“But you’ll be on your own there while I’m dealing with these people.
You’ll have absolutely nothing to do with them, now or ever.”
“Of course,” said Anneke. “I’m at least as reasonable as you.”
75
It was her first time in Bruges. Pack on
back, we walked from the railroad station along the broad and empty
Begijnenvest in fitful sunlight, and when we reached the Minnewater road she
stopped short and said, “Oh, look.”
The lake was glassy smooth, the only ripples om it made by swans
which could not have been more regal. The foliage on the surrounding trees
was now October-thin, but there was still enough of it to set everything against
a gauzy, pale green backdrop. The beautifully proportioned old buildings and
the wall of the Beguinage down the road were out of a remote past when much
of this Flemish world must have been as empty and quiet as it was now.
“Oh, God,” said Anneke, “it’s so lovely it hurts.”
Toward the center of town, however, there was a steady thickening of
traffic. From Sinte-Katelijnestraat I pointed at the Bell Tower rising high
above the main square not far away. “That’s Gros Markt Square. My meeting
is down the block here, but if you go over to the square you’ll find enough to
keep you entertained for awhile.”
“How long will you be?”
“Let’s allow a few hours. There’s an eating place, Oscar’s, on Sint-
Amandstraat just off the square, and we’ll get together there at five. Next door
to it there’s a movie house, the Mini-Bioscoop, that shows classical stuff. You
can kill some time that way.”
“You said we might stay overnight. Couldn’t I just get a room for us?”
“Not yet. If that car is waiting for me, I’m not sure where we’ll wind up
tonight.”
The rain, which had obligingly remained cloud-borne all morning,
suddenly dripped down as we kissed good-by. “Wherever it is, it had better be
someplace in the south,” Anneke warned me. “Somewhere in the sunshine.”
At exactly noon I entered the bookstore on Sinte-Katelijnestraat and
found Kees waiting. “I hope you haven’t eaten,” he said. “No? Good.
Leewarden told me to bring you around to his house for lunch as soon as you
showed up. And Monika — the housekeeper — cooks like an angel.” Under a
gentle drizzle, he led me down Oude Gentvig. “He rents the place here year
76
round so he can be with his kid weekends. But she’ll be away from the house
for the afternoon, so we’ll have all the privacy we need.”
“No wife?”
“Oh, she ran off with another man a few years ago. But after the divorce
she kept going to court about her rights to the daughter until Leewarden planted
the kid in school here just to keep her out of range. He’s very embittered about
it all. And not reticent about it either, once he gets a bottle of wine down.”
It was an accurate forecast. Leewarden — a forty-year-old, bald,
popeyed version of Bertie Wooster — ate very little of the excellent lunch
served by the motherly Belgian housekeeper, but applied himself diligently to
the wine. As the second bottle was being opened, the conversation, politely
meaningless up to now, took a turn in my direction. What, Leewarden asked
me heatedly, was my way of life all about? All right, present company
excepted, of course, but look at the company I kept. Dirty, foul-mouthed,
sexually loose, drugging itself silly, deafening everyone with its idea of music
— what the bloody hell was going on nowadays?
Kees shot me a warning glance. “Nothing much,” I said, a picture of the
impending Volkswagen vivid in my mind. “It’s harmless.”
“The devil it is,” said Leewarden. “My wife was infected by that kind of
harmlessness just long enough to wreck my life and her daughter’s. And what
about Sarah herself? My daughter. Thirteen last month and just ripe for
infection if she’s let loose among it. It’s a great inconvenience, let me tell you,
to have her educated in an out-of-the-way hole like this, but, by God, it’s one
way of keeping her from being corrupted.”
I was hard put not to ask my highly moral host how business was with
Kinema 96 Produkt, Copenhagen, his porno film factory, and Kees, as if
reading my mind, hastily raised his glass in a toast. “To Bruges,” he said,
straight-faced, “the last refuge of decency.”
“But,” said I to Leewarden, putting aside the 1arger malice for a smaller
one, “some day Sarah will have to go back to England. Will she be ready for
England when the time comes?”
“It’ll be a long time coming,” said Leewarden, reaching for the wine
bottle again.
“Doesn’t she even visit there now?”
77
Leewarden glowered. “So my ex-wife can get her shiny claws into her
and show her the beauties of life backstage?” He squinted at me over the rim
of the glass. “You might have heard of the lady. Emmaline Bell? Second best
parts in the West End? Some film bits?”
“Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. An over-the-hill ingénue with the morals of a
mink. What’s more —”
It was a long and detailed “what’s more” and it went on until Monika
cleared away the remnants of lunch and, under Kees’s instructions, departed to
the kitchen to wait any further orders there. “Business,” said Kees sweetly.
“Let’s proceed with it, Simon.”
“Business,” said Leewarden. “Right. Our arrangements.”
“About those arrangements,” I said to him, “I’m the one doing the dirty
work. Transporting the currency, that is. Now I’d like to know what it’s all
about. Otherwise —”
”Oh, there’s nothing terribly dishonest about it. Aid let’s face it, van
Zee, if we don’t do it, somebody else will be bloody well skimming the cream
off the pail.”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Well, let’s put it in plain language. Internationa1 airlines are largely
dependent on travel agencies to bring them their trade. Naturally, there must be
a quid pro quo.”
“Rebates,” Kees said. He gave me his best smile. “Not legal, of course,
but highly essential in the tourist trade.”
I said, “And Simon here is the agent of agents. The one who collects the
rebate money and sees that it lands in the right hands.”
Leewarden nodded. “For a commission. An extremely generous
commission.”
“And consider,” said Kees, “that the airlines involved — sixteen of
them at present — are among the most respectable corporations doing business
here and in America. We’re not moving among the underworld. We’re dealing
with people who at the slightest smell of scandal will throw all their weight
into protecting us.”
What could be more considerate? Not only was I being handed a car and
a fair income for my occasional services, but if anything went wrong there
78
would be a battalion of corporation lawyers leaping to my defense. Anything
to make sure I remained content and close-mouthed.
“S
o there it is,” Leewarden said. “As for the details of your job, I’m not
really that familiar with them, but Kees can fill you in there.”
“Including,” said Kees, “the question of how you came into possession
of the car, should anyone ever ask it.”
“And how did I?” I asked.
“You’re now going to buy it. I have the papers here for you. My
signature on them indicates I’ve received payment in full.” He seemed very
pleased with himself. “Believe me, jochie, you’ll never get a better bargain.”
Papers tucked away in my pocket, I went out with him and Leewarden,
all of us warmed by a bottle each of excellent Burgundy, to look over my new
acquisition. In the garage behind the house was a Bentley saloon and a fireengine-
red, gleaming new Volkswagen — the classic Bug — dwarfed to
insignificance by the Bentley but still far more beautiful than it in my eyes. The
VW, I observed, had Dutch license plates.
Kees patted it affectionately. “There are a half dozen newspapers tucked
away in here. Now I challenge you to find them.”
I went over the car from one end to the other, inside and out. The VW, of
all cars, is not one to hide anything bulky, and it didn’t take long to decide that
anything hidden here had to be in an unreachable area beneath the chassis.
There must be a flat metal container welded under it.
When I announced my decision Leewarden shook his head. “Wrong,” he
said. “Although that’s just the conclusion any inspector would have to come to,
the bloody bugger.”
“All right,” I said, “where is it?”
“Watch,” said Kees. He used a small screwdriver to work on the
underpart of the front hood — the luggage compartment lid. What looked like a
narrow metal strengthener running around it turned out to be a flange. He
unscrewed the horseshoe-shaped length of it, and when he lifted it out I saw
that it supported a false bottom to the hood, a very thin plate the shape of the
hood itself, and on the plate were several copies of Het Parool. So the hood
was not the usual piece of stamped metal but two pieces with a couple of
inches of space between them. Certainly enough space to store a considerable
79
amount of currency in the area from the curved narrow tip over the front
bumper to the broad section below the windshield.
Kees lowered and raised the hood. “There’s also a spring action built
in. No matter how much weight in our secret compartment, the lid goes up like
a feather. A lovely job, right?”
A lovely job in every way.
My first drive in my new toy was to the railroad station where I
delivered Kees. It was, as he remarked jovially, the least I could do, since by
delivering my car to Bruges he had been forced to stable his in Amsterdam. On
the way to the station, he explained procedure.
I was to make a phone call to a London number the first of every month
from wherever I happened to be. Any response on the answering device was
the signal to report to a certain London garage exactly two weeks later. The
code phrase to the attendant when I drove in was “The motor knocks” but in
Dutch. The code response should also be in Dutch, “Turn it off, please,” and
when I got that precise response I would simply depart the premises on foot
and pick up the car there the next morning. Did I have all that straight?
“De motor klopt,” I said.
“Maar zet hem af, alstublieft,” said Kees. “And then bye-bye until
tomorrow.”
“And if he doesn’t answer that way?”
“Drive right out and phone the same number immediately. I can’t see it
happening though. The arrangements have been worked out too carefully.”
“I hope so. And after I pick up the car the next day — all loaded up, I
suppose — where do I make delivery?”
“There are eight possible locations on the Continent, two in North
Africa.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “This a numbered list of addresses
and the vital phone number. The man in London will give you a bill for car
repairs, and all you do is match the number on his bill with this list. For
example, two pounds on the bill means the merchandise goes to number two on
the list. Simple?”
“So it seems. What if I have a real breakdown on the road while I’m
loaded up?”
“Just phone the London number, and someone will show up to tow you
to the nearest safe garage. During those times you’re making a run with a
80
payload, that phone will be manned twenty-four hours a day. Any other
questions?”
“My payments.”
“Yes, I wondered when we’d get to that.” He motioned at the instrument
panel. “In that compartment after the final delivery each trip. In gulden. After
all, as a Dutch national you would be carrying most of your money in that
form, wouldn’t you?”
“I would.” I swung the car off the highway and pulled up before the
station. “And,” I said, “since everything is so flawlessly automated, there’s no
reason for any of us to meet each other again, is there?”
Kees grimaced. “All business, aren’t you? Not a bit friendly.”
“All business,” I said.
81
Someplace in the south, Anneke had
said. Somewhere in the sunshine.
It was four-thirty now. Tomorrow at this time she would be dabbling her
toes in the Mediterranean.
She was at a corner table in Oscar’s eating place when I walked in,
seated with a trio of teen-age girls, all wearing the same blue berets and short
capes so that Anneke in their midst looked like their schoolmistress The most
voluble of them was wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and had just reached
that point in her young life where, when I seated myself beside Anneke, she
hastily snatched off the glasses, almost dropping them in the process.
“Mijn man,” Anneke told the company by way of introducing me, then
said to me in English, “They’re all from England but go to Saint Ursula’s
School here. Beryl, Kathy, Sarah. We met at the movies next door. Queen
Christina with Greta Garbo.”
Saint Ursula’s School? Sarah? But what a wonderfully small world this
was. What a delightfully small town was ancient Bruges. Sarah Leewarden
turned pink as I stared at her, and I remembered my manners. “Did you like the
picture?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Sarah said. “And John Gilbert was perfectly beautiful. Did
you ever hear of him?”
“I did.”
“What about the car?” Anneke asked me.
“Parked around the corner. We’ll eat, mijn Christina, and then drive off
into the sunset.”
Beryl and Kathy giggled. Sarah frowned at me. “You aren’t really old
enough to know about John Gilbert firsthand. I mean, you couldn’t have seen
his films when they first came out.”
“No, but I have seen some of them. Monte Cristo, He Who Gets
Slapped —”
”Lon Chaney was in that one,” said Sarah, and right she was. “You pass
with honors,” I told her.
“Oh, her head’s stuffed with all that s
ort of movie thing,” Beryl said.
“Really encyclopedic.”
82
“Her mother’s an actress,” said Kathy, the smallest of the company.
“Emmaline Bell. Do you know about her too?”
“Yes.”
“You do?” Sarah said, lighting up.
“Emmaline Bell,” I said. “Plays roles in the West End very stylishly.
Does film parts too. Always a standout.”
“Oh, yes.” Sarah looked like Joan of Arc hearing the voices. “She’s a
great actress.”
“She is.” Then I did a mental double take. “Queen Christina. Do you
mean the Sisters at school let you see pictures like that?”
They all looked at each other furtively, and it was Anneke who said,
“Well, there’s an arrangement with the Mini-Bioscoop where they’re allowed
in if a teacher’s with them. I was elected teacher.”
“Last time,” said Beryl wickedly, “it was Sarah’s mother.”
“Beryl!” said Sarah.
“Well, it was, wasn’t it? I don’t see why it must be so frightfully secret
even with people who have nothing to do with the school.”
Sarah rose from her seat. “Really, that’s quite enough of that. And we
must be going.” She nodded at Anneke. “And we do thank you for helping out.
You’ll forget what you heard here, of course.”
“Didn’t hear a word,” said Anneke.
When they were out of the door Anneke leaned forward and gave me a
proper kiss of greeting. “Now, mijn man, where are we going in our pretty
car?”
“South into the sunshine.”
“Duty or pleasure?”
“Pleasure.”
“That’s the way to do it,” said Anneke.
83
It was almost three months later — New
Year’s Day in faraway Istanbul — when I got my first call to duty. Everything
worked precisely as Kees had foretold. On the scheduled day I pulled into
London, parked Anneke in a bed-and-board off the King’s Road, and hunted
out the garage in the East End that was to serve as my depot.
It was on Brick Lane, a shop with just enough room for one compact and
the man in charge, because this turned out to be a veritable Goliath. Inches
taller and broader than me, he had hair cropped in the Junker style, the stub of
a cheroot screwed into the corner of his mouth, and a moonlike face with the
kind of pug nose that offers a view up its nostrils.
The Luxembourg Run Page 9