The commissaris, whose legs felt better and who had been able to manage the steep Slave Path stayed at Old Rum House with Grijpstra and de Gier. De Gier was experimenting with ragout of goat over rice. Grijpstra made salads.
The receptionist, a white-haired white lady, came to work more often, mostly to help the commissaris make sculptures out of litter on the beach.
A gardener, claiming to have been fathered by Haile Selassie, the emperor of Abyssinia, who he physically resembled, showed up to place flamboyant flower arrangements in the guest rooms and on the dining table.
“Can’t you stay on the yacht?”
The commissaris told Haile, Junior he couldn’t do that. An hour a day was all he could manage. He had himself rowed out in the Rodney’s sloop together with a nurse who treated Skipper Peter’s nose. Skipper Peter, facing a drop in the stock market, wasn’t happy.
Even so, the commissaris felt some sympathy. “If I had been born in Rotterdam,” he told Grijpstra and de Gier, “and contracted polio at an early age, and was a practicing alcoholic, and had a son like Carl, and knew about nothing but the art of car theft and how to commit fraudulent acts with crude oil, and if I hadn’t had the fortune to meet with you chaps, and hadn’t been influenced by Turtle’s attitude, and if Katrien hadn’t grabbed me when the grabbing was good, I might, most likely, have ended up just like Skipper Peter, don’t you think?”
Grijpstra and de Gier nodded politely.
“How is work?” the commissaris asked.
De Gier and Carl exercised every morning with a rented Zodiac rubberboat, equipped with twin outboard engines. The ship’s helicopter was too flimsy to carry cargo, so Grijpstra took the ferry plane to St. Maarten once a day to shop. The commissaris visited Statia’s library where a quiet young woman in a flowerprint dress helped out with his research on Admiral Rodney, made tea and shared the Dutch canned cookies he presented her with.
“Dear,” the commissaris said. “That Admiral Rodney who confiscated everything here is a scoundrel who interests me. Why would my Dutch clients name their yacht after a British seafarer? And why does Skipper Peter dress up like an admiral?” The librarian told the commissaris that Admiral Rodney had been a winner. “But who won from Admiral Rodney, dear?” The librarian brought the commissaris books on the admiral’s life, illustrated with etchings, and took him to the little museum to show off the island’s valuable collection of original documents, and had photocopies of other papers faxed in from the State Archives in faraway, never-seen Holland. “Oh, isn’t this interesting, dear?” the commissaris kept saying. He snapped his fingers. “Before I forget. Would you have an envelope? I have to send a check to one Maurice Maslof, my cabdriver friend on Aruba. Do you think you could find Maurice’s correct address?”
“How could you forget to pay an Aruban cab driver?” The librarian had been to Aruba. She knew how tough things could get on the real islands. “Didn’t the cabbie pull a knife on you?”
The commissaris hung his head. “I was the bad guy, dear. I paid the poor man with toilet paper and got away in a jet plane.”
The commissaris telephoned Inspector Simon Cardozo of the Amsterdam Municipal Police and asked for some days-off for the inspector’s subordinates Ketchup and Karate. As a favor to a helpless old man. Cardozo said both constables were on sick leave: Ketchup, in their apartment overlooking the Amstel; Karate, in their Caribbean holiday house. The commissaris put in a conference call. “Let bygones be bygones, come out here or I’ll send de Gier after you.”
* * *
De Gier fetched the volunteers from St. Eustatius airstrip. Both men still functioned. Ketchup’s dislocated vertebra had slipped back into place and Karate’s ankle wasn’t as swollen as it had been.
Grijpstra and Carl Ambagt learned to shoot grappling hooks and lines out of a mortarlike contraption the Rodney’s engineer constructed. The Rodney herself served as a practice target. Ketchup, Karate and Carl, dangling from a smoothly hoisted harness, made their way up to overwhelm unsuspecting sailors. Grijpstra skippered the twin-engined rubberboat used as an assault-craft. It wasn’t easy to avoid the obstacles presented by Cutthroat Ledge, Dead Man Coral, Gallows Rock, a pair of hard to see sandbanks known as The Graves, Wreckers’ Shoals and reef-surrounded, tiny, Smutty Nose Island. Carl liked the names. “We’re not doing anything new, right?”
Grijpstra flew in and out of St. Maarten’s airport. He fetched wetsuits, goggles, black paint, balsa wood, chisels, power tools, fireworks, freshly baked muffins and biscuits, frozen veal croquettes, cookies for the commissaris’s library lady-friend, pickled herrings, a wheel of Gouda cheese, oversized candy bars and other delicacies and staples to satisfy the needs and cravings of the attack group, no longer content with roadkill-stew on stale bread.
“Don’t you just love this kind of friendly cooperation?” de Gier asked the constables, waking them in an Old Rum House back room.
“Remember how you like us being your role models,” Grijpstra told the fatigued constables.
“Where would you be without us?” de Gier asked.
“Home,” Ketchup said, “Switching between the porno and soccer channels on the dish. Tell me why I am climbing ropes at midnight dangling over sharkfins cutting through riptides?”
“Not for the money,” Karate said. “We have everything money can buy. I’ve got everything money can buy up to HERE.”
“Yes,” Ketchup said, “but why be abused?” He rubbed his aching body. “Why not just leave?”
Grijpstra wasn’t sure whether the constables were still needed. Maybe he, Carl and de Gier could do the job. Too many bodies might get in the way. De Gier thought so too. He was checking the ferry plane’s schedule to St. Maarten airport.
“You could have your next meal in Amsterdam, boys.”
The constables said they were kidding, they really liked this job. They were having fun. Truly.
27
THE ROAD IS THE GOAL
“One should,” skipper Peter Ambagt said, “put one’s goal as far away as humanly possible, it should be almost unattainable.” The commissaris, visiting his client on board of the Rodney asked why so.
“I am quoting my father,” the skipper said. “He drove a number 10 streetcar, Rotterdam Center to Rotterdam North, always to and fro. He wasn’t happy. He set his sights higher. He wanted to be a streetcar inspector. That happened. Dad was promoted—different uniform, stripes, chevrons, nice hat. Streetcar drivers saluted Dad. He didn’t go any higher for he never aimed to go any higher. Was Dad happy? He was not. City Transport retired him early, to be rid of his complaining. Did retirement make him happy? Never. The pay was too little and TV was boring and Dad had all these aches and pains. He solved his problem by crossing the street in front of trucks. Too close, so the first time his leg was broken, but the doctor fixed that and then it got smashed again. The doctor couldn’t fix that too well and his third accident brought on a heart attack. That did it.”
“Dead?”
“Yep,” Skipper Peter said. “One unhappy, dead Dad.”
The commissaris was intrigued. “But you’re aiming higher. You’d like to be City Transport Director?”
“Federal Minister of Transport?” Skipper Peter asked. “Maximal state pay plus a little squeeze here and there? But would that be enough?” He squinted at the commissaris, lowering his head so he could look across his bulbous nose. “What did you set yourself as a goal in life?”
“Nothing,” the commissaris said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Not-something,” the commissaris said. “Because if it was something I would get it and then what. Right?”
“Your target is Nothing?”
“That’s correct.”
“Nothing can’t be,” Skipper Peter said. “Oh. I see.” He smiled wistfully. “The ever-receding? Like love or something?”
“Nothing,” the commissaris said firmly.
“Right.” Skipper Peter held his head to the side, as if he were t
rying to look around the commissaris. He touched his nose carefully. “Good idea, maybe. I’ve thought of that too. It’s logical in a way. Put off your goal to where there’s no way of getting to it ever. That way there’ll never be disappointment.” He tittered. “Mhree mhree. Further and further. All the way to Zero?”
“Zero is still something,” the commissaris said seriously. “It has a rim.” His finger drew an oval. “You’ll want to get rid of that.”
“Take the rim off Zero,” Skipper Peter said, leaning further out of his chair, about to fall out altogether, but the servant set him upright again. “Then what?”
The commissaris changed his tone from didactic to respectful. “And your goal, sir?”
Skipper Peter straightened his admiral’s hat, put his hands on his knees. His voice suddenly boomed. “Three hundred million dollars. I tripled my goal last year. It used to be a hundred but times change, sirrah.”
“Things certainly aren’t getting any cheaper,” the commissaris said understandingly. The commiseration pleased Skipper Peter. He now felt free to complain, between thoughtful sips, that that one hundred million dollars, for which he and little Carl had been working themselves to the bone all these years, was required for daily needs. In order to be quite free of any worry the target had to be adjusted. Ambagt Senior held up three fingers. “One third of a billion.”
“You’re close?” the commissaris asked.
“Not quite.” Skipper Peter pushed out his lips and half closed his eyes. “I’m prepared to take a calculated risk that will close the gap.”
“Amazing.” The commissaris raised his voice and slapped both thighs. “Amazing, Skipper. I am the man you need at this very moment. Calculated risk. Yes.” He stared at the skipper in utter amazement. “A coincidence. Heaven smiles!”
“You’re into taking a calculated risk yourself?” the skipper quavered.
“Am I ever.” The commissaris moved up his chair and bent lovingly toward his host. “And I am …,” he whispered, indicating a distance of a millimeter between the tips of his index fingers, “… I am this close to reaching that goal, of making my fortune, Peter.”
“Yes?” Skipper Peter asked hoarsely. “What makes you think you’re going to be that lucky?”
“Lucky?” the commissaris asked. “Who trusts Luck? Good Fortune eats you so Misfortune can throw you up.” He carefully tapped the glass tabletop supported by the upturned nude. He raised his voice. “What I trust is Certainty only.” He shouted. “BULLSEYE, Peter!” He dropped his voice. “I go by totally reliable inside knowledge only. You know what?”
“What?” whispered Skipper Peter.
“My wife’s brothers are directors of banks and of a certain corporation.” The commissaris clapped his hands. “One thousand percent sure. The stock is down to its lowest possible level. It’s poised to go to its highest. A phenomenal turnabout.” He slapped the least painful of his thighs. “The opportunity of the century, my dear friend Peter. I’m going all out.” His glasses slipped off his nose but the servant managed to catch them. “Thank you, my dear,” the commissaris sighed, leaning back exhausted. He addressed his host again. “All my speculating life I waited for this. I will wager my wad, sir. Borrow another. Call in all favors, mortgage my property, scrape up every last cent.” He got so excited he had to pat his chest to release some air. “This is It. Afterward I retire.” He smiled weakly. “Nobody will see me again. I will roam about freely.” He waved at the environment. “Live off the fat of land and sea.”
Skipper Peter raised a warning finger. “You said you were after Nothing just now.”
The commissaris laughed. “I lied.”
The skipper’s face came closer. “Count me in, Jan.”
The commissaris got up with some difficulty and shuffled around the skipper’s deck chair. He was half speaking, half chanting. Certainly he would count the skipper in but first the Rebecca job would have to be done, and the remaining eight hundred thousand dollars paid into the account of Detection G&G in Amsterdam.
“Why worry about peanuts?” Skipper Peter asked.
“Peanuts matter,” the commissaris explained. He hadn’t gotten where he was today by ignoring peanuts.
“Your men know?” the skipper asked hoarsely.
The commissaris sat down, smiling wisely. His disciples weren’t ready yet. The concept of haute finance hadn’t even occurred to Grijpstra and de Gier as yet. The commissaris nodded to add emphasis. “My project, dear Peter, is for the initiated only.” He was nodding again. “For those who have proved themselves in every possible way.” The ship, moved by the ocean’s swell, changed position. The commissaris’s face was no longer in the shadow. Sun rays illuminated his smiling countenance. “For the elite, Peter.” He pointed at Ambagt Senior. “For you.” He pointed at himself. “For me.”
Skipper and commissaris seemed at rest, eyes closed in meditation, hands folded devoutly on the tops of their canes. Communication, however, seemed to flow at its highest level.
“Why did you join Grijpstra and de Gier in this adventure?” Skipper Peter asked after their meditation had ended. “I didn’t frighten you, Jan, into that decision, did I?”
The commissaris congratulated his friend on the astute nature of that question. He saw no point in using half truths, considering the elevated nature of their togetherness at this moment. The cruel beating that de Gier suffered, the immersion of Grijpstra in foul waters, the whistling bullets in the Silent Zone north of Amsterdam that had broken his pheasant feather, yes, certainly, the commissaris’s persona had definitely been shocked. But—the commissaris leaned forward confidentially—were they dealing with personas here? What were personas but masks, to be worn during certain episodes only. The present project had to do with essence. Essence is pure being. Pure being knows no fear.
The skipper spoke solemnly too. He agreed but preferred to highlight a different aspect of human endeavor. There was the idea of challenge. Having accepted, and eventually mastered, challenges all his life he was now prepared to accept the final challenge. Now what was the name of the fund the commissaris had in mind?
The commissaris apologized. He could not say the magic word just yet. The present project had neither been completed nor paid for. But weren’t he and his pal Peter sharing a special moment here, against a backdrop of the most beautiful land and seascape of their planet? Moved by the moment the commissaris could now only gesture. Once he had found his voice again, the commissaris said, “I saw that advertisement for FEADships in Time magazine. ‘Only a few of you readers can afford the luxury of the vessel shown.’ Do you know that within days I may have the honor of being your equal?”
“Share the Rodney with me,” Skipper Peter said. “Maybe I’ll move ashore altogether. Maybe here. Do the things you said. If I don’t establish an official residence I may still be tax-free.”
The commissaris beamed. “We will be friends.”
28
ADMIRAL GEORGE BRYDGES RODNEY (1718–1792)
It was party time on board. To please Skipper Peter, Rotterdam cuisine, early fifties style, was served, prepared from foodstuffs the cook had helicoptered out of the St. Maarten Dutch deli.
The servant displayed an alabaster dish filled with glassy overboiled potatoes. He fetched its twin holding slimy endives. There were also mashed beets. Dessert was custard, crumbly at the edges. Coffee was weak, with milk skin floating in it. The alcohol was a brandless chemical Dutch gin, “young jenever,” poured from a label-free glass jar.
The skipper raised his shot glass. “Rotterdam backstreet moonshine. Teehee.” He winked. The commissaris winked back. The time had come. Both men left the room.
Once on deck, shielded from immature hostile ears by the raucous calls of gulls, friend Jan told friend Peter that he was buying Fokker Aircraft shares, a company about to be taken over by Koreans. Skipper Peter rushed to his cabin to E-mail his brokers. He came back exhausted, drank too much too quickly, passed out and was put to be
d by boatswain and servant.
That he was getting so drunk now, Carl meanwhile told de Gier, was caused by surprise. The boarding and subsequent conquest of the supertanker Rebecca had been so easy. To think that Grijpstra’s crew had used fake weapons, imitation pistols and carbines made out of stained balsa wood. To think that constables Ketchup and Karate, both in pain, and tired, nevertheless acted convincingly as fierce buccaneers. That the Pirate Air Force was no more than the Rodney’s mini-chopper, that Fatso Grijpstra had swaggered about as the Pirate Captain, that he, little Carl, and de Gier, hardly in the prime of life, or even in first-class condition, had shouted and snarled and jumped about and managed to be so bad.
“Not to forget Admiral Sir Francis Drake on our flagship,” de Gier said grimly, thinking of how the commissaris had insisted on wearing a black eye patch and had been seen by the servant strutting about the Rodney’s decks, while being kept informed by cell-phone by his crew of the boarding of the Rebecca.
Yes, Carl said, to think that all members of the expedition had been made unrecognizable by Calvin and Hobbes made-in-China masks, on sale in St. Maarten. How willing the Rebecca’s captain had been to take his ship to the Statia pier. To think how easily the Calvins and Hobbeses had disposed of the Rebecca’s crew on the island of St. Kitts afterward, presenting the crew members with reasonable amounts of money. How the abused crew showed genuine smiles when the rubber boat took off. “Have a nice day Calvin, thank you Hobbes.” How easy negotiations had been between Carl Ambagt and the fence, alias “Little Abner,” Statia’s oil buyer, escorted by burly guards dressed in army fatigues, who each carried a suitcase filled with crispy greenbacks, soon to be deposited into an Ambagt account with a Statia bank.
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