Absinthe

by Guido Eekhaut

  “On account of that list and the political implications of—”

  “Oh, I remember you now. I saw you in one of those other cars, on the highway.”

  He drove carefully, not exceeding sixty. He had a girl in the car with him, and things could have been worse. And she remembered him at his most heroic moment.

  “You’re probably not going to a happy homecoming,” he said.

  “My parents have already been told about Maarten. He was … very special to them. I don’t know about—how do you cope with such a loss? How do you help people cope? You’re right, it won’t be a happy homecoming.”

  “I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Prinsen. Nick Prinsen.”

  “Nick. How do you cope with loss, Nick? I had plenty of time to think about that, in my room. I was allowed two calls, to my parents. But I couldn’t … I couldn’t really talk over the phone. Not about Maarten. My mother didn’t want to speak to me. She’s not angry, but she simply could not—”

  “Eileen?”

  “My father had to take the phone. Their son is dead. Nothing is ever going to change that. Not the death penalty for the murderers. Not angels descending in the garden. Not prayers.”

  “Eileen?” he said urgently.

  “What?”

  Softly, he said, “I don’t know how to handle grief and loss, Eileen. I don’t. There surely are people who can help you, but not me. I’m sorry.”

  She was silent. He’d betrayed her, one way or another. He was a police officer and was supposed to protect her. Not against criminals now, but against herself. Against sorrow and fear and loss.

  But there was nothing he could do.

  She looked at him. Her eyes were dry. He would have been at a loss had she cried. But she didn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Eileen.”

  She turned toward him. “It’s all right, Nick. You can’t help me, I understand. And that’s all right. I can cope. It’s my parents I’m most concerned about. Not for their loss, but for the days and nights I’m going to have to spend with them. Afterward, I’ll leave them again. I can’t live with them. They know I can’t. They knew their children aren’t going to accompany them into old age. But death, that’s rather radical.”

  “You’re not staying with them? Later on, I mean?”

  “No. I’ve chosen to lead a different life, and that’s what I’ll do. In spite of the thing with Pieter. I’ll be back in Amsterdam in a couple of weeks. Things will be all right for me, don’t worry. Now is the time to comfort my parents, and afterward is the time to say goodbye again. Isn’t that ironic?”

  He didn’t know how to deal with that.

  And yet, he did.

  She’s like me, he thought. She’ll live in Amsterdam in a tight little room if need be, or in another lonely city. She’ll live alone because living with somebody will remind her of Pieter. And that may be suffocating for her. So she’ll create the biggest possible distance between herself and her past. It’s banal, but it’s life.

  It was much like his own story.

  “If you ever come back to Amsterdam, Eileen,” he said, “please call me, won’t you? You know where to find me.”

  She smiled, but her smile was almost invisible to him in the growing dark.

  65

  EEKHAUT HAD BEEN LOOKING forward to this moment. First, a hot shower and a careful shave, then clothes better suited for the evening—even if nobody in Amsterdam cared about the sort of clothes he wore. He combed his hair and left the apartment. He got money from an ATM. He was a bit tense but he also felt a sort of casual freedom; at the same time, he told himself he was a fool. What did the woman in the Absinthe see in him? And what did he expect from her?

  She had a name. She was called Linda. He would have to get used to that name. She would only become a real person when he used her name.

  The evening chill took him by surprise. He wore a jacket but no overcoat. His body told him not to dress too warmly. Not yet. What would he wear in the middle of winter? How many overcoats would he need then if he already wore one now?

  He crossed Rembrandtplein—the terraces were almost deserted—and walked in the direction of the Dam, passing Japanese tourists who were probably looking for the red-light district off the canals. German tourists, of another age group, seemed on the hunt for food. Elegantly dressed young men on the lookout for each other. Surinamese families with plastic carrier bags looking for a tram. Everybody was looking for something. All he needed was a quiet bar and a good conversation.

  When he entered the Absinthe, jazz was playing. The better kind of jazz: smoky, lived-in jazz, not too much swing but a lot of blues. A grumbling tenor sax, a piano, and percussion in the background. All this on excellent sound equipment. At least this proprietor cared enough about music. He ordered his green drink and confiscated a table that would be his till the end of the evening. The bar wasn’t crowded, with about a dozen men and women, mostly in their forties. In one corner, Cuban cigars were tried out and nobody protested. It was that kind of bar.

  She entered a bit after eight. They hadn’t settled on a specific time but had assumed the other would, at some point, arrive. She cast him a glance, got an absinthe from the counter, and sat with him at his table. She wore jeans, a dark blouse, and a short leather jacket, which she took off.

  “To excellence,” she said and raised her glass to him.

  He smiled. “Today I want to drink to excellence,” he said. “Today. This is a day for optimism. About the human race.”

  “Good,” she said. “I’d hoped you weren’t the pessimistic type. I can do without that.”

  “I’m not. Not as a rule. Not by nature. But in my profession, optimism is always a challenge. By nature of my job, I’m constantly confronted by the downhill race of humanity. People never come to us with an uplifting story.”

  “And then you end up in a bar with a woman.” She held the small glass gracefully, her elbow on the table. He admired the gentle curve of her wrist and arm.

  “Precisely. And then my confrontation with the world dissolves into, well, nothingness.”

  “I don’t want to sound like I’m in a philosophical mood,” she said.

  “What will we talk about then, if not philosophy? Not the weather, I hope.”

  “No. No, not the weather.” She grinned. “Although we Dutch jabber all the time about the weather. It’s in our blood. The battle with the elements and all that. We talk about it even more than politics. Go figure. I’m fed up with those conversations.”

  “Let’s talk politics, then,” he proposed. “You’ll have to explain Dutch politics to me. I’m in need of enlightenment.”

  “I don’t know all that much about politics, except what the parties stand for and who’s leading them. Most boring subject after the weather.”

  He raised his glass. “About absinthe?”

  “Yes. What do you need to know? That it isn’t poisonous, or any more addictive than other alcohol, as was once was thought?”

  “I’m not in the least worried.”

  “And that the most important ingredient is called wormwood, which is also used as a basis for vermouth? It’s a Swiss invention, actually. Can you imagine, those slow, peaceful Swiss are responsible for a drink that was banned a century ago.”

  “Really? Chocolate, discreet banking, watches, all good things seem to originate in Switzerland. What was wrong with absinthe?”

  She smiled. “No, you don’t want to know.”

  “I do. It’s fascinating. Why was it forbidden?”

  “Because at the end of the nineteenth century the settled bourgeoisie considered the drink a poison, only fit for progressive artists, bohemians, you know. Criminals and prostitutes. The kind of people who didn’t hold a job, refused to be controlled by society, boozed all day, chased women—”

  “I know a few of those—”

  “Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde, Verlaine, Rimbaud, all enjoyed the
green devil.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to be seen in their company.”

  “Precisely.” She folder both her hands around the glass, which disappeared completely. “Why am I trying to educate you?”

  He grabbed her hands, suddenly serious. “Educating me is a necessary evil,” he said.

  “Really? You’re too old to need an education. You’re too old for me. You’re an old, old man.” There was a smile in her eyes. He hoped she was teasing him. Then he held her hands, and she let him.

  “Even this old, old man can still be taught a few tricks,” he said.

  And suddenly she was serious again. Her hands slid out of his. “You lectured me on responsibility,” she said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it lecturing. I have no lessons to teach you.”

  But she remained serious. “I’m younger than you, but I have a past.”

  “Ah,” he said, “a woman with a past.”

  “Be serious for a moment, Walter. A past, which means a mix of good and bad experiences.”

  “Haven’t we all had those?”

  “Yes. And so it isn’t easy to … Things were easier when we were twenty and didn’t yet have a past.”

  “Today, kids already have a weighty past by the time they’re twenty. Some, at least.”

  She smiled again. “It’s not a coincidence, Walter; us meeting here. Us liking each other.”

  “No, it’s the way life turns out, I know. You miss one opportunity, a mere second of inattention, and your life goes in a completely opposite direction.”

  “Is it the music?”

  “What?”

  “Us being so melancholic? Is it the music?” She smiled again at his confusion. Then she searched for something in her handbag. She produced a small device, shiny black, a digital recorder. She slid it across the table toward him.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A digital speech recorder,” she said, matter-of-factly. “That’s what we specialists call it.” She was clearly teasing, again, but nervously at the same time. He thought: This was a big decision, giving me the recorder.

  “I’m in sync,” he said, “with the twenty-first century. I know what it is and what it does.”

  “It records speech,” she said. “Like when you’re in a meeting and you need to record what you and the other party is saying.”

  “Like taking notes.”

  “Taking notes is so twenty-first century.”

  He didn’t want to react.

  “I told you that I work for … people who are less than scrupulous, less than moral in their dealings. So, whenever I can, I take precautions. I don’t want to be involved in the affairs they conduct. They pay me, and I work for them, but I’m not going to be dragged into their dirty business.”

  “Dirty business,” he said, hoping for her to continue.

  “There was a meeting between two parties. I was supposed to, you know, attend, as a secretary, which is what I basically am.”

  “All right.”

  “But they asked me to leave. I wasn’t supposed to hear what was going to be said. I had brought along this recorder. I had it switched on in advance. Something I usually do. I left it in the room. They didn’t notice. Who notices one of these things, today, eh? They sweep meeting rooms for hidden bugs, but they never look twice—or even once—at a recording device brought in by one of the staff.”

  “So you recorded a conversation. Should I be interested?”

  “We met here by accident, Walter. Later, I realized who you are. I realized what case you were working on. I realized the connection between my job and yours.”

  “Fascinating, I’m sure, but what—?”

  “I work for Dirk Benedict Monet. I’m his staff liaison and occasional secretary. I accompany him. Like when he meets with a certain Russian gentleman. And then he asks me to leave the room. I’m not supposed to hear what my boss has to say to the Russian. I’m not stupid, but I am curious by nature. So I leave my recorder in the room, as if by accident.”

  “Monet.”

  “And a certain Russian fellow. I’m sure that you will be very interested to hear what is on the machine. I found it enlightening, anyway. It helped me decide to quit my job soon. You didn’t get this from me. You can voice-test the recording, establish who is talking. As to the context of their talk, well, you’ll find that extremely interesting as well. I’ll no longer be working for Monet. But neither will anybody else, except for some stooges he might recruit while he’s in prison.”

  She rose and closed her handbag. “I hope you still want to see me again, Walter? I may not have any more surprises of this nature for you, but at least we’ll have something to talk about, apart from the weather.”

  SUNDAY

  Amsterdam

  66

  “YOU PROMISED ME I could return to Russia. You said that I could.”

  Eekhaut looked up. It was Sunday morning. He didn’t work on a Sunday. No sensible person worked on a Sunday. He had worked all week. His first week in Holland. Then why was he here? “Tarkovski? Like the Andreï Tarkovski? I’ve been wondering, are you related to the famous filmmaker?”

  “Same family, no direct relation,” the young man said sourly. “And my parents were movie buffs, hence the first name. It could have been worse.” He wore the same outfit as the day before, his chin unshaven and his hair unkempt. Maybe he hadn’t taken a shower out of spite. He seemed to lack focus and didn’t know what Eekhaut wanted.

  As if Eekhaut knew where he wanted to go with his questions.

  “You understand that even this, I mean you having a famous name and so on, does nothing for what will happen to you?”

  Tarkovski shook his head. “What is the value of your word, Mr. Detective? Before we talk any further, I want to know. I want to know what your word is worth. What is it worth?”

  “Nothing,” Eekhaut said. “My word is worth nothing when given to a criminal. Let that be clear. On the other hand, I doubt that you’re a criminal. Hence my dilemma.”

  Tarkovski kept his mouth shut, but not without effort. He hadn’t slept well. Eekhaut assumed those cells lacked any comfort. And there wouldn’t be many facilities for the temporary inmates. But he wouldn’t advocate for better cells. If you were guilty, you needed to feel misery.

  “You’re Keretsky’s assistant, and that’s all you are,” he said. “You take care of your boss’s projects. Keretsky asks you to find an assassin, and you comply. He asks you to chase a girl and shoot her, and you do that. You don’t pull the trigger yourself. You’re too careful to do that. We can’t pin murder on you. But, have no fear, we will pin other crimes on you. Enough for a long stretch in prison.”

  Tarkovski shrugged. He had already signed a confession. What else could he do?

  Eekhaut leaned forward. “Should I allow you to return to Russia, Andreï, to return to the world of your lord and master, Keretsky? Where he decides life and death. Where there is no distinction between power and crime. Is that what you want?”

  “It’s easy to talk about morality, Officer, when you’re on that side and not at the center of the game. Because if you’re in the heart of the game, that distinction is less clear. What you call a distinction between power and crime is a distinction between a question and an order. It is the distinction between the life you lead and the life you would like to lead.”

  “Yes,” Eekhaut said. “You’re right. You’re right about a lot of things. But then, I’m not paid to sit in the center of your game. I throw you in prison, that’s what I get paid for. I get paid to send people to prison. And the life lesson is thrown in for free. Sometimes. Not always. Some people aren’t worth the bother. In your case, you’re worth it, and the lesson will change your life.”

  “How long?”

  “How long what?”

  “For how long do I go to prison?”

  Eekhaut kept looking at the man. Things had to be made right, but not by him. “I’m not the judge, Andreï. The judge
decides how long you go to jail. At least for a year or two. Maybe just that, and not more. Maybe you’ll get out early. We can say you weren’t directly implicated in the murders. You know we can.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that?” Eekhaut shrugged. “You won’t stay in Russia for long. That much I am convinced of.”

  “No?”

  “No. Take it from me. You’ll be back here. And maybe, if you like, we’ll have a beer in a quiet bar somewhere in this city. And we’ll talk about the Russian soul. I look forward to that occasion.”

  Eekhaut rose and walked out of the room without further comment. He looked at his watch. Whatever the day, time moved on. Tomorrow it would be Monday. Tomorrow Monet would be indicted.

  And he still needed to get his apartment in order. Because, after all, it seemed he would be staying a while in Amsterdam.

  Afterword

  SOME ORGANIZATIONS MENTIONED IN this book are genuine, and the abbreviations of their Dutch names are used. Some are fictitious. AIVD stands for Algemene Inlichtingen-en Veiligheidsdienst (literally, General Information and Security Service). The Bureau Internationale Misdaad en Extreme Organisaties (Bureau of International Crime and Extremist Organizations) is, to my knowledge, fictitious. The Partij Dierbaar Nederland (PDN) is also my invention, although there are plenty of right-wing parties in Europe that could serve as a model. Fabna Bank does not exist but could, for the Belgian Fortis Bank could have merged, sometime in 2007, with the Dutch bank ABN Amro. This did not happen, however, because Fortis Bank probably ran out of funds, and then there was the international financial crisis. The Ford Mondeo that figures in the book is the Ford Taurus for American readers, of course, but Ford insists on giving its models different names in Europe.

  As to me using my own name as that of the main character, well, there’s a long story behind it, which I save for public readings and book presentations. Anyway, the short version is that Walter Eekhaut also happens to be my grandfather’s name. Since British and American readers might not know how to pronounce his (and my) name, I’ve found this simple trick: Eekhaut rhymes with stakeout but without the first two letters. If we ever meet, try to get it right.