"Dried," Grijpstra said. "I fished them out of the canal at Prince's Island. Took forever to steam the smell out."
Carl hung the painting, helped by Grijpstra. Meanwhile they discussed art, agreeing that anything can be done, in all dimensions, combining incompatibles, and that colors should never match. "And music," Grijpstra said. "I think music should fit in, but I don't dare to do that yet. Like these ducks here. Next time I make ducks I'll use real bones, glue them on the canvas and make them movable maybe, you pull something and they scratch against each other."
Carl agreed that scratching was the ultimate sound. "You plahay druhums, I heahear?"
"Yeh, drums," Grijpstra said. They walked back together to the kitchen part of the loft and Grijpstra scratched pots with a wooden spoon. "Hear? But that isn't the sound of skeleton ducks. I can find it if I try. It was easier when de Gier was still around. He played a good flute, and I'd scratch around his notes."
"There was a postcard from de Gier," the commissaris said to his wife. "From the eastern part of New Guinea. He must be moving around."
"Never mind de Gier," his wife said, "I don't want you to go there too."
"De Gier sent me a picture of a Papuan drum," Grijpstra told Cardozo. "Huge. A hollowed-out tree. I'd like to play that."
"From Port Moresby?" Cardozo asked. "I had a postcard too."
"No, inland. There's a river, he said he went up by boat."
"Don't worry, Katrien," the commissaris said. "Grijpstra wants to go as well. Bit of a holiday, maybe. Maybe later."
"Your vermouth, ma'am," Karate said.
Mrs. Jongs drank sherry. Grijpstra tapped Carl's father's wooden head with his spoon. "That's a good sound."
"Becauhause there's nobody hohome," Carl said. "When he's hohome it souhounds bad."
"We're home," Antoinette said. "Isn't it nice to be home together, Carl?"
"Greahate change," Carl said. He explained to Karate that he drove a car now, Antoinette's car, nothing to it. He had learned to drive and gotten his license. They went to a party and Antoinette drank too much, so he had to drive them home. As he walked to the car, a patrol car came by. The cops jumped out. They'd seen him swaying across the pavement. "So I saihaid, 'I'm spahastic' And the cops apologized. They were very sorry. Never mind. It hadn't happened. A mistake. Go ahead. Good night, sir. 'Bye now."
"You weren't drunk," Karate said.
"Vehery druhunk," Carl said.
The telephone rang. Antoinette picked it up. "One moment, please, he's here." She gave the phone to the commissaris.
"Are you on call?" his wife asked.
"Yes, Katrien. Hello?"
He listened. "Yes, all right."
"You have to go?" his wife asked.
"Yes, dear, I'll see you at home."
"I'll take you," Cardozo said.
"No, thank you, Sergeant, I'd better go alone." He turned to his wife. "It's Willem."
"No." She held his hand. "No. Willem is in jail. That's over, don't go to see him."
"He's in the hospital," the commissaris said. "I've known about Willem's illness since last week."
"Under guard?" Grijpstra asked. "They shouldn't let him out of jail. He'll escape, sir. Think of something, impersonate a doctor, we'll have to go after him again."
"Leukemia," the commissaris said. "He wouldn't go far. I spoke to Dr. Peters in the hospital. He said Fernandus wasn't doing very well."
"Fernandus will fake anything," Grijpstra said. "Let me go with you. We can take care of this."
"We'll take Fernandus for a walk?" the commissaris asked. "Please, Adjutant. The baron didn't survive his walk. Let's leave this to nature."
"Shall I go with you?" Antoinette said. "I rather like Mr. Fernandus."
"Noho," Carl said.
"Sometimes," Mrs. Jongs said, "it's better they dies, but they don't dies easy."
"You're only going to gloat," said the commissaris's wife. "Don't do that, Jan. Leave Willem be. It's a happy ending for you, I don't want you to be happy that way."
"Nothing ever ends," the commissaris muttered. "What do you know? You can be pretty silly, Katrien."
"I'm sorry," she said. "But you were after him so much. You never really go after anyone, but this time ... sitting in the garden talking to yourself... up at all hours . . . cursing and swearing in your bath ... I don't want to see you like that, please."
"Maybe you should go, then, sir," Grijpstra said. "You hunted him and now you've got to be in at the kill. It's only fair. He sees that too. That's why he's asking you to come over."
"The cancer is killing him," the commissaris said. "Leukemia is blood cancer."
"No," Karate said, "that's only afterward. You got to die of something. It's like my father—he died of cancer too, but that wasn't it really. He was an engine driver and he made some mistake and he got fired. Couldn't drive his engine no more. Nothing to do. People ask him, 'What are you?' and he says he is nothing. Once you're nothing you got to go, so you got to get sick."
"My father's done nothing all his life," Ketchup said.
"Sure," Karate said. "But now take that away. Tell him he's got to work. He's got to give up doing nothing, right? And doing nothing is all of his life? So he'll break his back or catch his death of cold." The commissaris drove himself over. He waited at the hospital's reception counter until a nurse came to take him up. The nurse smiled sadly at the forlorn little figure waiting in the hall. "You must be his brother," she said. "Please follow me, sir. What a remarkable likeness."
\\ 35 /////
"BUT I'M DYING," FERNANDUS SAID, SITTING UP against his clean, fluffy cushions. "Don't look so nervous, Jan. There's no gun under the sheets. You won. You said you were going to destroy me, and by Jove, you did."
"You believe in Jove now?" the commissaris asked, wondering who would have sent Fernandus the red roses on his night table.
"The nurse brought them in," Fernandus said. "They have lots of flowers here. Nobody would send me flowers."
The commissaris acknowledged the information with a careful smile. Fernandus nodded too. "I could always read your thoughts. Conforming thoughts. The obvious again. You think like the majority. Not amazing at all, the way our lives turned out."
"Can I smoke here?" the commissaris asked.
"Sure. Got a cigar for me?"
The commissaris brought out his tin, holding it close to his chest.
"No," Fernandus said. "I don't believe this. Go on, give me a cigar. You're still punishing me? Thanks. A light too, if you please."
The commissaris looked about the bright room. "No guard?"
"No." Fernandus held the tip of his cigar under his nose and sniffed. "You could buy a better brand. Leave the tin anyway, I'll be gone tomorrow afternoon. At four sharp, they say, got the word today, that's why I called you."
"Back to jail?" The commissaris felt his leg. "If you're dying, they might let you do it here."
"They'll kill me here." Fernandus grinned. "Pain in your legs? Good. Is your trouble getting worse?"
The commissaris got up. "You enervate me, Willem. Mind if I cut this short? Is there anything in particular you want to say?"
Fernandus struggled weakly into a more upright position. "Sit down, Jan, I've got pains too, the pleasure is mutual, you can laugh at me. I've got leukemia, did they tell you that?" He held up a finger. "Listen. I looked it up. Acute forms are fatal within weeks or months. Symptoms include weakness, fatigue, anemia, and hemorrhaging. Leukemia is invariably fatal. This is goodbye. Say goodbye in style."
"Goodbye," the commissaris said. He sat down.
"You don't want to know about the euthanasia?" Fernandus asked.
"So you'll be killed at four o'clock tomorrow," the commissaris said. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry to hear it?"
Fernandus kept sliding back. "Help me up."
"Maybe you're more comfortable lying flat."
"I'm not." Fernandus grimaced. "Go on. Thanks. A little higher. Push t
hat pillow down. Mind my cigar. So how do you feel about our little war now, eh? I hear you got the baron killed and that Guldemeester has been arrested. Did you mess that up?" He shrugged. "It doesn't always quite work the way we set it up. They fell down together and Guldemeester broke his legs. Or was that the way you planned it? Exterminate everyone who ever associated with me? Stamp out the vermin?"
"Who told you about that happening?" the commissaris asked.
Fernandus pointed at the phone next to the flowers. "Ten Haaf."
The commissaris shook his head. "That was a forced move. De la Faille would have shown up in Holland again; the police are patient."
"Yes." Fernandus nodded at the nurse who came in. "We could have some tea. Thank you, dear, you're looking even prettier today." He looked at his visitor. "So now you're the official again, using proper methods? I took that away from you for a while. Dropped the rules. You should be grateful. You could prove yourself." He reached over and touched the commissaris's knee. "You think you did well?"
The commissaris smiled. "Yes. All things considered."
"No," Fernandus said. "Your motivation was wrong. Do you know that now?"
"Wait," the commissaris said. "Before I forget. What happened to Ryder's car? Did Ten Haaf mention the Ferrari?"
"Ten Haaf's got the Ferrari." Fernandus raised a shoulder. "That's an unimportant detail, Jan. Your man left the car. Your fellow came too late." He lifted an eyebrow. "What was the matter with that sergeant? He couldn't arrest the baron in Spain, or had you arranged for a foreign warrant? Was there time for that?"
"Never mind," the commissaris said.
"But I do." Fernandus thumped his bed. "Must have been something personal too. Like you and me. Your man used a stolen car. Is he still with the police?"
"Rinus is in New Guinea now," the commissaris said, reaching out too, but withdrawing his hand before it could touch Fernandus's leg. "That part of our conflict worked out rather well. I've been wanting de
Gier to strike out on his own for a while now, but he kept clinging to his routine."
"Or to you," Fernandus said. "Halba . . ." He grinned. "What a lout. You got him to resign, I hear. Stupid ass. Halba said you have a dedicated staff— sort of groupies, you're a father to them."
The commissaris accepted a cup of tea from the tray the nurse was holding.
"You've been drinking?" Fernandus asked after the nurse had left. He sniffed. "Whiskey?" He looked at his watch. "You drink at your office?"
"A wedding party," the commissaris said. "My secretary got married."
"The secretary?" Fernandus's eyes gleamed.
"Yes."
"Whom did she marry?"
The commissaris put down his tea. "I'll be right back."
He came back some twenty minutes later.
"A long leak?" Fernandus asked.
The commissaris sat down again. "I spoke to Dr. Peters."
"Oh." Fernandus nodded. "Let's have another cigar. I say, do me a favor and look in that closet. There's a bottle there, the guard bought it for me before he was sent back."
The commissaris fetched the bottle. "Pour it in the cups," Fernandus said. He waved both hands. "Don't be an idiot now. We go back forever, Jan, and this is it. You saw the doctor, so you must believe me now."
The commissaris muttered while he poured the whiskey.
"Did you say 'shit'?" Fernandus asked. "You don't want to face me? Here's shit in your eye."
The commissaris raised his cup. "Your health." He lowered the cup again. "Sorry."
"Not your health either," Fernandus said. "I want you to suffer. Here's to the pain in your leg." He drank. "Do you know why I asked you to come?"
"Sure," the commissaris said. "To brag. Save your last breath, Willem." He raised his hands. "No, really, shut up. I'll drink your liquor, but I've had enough of your claptrap by now." He drank too. "Sixty years of wrong views. I know your side of the argument. I'm the weak one who refused to experiment. We agree there are no absolute morals ..."
"We do," Fernandus said. "In theory you always saw that, but you were conventional, you took the easy way out. Sold your soul to the opinion of the majority. Waved the flag, sang the national anthem."
"And why not?" The commissaris looked over the rim of his cup. "This isn't a bad country. You betrayed it."
"I never betrayed myself," Fernandus said. "I maneuvered along with whoever happened to be in power, always covering my exits. I'm for me, like everybody else is for everybody else, it's a nasty truth and I faced up to it. I had a good time. You didn't."
The commissaris winked. "Always covered your exits, eh? So how come I caught you at the taxi stand?"
Fernandus held up his cup. "You betrayed our mutual views. And you and I are the same. You're my weak side, my eternal embarrassment, my shame. Of all those eager watchdogs, you were the only one who could foresee what I might do." Fernandus smacked his lips. "I hoped—it's true, even if you don't believe me—I hoped that you'd let me go, to continue the game. But you had to get rid of me, you ass. Couldn't face the truth."
The commissaris refilled the cups. "The truth . . . what if there isn't any?"
Fernandus sighed pleasurably. "Good buzz. Hits the painkiller just right." He looked at his cigar. "You thought I'd die of lung cancer, I'm sure. I had stopped smoking, then I started again because of you. I thought about that later. Did you know they suspected lung cancer, the doctors?"
"No." The commissaris balanced his cup on the palm of his hand. "Why should I know that? I have been avoiding you. I asked you a question. What if there isn't any truth? What if even our supposition that there's no truth isn't true? Wouldn't we have to make up our own truth then?"
"But I did," Fernandus said loudly. "You didn't. You accepted the made-up truth of present unevolved society. I hypothesized that nothing matters and that therefore I could make myself matter and that I should do anything to bring about the best possible time for me. I succeeded at doing that. Most of my life I had everything that my own gods would hand me on a platter." Fernandus giggled. "Including your secretary. Now whom did she marry?"
"The junkie," the commissaris said, "who is no junkie and whom you failed to kill. A most courageous and talented artist. Carl."
Fernandus studied the swirling contents of his cup. "The unbalanced boy who stutters?"
"Yes."
Fernandus drank. "Yes, I didn't figure that out very well, you can't blame me for that. You always had the power of the state behind you, and I could only rely on my own weak crew. I was handicapped. Even so, I did pretty well."
"You didn't get my secretary," the commissaris said. "She was my spy. You never knew that."
Fernandus held up his cup again. "But I did, I saw through your gambit at once. I never trusted Toine." He grinned. "But what a chance! She had to play along a bit and I stretched that out as far as her imagination would go. I reconstructed Miss Bakker. . . heh heh."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "You sure you can drink this much? The alcohol might conk you out."
"I'll be all right."
"Sure," the commissaris said. "You'll be fine. Tomorrow you die and nobody cares. Your wife has become a fat slobbering sow. Your son waits for you in hell. The baron, your trusted right hand, will turn into a festering demon who'll spread himself all over your ghost. Heul and the junkies you overdosed in that garbage boat changed into cancerous cells that are now sucking your marrow."
"Whoa," Fernandus shouted. "Save your poetry, Jan. What brings on this petty rage? Getting sozzled already?"
"A bit." The commissaris nodded. "Just a bit. I'd better not get drunk. If I do, Katrien will be furious."
Fernandus imitated the commissaris's voice. " 'Katrien will be furious.' Here you are, sixty years old, head of the municipal police, a knight in the Order of the Queen, and you live in peril of your dragon lady."
The commissaris frowned. "Katrien wanted to come too. Be grateful she didn't."
"I would have told her abo
ut Miss Bakker," Fernandus said, slurring the edges of his words. "That's where it all started. It's so simple, looking back. That's what's nice about approaching death. Suddenly the worn-out memory becomes quite clear. Listen"— he gestured, careful not to spill his whiskey—"listen, Jan. You and I were both born of middle-aged, flat-chested mothers, that's the key to our desire. Absence of good breasts. We both tried to make Miss Bakker our mother. You succeeded because you were good at being cute. I got you off her lap. I deprived you of motherly love, of big breasts to lean your cute little head against, and to feel a bit, I saw you do that."
"No," the commissaris said. "Right. Let's assume you're right. It would have made no difference if I had stayed on Miss Bakker's lap or not. Now listen to this. I agree, we keep going back to that basic supposition, I agree that there's nothing at all. No morals. No good or evil. We made it up ourselves. We, humanity." He waved his cup wildly.
"Careful," Fernandus said.
"So there's this big empty universe," the commissaris said. "With some minute specks of matter floating around, and we're on a speck. But the speck is nothing, either. So we can do as we like. We can be friendly or unfriendly. Maybe we're clever, you and I. . ."
"Very clever," Fernandus said. "But what's the good of intelligence if it isn't used? You never used yours. You toed all these lines. On the tips of your toes, tongue hanging out, conforming, pleasing essentially powerless authorities like the Queen. Bah! Never daring to do anything at all on your own, refusing the good gifts. You never even had a proper car.
"I have a very nice car," the commissaris said, "serves me well, thank you, and a comfortable house, and a turtle, and a coffee pot, I've got everything. Now hold off for a minute. So maybe I'm clever. I can manipulate the others, make them do what I like. Abuse them. What good does that do?"
"There's no good," Fernandus said. "There's only our own selection of self-made values."
"Please," the commissaris said. "Don't interrupt all the time. I have manipulated people, I still do, but for their own . . ."He hesitated.
Hard Rain Page 26