The seriousness of what he was saying in no way altered his guileless, beaming expression. He went on in the same tone of voice:
‘A few hours ago, a policeman came to see you. I’d like to know what you talked about.’
Carvalho was unsure that this was a different person asking him questions. Singel behaved just as politely as the inspector. Possibly they wanted to know the same things.
‘I told the policeman what I wanted him to hear. And I’ll tell you what I want you to hear.’
‘We’ve been thinking that your interests do not necessarily clash with ours. Perhaps we were a little hasty yesterday, and you are looking for your Spanish friends for reasons that don’t concern us.’
‘I’m quite sure they don’t.’
‘So what are they?’
‘Let’s just say I’ve been hired to find Julio Chesma. I’m a private investigator, and there are reasons to believe that Julio Chesma and the body of a drowned man washed ashore on a Spanish beach are one and the same. A client has asked me to confirm his identity. A tattoo the drowned man had on his back is what brought me to Amsterdam. When I got here I learned his name and where he was staying. Now I need to know what happened to him from the moment he arrived at your boarding house to the moment he died. I’m not interested in whatever business he got mixed up in. Just what his life was like in those months. Nothing else interests either me or my client.’
‘What relation do you suspect there was between your friend and me, for example?’
‘I can imagine lots of things: drugs, the white slave traffic, smuggling tulips or Delftware abroad. Or you two could be masons, or part of Opus Dei.’
‘Opus Dei?’
‘I know what I mean.’
‘It’s true your friend had some business dealings with us. And of course we would prefer you not to try to get to the bottom of them. Perhaps it would be wiser if we collaborated. We’ll give you the chance to find out how he lived, but the information will have nothing to do with the deals he did with us.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘Women, for example. He liked them a lot, but at the same time almost always managed to keep business and bed strictly separated.’
‘It sounds like we have a deal.’
‘You have no choice. You could probably go to the police and tell them about this conversation. All you would gain by that would be to have me arrested, but that won’t get the Dutch police very far. They already know where I live, and anyway I have a dozen alibis. For you it would be different. If you go to the police, you might save yourself from a drowning in Holland. But there is water everywhere. And people die on dry land too.’
‘I understand.’
‘Perfect. Then I’ll start by telling you all I know. Your friend stayed at the Patrice Hotel until a year ago. From time to time he took trips, but strictly for business. A year ago he became a permanent resident in Holland, also for business reasons. We heard about his death three days ago, through a channel I’m not going to tell you about. We don’t know the details of his death: from what you’ve said it seems it was an unfortunate accident. Is that enough?’
‘No. You’ve reduced months of his life to a few sentences. I’d like to hear a fuller version.’
‘I could give you some addresses here in Amsterdam. But I don’t want you to go poking around with the police on your tail. You can get all the information you need in Rotterdam. Can you stand up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go out into the street?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you really were lucky. OK. Tomorrow take a train to Rotterdam. At three in the afternoon climb the tower that looks out over all the docks. It’s a very pleasant tourist sight. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Rotterdam is the biggest port in Europe. Most people think it’s Hamburg, but that’s not the case. Don’t go right to the top. Stay on the middle level. Go to the west side and stand by the handrail enjoying the magnificent view of the comings and goings in the port. Leave the rest to me.’
‘I hope you aren’t thinking of throwing me off the tower.’
‘We respect truces and agreements.’
All of a sudden Singel’s voice lost its curt, didactic tone. Instead it was as though he were visiting someone in hospital.
‘Take care and you’ll soon return hale and hearty to Spain. What city do you live in?’
‘Barcelona.’
‘A lovely city. My wife and I used to spend our summers in San Feliu, a small town on the Costa Brava. Do you know the Edenmar Hotel?’
‘There are thousands of hotels.’
‘We used to really enjoy it. But now we’ve changed destination: we prefer Yugoslavia. Nature there is so wild and beautiful, although the country is less well adapted to tourism than Spain. By the way, isn’t the Barcelona team manager a Dutchman?’
‘I think he is.’
‘That’s right, Michels. He’s a great guy. He may not be a brilliant strategist, but he gets results. He was the one who turned Ajax into the best club in Europe. He discovered Cruyff, Neeskens, Keizer. Did you ever see the great Ajax team play?’
‘When I was here last they had trouble even tying up their boots.’
‘Recently they have been the best team in the world. Their style of play is quick and direct. The star of the team was Cruyff, but I almost preferred Keizer. He’s a tough, aggressive player, but clever with it. Like that English player Best, but stronger.’
Singel went on to pour scorn on Feyenoord, the Rotterdam team that was Ajax’s eternal rival.
‘Feyenoord is like the city it comes from, it has no class. All the Second World War bombings destroyed its character, now it’s a nondescript place. But Amsterdam is beautiful, it’s all character.’
By now Carvalho had realised that the other man was not making fun of him. He had simply changed register, and was following the conventions of his new topic in exemplary fashion. It therefore came as no surprise when his visitor stood up and said:
‘Don’t hesitate to ask us for anything you need. My wife and I will be very happy to see to it. If all you went through yesterday has left you feeling rough, call us. We’ll find a discreet doctor. No point in creating a scandal over this, is there?’
Singel raised his hand to the side of his head to say goodbye. He walked carefully out of the room, as though trying not to make any sound that might upset the convalescent patient in his hospital bed. Carvalho refused to lie there thinking about what he had just been part of. He was hungry and needed some visual stimulation too. He got out of bed and put on his clothes.
A young man born to raise hell in hell leaves a steady job with an international company to devote himself to shady business. That shady business was drug trafficking. There could be no other explanation for the link between what Singel had insinuated and the raids in Barcelona following the discovery of the drowned man’s body. Singel claimed he had not learned of Chesma’s death until shortly before Carvalho arrived in Amsterdam. On the other hand, a small businessman in his attic office in a nondescript hair salon in Barcelona hired Carvalho to find out who the drowned man was. The two things did not fit. The heart of the mystery now was the reason for Señor Ramón’s involvement. He was willing to pay a hundred thousand pesetas simply to confirm the identity of a drowned man, something he could easily have done via the police. But Señor Ramón had no wish to get involved with the cops, and obviously did not know anyone who could do so without risk.
Carvalho had made it a matter of personal pride to find out what had happened to Julio Chesma’s body between Rokin Street and the beach at Vilasar. He wanted to know why Señor Ramón was so interested. Carvalho walked towards Leidsplein, uncertain whether to have dinner in Bali or to try to find a restaurant in the area he had seen the previous night when he was following the hippy sheep. When he reached the Leidsplein, he went into the pub where Singel had met the girl. Even at this time of day it was almost full, both the main downstairs room and a
sort of mezzanine which had room for only one big round table. Four or five people were sitting round it, staring at the others below. Carvalho sat with his back to the wall at a table where he could see out into the square and also enjoy the sight of the drinkers around him. Next to him sat a hippy couple with their children. Beyond them was a quiet office worker who was engrossed in his newspaper as the bubbles of foam on his beer gradually settled. Carvalho knew that in the afternoon he could get only a snack here, and also knew how demanding his stomach could be. The atmosphere in the pub lent itself only to chatting with friends or sitting watching the world go by. He wanted more than that: he was on his own, and needed entertainment.
He walked across the street to the cinema and bought a ticket. They were showing the B-film: a Dutch short called The Hair Salon. Carvalho could not follow much of the dialogue. The plot seemed to concern a hairdresser assistant’s virginity. She goes to her boss’s weekend cottage with her work colleagues and their boyfriends. Things warm up, and they all end up in bed. The recalcitrant virgin fights off all attempts to storm her temple, but eventually decides to satisfy her lonely boss. Her lonely boss, who is impotent but very human, tells her in a fatherly way not to expect anything he cannot give. The girl seems to take this very calmly, but the next day, bloody Monday, she wakes up as wild as a female orangutan on heat. She has a fight with her mother and is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She leaves the house. Out in the street, she calls her boss from a phone booth and in floods of tears tells him something. As far as Carvalho could work out, there was no happy ending. Verdict: a crass film typical of lamentable Dutch film-making.
In the break Carvalho went out into the foyer. There were a few hippy-looking couples who had brought their offspring to the early show partly because they did not know what else to do with them and partly because Fritz the Cat was a cartoon. But as soon as he saw the opening scenes, Carvalho thought perhaps they had brought them along to offer them some sex education. Fritz the cat was a crazy dropout dedicated to bringing sexual revolution to the dope smokers among the New York intelligentsia and social revolution to Harlem. It was too cynical even for Carvalho. He came out feeling depressed and at the same time desperate for a fuck. He went down the street where he had followed the hippy girl the night before. He chose a Greek restaurant. He ordered lamb grilled with sage and a bottle of Paros wine. He finished with an excellent Toulomisso cheese. He hardly noticed what he was eating, and became worried about his state of mind. Foreign cities always offer the promise of fresh pleasures. But as soon as you scratch the surface, you discover how impenetrable its people are, how trite the situations you find yourself in. If he wanted a fuck he would either have to pay for it or engage in a lengthy verbal skirmish that might end in nothing. Carvalho was fed up with all the conventional foreplay, all the persuasion that was needed. It should be automatic. A man looks at a woman, and she says yes or no. Or the other way round. The rest is culture.
Carvalho glanced at the faces in the restaurant to see whether any of them might respond to this kind of direct appeal. Not a single attractive female face. He lowered his normal standards and concentrated on a middle-aged woman who was eating at a table with a short-sighted adolescent. She would do in an emergency. Carvalho stared at her broad face, waiting for their eyes to meet. They did, and the woman started a ghastly flirtation, alternating banter with the teenager with sidelong glances at Carvalho. Pepe soon realised he was doing nothing more than pandering to her taste for mental escapism. Another notch on the gun of his platonic conquests. Nearly all women are the same everywhere.
He was annoyed that nothing more was going to come of it, so stopped playing the game. He left the restaurant, still savouring the taste and aroma of sage. After walking around aimlessly for half an hour he found himself on the steps of the Rijksmuseum. These days he was allergic to museums, perhaps to compensate for the way they had enchanted him in the past, the way he had once adored their cathedral-like silence and the ecstasy produced by all the painters held in such high esteem. He would give the whole of Rembrandt for a shapely woman’s arse or a decent plate of spaghetti a la carbonara.
He walked to the Paradise Club. He had to renew his membership, as the previous card had been ruined by the canal water. This time he did not head for the apse, but went up to the first floor. There in a big room a few youngsters were reading magazines or trying to make collages out of cut-up photos. A few more were standing at a counter with the same world-weary look of all those he had seen downstairs the night before. He walked across the library and reached the counter, where a hippy couple was selling cakes. Hash cakes. Carvalho saw it as a dreadful reflection on the state of the art of cooking. What hope was there for young people who did not know or want to know how to eat properly? In order not to die before he had yielded to this devilish temptation, Carvalho bought a vaguely Arab pastry. It tasted of aniseed, almond, flour and something strange that could just as easily have been mare’s sweat or divine ambrosia. He cursed the miserable motherfuckers who could have perpetrated such a monstrosity, then went on with his exploration of the upper floor of the sanctuary. In another room they were showing a Gregory Peck film to another bunch of hippies, sitting on folding stools or slumped on the floor. The film was To Kill a Mockingbird. By Gregory Peck’s fourth facial tic, Carvalho had seen enough. He went back down the staircase and into the main nave. It was exactly the same scene as on the previous night: the same music, the same psychedelic effects, the same shit leading to the same nothing. And all the while the cops kept watch on them inside and out, as though they were sheep being led to the fold. For a moment, Carvalho considered scanning the room with his one good eye to see if he could spot Buffalo Bill and his flock. He could not help thinking that someone was deliberately fooling all these poor people who thought they had heard the bells of freedom. Where exactly were they headed?
The next morning he got up late. He looked at his eye in the mirror. The swelling had almost completely gone. It was not so much a punch as a cut that now appeared clearly in between his eyelid and eyebrow. He used a piece of cotton wool to try to get rid of as much iodine as possible. His eyebrow still felt uncomfortable, but it was not really a black eye.
The journey to Rotterdam seemed endless. Unusually for him, he had bought newspapers: the New York Times and Le Monde. He had not read a paper in two months, but it looked as though not much had changed. If he had not been on the receiving end of all the nonsense he read about, he would have dismissed it as a freak show of madmen and crooks: all the rich and powerful deserved to be locked up and the key thrown away. He did not even get to the New York Times: the three front pages of Le Monde were more than enough. He preferred to stare out at a landscape that repeated itself endlessly, or to study the faces of the other passengers, who also seemed endlessly the same. For hours now, he had not been able to get the image of Señor Ramón sitting on the other side of his desk out of his mind. His sallow, freckled skin, the sly look in those small hard eyes of his, like some predatory animal. He had found out all that Señor Ramón had asked of him, and yet there were lots of questions he still wanted answered for his own satisfaction. If the journey to Rotterdam seemed so endless, it was because he had the feeling that most of the answers to these new questions were no longer to be found in Holland. Carvalho was obsessed by this investigation in the same way as in the past, whenever he was trying to find the answers to a puzzling case. It was as if he were regaining an old, disturbing ability: the capacity for enthusiasm.
Coosingel Street started from close by Rotterdam central station. It went straight down to the port. The entire centre of Rotterdam had been rebuilt after the war, drawn in straight Dutch lines that emphasised how new it all was. Carvalho took a taxi to the port. He wanted to take a trip on one of the small boats that took people round the endless docks, and while he was doing so mull over the crazy logic of the case. He climbed aboard a Spido launch and found he was sharing it with a group of noisy schoolchildren, eager t
o discover as many new worlds as there were piers and warehouses in the docks, where ships from all over the planet were anchored. The colour of rust alternated with whitewashed hulls and the jumble of thousands of cranes that were all settling like birds for their noonday rest. An old, smoothly running port where what was most impressive was the size and how smoothly it ran. A port without the legends of a Hamburg or a New York.
There was as much about the relation between Singel and Señor Ramón that did not fit as there was about the relation between Ramón and Queta’s hair salon. An old man did not have his aura of power without there being something bigger behind him than a ladies’ hairdresser. The most logical conclusion was that he was part of the same network in which Singel and Chesma also figured. In Amsterdam Singel hid behind the Patrice Hotel sign, just as in Barcelona Señor Ramón concealed his activities behind Queta’s Hairdressers. The two men obviously used the same front. But how were they linked to Chesma? Why did Chesma have a face and name for people in Holland, while he remained a question mark for Señor Ramón?
The launch was passing in the shadow of a huge Japanese liner. The schoolboys made slanty eyes and called out to the seamen on board in a language specially made up for the occasion. Then there was a succession of dry docks where they could all reflect for a few moments on how dead ships were being transformed. They stared in silent respect at the rusting hulls or their hasty skeletons, as if they were attending an autopsy. Even the schoolkids fell silent at the sight of how they were being gutted. Beyond the ships, the July sun made white shirts blaze. Carvalho had seen how the Rotterdam locals liked to sunbathe, stretched out on the wide green banks of the canals or enjoying the lunchtime peace and quiet on public benches. Charo had probably gone for a swim at Castelldefels or the Swimming Club. A tan was useful in her line of business, and Carvalho himself loved the contrast between the brown parts of her body and the surprising white of the rest. Perhaps Señor Ramón had hired him when he already knew the answer. But why? Why take such an interest in a return journey whose start and finish he already knew?
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