny then been playing with me all these years? Suddenly he did not know, and there was no solid ground any more at all.

  They were drinking coffee together; a still morning of early autumn when the thin bony easterly has turned the dew to frost and sends long pale spears of sunshine through the white mist. Laforêt was grilling the day-before’s bread on an electric toaster. Desmet, hairy across the shoulders, smears of talcum powder on his thick upper arms, was hunting clean things out of the laundry suitcase.

  ‘It amuses me occasionally –’ Laforêt in a drawl, stirring his coffee – ‘the possibility – I mean it’s remote but it can always happen – seeing someone from old times. Kind of funny sensation. You know how much you’ve changed yourse
lf, and how everybody else must have changed, and suddenly you see a face that was once familiar. Like when every now and then you hear someone talking French in Flanders and you wonder who the hell that can be – somebody out of a different world.’

  ‘You talking about Esther Marx?’ asked Desmet nonchalantly, his thick fingers picking a sleevelink deftly from between his teeth and working it into the cuff. ‘Yeh, I ran across her up in Rotterdam a few days ago – she lives there along the coast some place. I was chinning with her a while on the parking lot, and “having a drink in memory of the good old days” – these old days you’re always brooding about and which have about as much importance as a potato you chuck out because it’s frozen.’

  ‘What’s she doing now?’

  ‘There you are – all flustered and lamentable straight off.’

  ‘Chuck it, Conny.’

  ‘She’s married to some bum in the Dutch army – I ask you.’

  ‘So what?’ allowing irritation to creep into his voice – Conny’s trick of always knowing everything about everybody invariably rasped, which was illogical – he wanted very badly to know …

  ‘Why, in that time – and no offence to you, old son, because I remember you escorting her about everywhere in Hanoi – nothing ever did for those girlies below the rank of officer. Things find their level like I’m always telling you – married to some technical sergeant – how dim can you get?’

  ‘You know she turned up here a week ago. Backed out when she saw me – that’s natural enough. You’re never embarrassed, but other people are.’

  ‘What about it? Yeh, Daisy told me. You mean you were embarrassed?’

  ‘A bit. After all – awkward situation. I suppose she was curious after seeing you. She was what d’you call it – disconcerted. You’ve got a brass gut; it beats me how you can be so insensitive.’

  Desmet was drinking coffee placidly.

  ‘I’ve got weak spots, same as anyone else – but when I think them just damn stupid I try and get rid of them. A soldier second class or a general – all equal now, no? Look for the other fellow’s weak spot is my motto – don’t go about parading your own. Give me some more coffee, would you?

  ‘Yeh, I got a laugh out of seeing little Marx – amusing girl. I was kidding about a bit over a drink, saying why don’t you come down and show a few of our fat chemists here how to jump without getting their foot in their mouth. I didn’t know she’d take it so seriously though. Must have a hankering for those good old days all right, when she was a sort of heroine.’

  ‘Now hell, Conny,’ exasperated, ‘What did you do that for, knowing perfectly well I wouldn’t be exactly delighted.’

  ‘Now Frankie,’ mimicking head in the dust, mock apologetic, ‘I never meant to upset you. But snap out of it, brother. That old shindy … this little mare dropped you in the shit once – you’ve told me and I’d heard rumours once – but who cares now? Bit of ass’s skin. You can’t go round the world scared of meeting people. Look at you – climbing up steady, same as me. Are we respected by all? Sure. Despite having come from nothing? Not a bit; because of it, more like. Do we boast of the time we had nothing to eat but potatoes? Not specially, but we aren’t bloody well ashamed of it either. What’s this girl now? All these years gone by, and just the same tarted-up little fancypants with dreams about the good old days when you could tell who was the big guy by the number of his shoulderstraps. You wonder why she comes here? Just an attempt to pretend she isn’t pushing forty by now. Recapture her youth. Going about begging for diversions. Gave me her address – here, you want it?’ hunting in his pockets and producing an old envelope, ‘no good to me – I got other fish to fry. You could have her back tomorrow if it amused you. Fall off in your hand like a ripe plum. Ought to try it really – you never have enough confidence in yourself. Jumpy little trout still too – be a good joke to put horns on the Dutch army.’ Desmet laughed at this gay thought, and finished tying his tie. ‘Ey, I got to get up on my toes. Did I tell you about that Piper Navajo? – fellow’s hesitating still. I got him in my little eye. Going to appear a bit casual over in Aachen, and if the price is right – and I’ll make damn sure it is right … Ey?’

  The envelope had the result of Conny Desmet’s detective work scribbled on it.

  ‘PX 7799-25. Zomerlust.’ Under was scribbled ‘Tech sarg. Juliana Caserne Alphen’. Lower down was ‘Van Lennep 432’. Laforêt brooded about this for some days. Later, he would ask himself how on earth he could have been so astonishingly naïve. It simply never occurred to him that if Esther had really given Conny her address she would hardly have bothered to dictate her car number.

  ‘George,’ shouted Desmet. ‘Hey, George!’ It was one of his tricks when in an especially good mood to call people by imaginary names. ‘Come on out here ’n’ I’ll show you my new gun. Boyboyboy, what a sweet job. Fellow I met in Antwerp in a bar, one of these United Nations clowns, was a bit short on drinking money and offered to sell me a souvenir of Sinai. Israeli – Uzzi it’s called. These Yids, they know how to handle Arabs – say that for them. Look, the trigger and the grip are synchronized, kind of a safety device. Have a good day? Say, at that, you were up in Amsterdam, did you think of giving Marx a bang on the way?’

  ‘No,’ lied Laforêt stoutly. ‘No – you were quite right – the past has no importance. Good gun, this. You want to try and get one of these Chinese ones they’re talking about – AK something. No: no, it doesn’t matter to me; I’ve forgotten about it.’

  ‘I thought of it,’ chuckled Desmet, handling the gun lovingly, taking it down and putting it together with a grunt of appreciation at the simplicity and cleverness of the mechanism. ‘Wish I’d had this – to poke her with, ha ha. Boom boom. Yeh, I flannelled her with “Aw, Esther, never meant to embarrass you”. Got her a bit pissed – likes her whisky. There never was anything easier – it’s just not possible how easy she fell over. Don’t need to point a gun at that one, I can tell you. Mmm – baby! Now look – see the old notice board – that’s an Arab.’ He fired an expert half-second pattern. ‘Dead Arab. What a little beauty. Christ – better clear that up all the same, or the Customs men will think I’m training to go out to Angola to fight for liberty, haw.’

  The café was the model of all Dutch cafés, with its polished nickel, Oriental-pattern woolly tablecloths, Heineken beermats in a regimented square. The place was nearly empty in mid afternoon, and the neat grey-haired cafékeeper quite ready for gossip.

  ‘Gimme a beer, would you? … Get a lot of soldiers I dare say, with the barracks opposite?’

  ‘Not really – I don’t encourage that noisy crowd. Get the permanent staff – they’re quiet. Come in for a beer at knocking-off time – they all live out, you follow me.’ He polished the spotless coffee machine carefully.

  ‘I’ve an idea I know one of the sergeants – Zomerlust.’ Nod, indifferent.

  ‘Quiet chap – nice fellow. Belgian, aren’t you? Never rains but it pours, as they say. Was a Belgian chap in the other day who knew Zomerlust – been in Korea together I do believe: they were having a beer together.’

  ‘I was in Korea myself.’

  ‘Old soldiers talking over the campaigns, what. I was in the Resistance myself. Another beer?’

  ‘No thanks. Got to be moving.’

  ‘On the way through to Utrecht? See quite a few Belgian cars on the road – one of these big American sleighs this other chap had. One guilder – I thank you kindly. Good road to you.’

  He hadn’t needed the confirmation of the car – Desmet beyond doubt. Trust him, to check up on the husband before going on to the wife! He stood for a moment looking at the barracks. It seemed to him that he lost all sense of time, and that past and present and future were all there mingled in one thread. Desmet … taking his little pleasures in Holland … Esther … ‘That is a bad man’ … Zomerlust, who had been in Korea. Been in France – another to enjoy Esther’s favours. Who hadn’t, after all? Probably a well-known bicycle for
half the camp. Odd – the soldiers there in fatigue uniforms, cleaning up the half-track … their berets were wrong. Not French soldiers.

  He shook his head out of its daze. Idiot – for a moment he had thought this was France. Or was it Hanoi? He looked around the big cool café as though expecting to see Esther in uniform sitting waiting over a whisky. Waiting for him … And a couple of Indochina captains in the corner, laughing across the Ricards. Silly …

  Trust Desmet. The little bastard.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Desmet was helping himself to more whisky. Was it the fifth, or only the fourth? Van der Valk had lost count. It didn’t matter much, with the size they were!

  ‘Biggest load of bullshit I ever heard,’ said Desmet contemptuously.

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Van der Valk with great politeness. ‘You would reply, I gather, that he has mixed all this up together in his mind. Brooding over it has blurred the outlines between fact and imagination. Now he’s telling a pack of lies but he doesn’t realize that himself. He believes in it all. That about it?’

  He had been studying Desmet quietly for some time, while the recital of grief and bewilderment went on in Laforêt’s dulled monotone. He had talent, the fellow! Would make a good policeman – of the kind that takes bribes … He could see the crafty sod though, spreading persuasive warmth through a café, finding, with that odd instinct of his, the right words, the right tone to palm a man like Zomerlust, who had exactly the innocence, the peculiar military purity, that made him vulnerable to a man like that. Desmet could have sold him insurance, a secondhand auto – anything …

  ‘The interesting thing about all this,’ he began gently, almost pedantically, ‘is that of course either of you could have killed Esther Marx.’ His turn to get a contemptuous look from the lounging Desmet. ‘We have no material proof.’