Black Ice (20 page)

It was too late. He had no option now.

He started the engine. He did not turn but drove straight out of the village, going very fast. He braked only briefly before the bends, changing down and then driving on with the engine roaring.

If the filling station in the little town had closed he was in trouble.

But the filling station was open. He got the tank filled right up, stood beside the car. “Bloody cold this evening, eh?”

The attendant shrugged his shoulders. “Winter's on its way.”

“How long are you on duty here?”

“Until ten. No one comes by after then.”

Scholten nodded. “They wouldn't. Could you look at the oil too? I want to get to Holland this evening.”

He stood there until the filling-station attendant had finished then followed him into the warm shop, paid, got a receipt.

“Do you have the exact time?” he asked.

The attendant compared the clock on the wall with his watch. “Exactly twenty to eight,” he said. Scholten looked at his own watch, nodded. He said: “Can I phone from here?” He felt hot. Sweat suddenly broke out in his armpits.

The attendant pointed to the corner. Scholten lifted the receiver, dialled the number of the weekend house. The first time he misdialled. His finger got stuck and he shifted the phone. He tried again, slowly. This time he succeeded.

He stood there with the receiver to his ear, listening to the ringing tone. He heard his heart beating fast and hard. He felt as if distant music were reaching his ear down the phone, mysterious and polyphonic. He held his breath. He was afraid of staggering, and supported himself with one hand on the wall.

Fear clutched at his heart.

He opened his mouth, took a deep breath. The idea that he might have misdialled again went through his mind. He pressed the receiver rest down, was about to dial again, stopped. Fingers trembling, he unbuttoned his coat, took his notebook out of his jacket pocket. His chequebook came with it and fell to the floor. He picked up the chequebook, put the notebook on the table and looked up the number of the weekend house.

He dialled very carefully, digit by digit.

The ringing tone, for a very long time. And after a while that damn music drifted into his ear again. He shuddered. He let the receiver fall back on the rest.

The attendant was sitting behind his little desk, tilting his chair back and forth and chewing a match. “Nobody home?”

“No. No, there's no answer.” Scholten put the notebook
away, buttoned up his coat. “Thanks very much. Have a nice weekend.”

“Thanks, and the same to you.”

He sat in his car for one or two minutes as if paralysed. Suddenly he started the engine and drove away at high speed. When he was on the motorway he put his foot down. The road was empty, endless, cold under the sparkling starry sky.

After a while Scholten had to drive more slowly. Tears were blurring his eyes. He wiped them away, steering with one hand, but more and more kept coming. He drove onto the hard shoulder, stopped, looked for his handkerchief. He said, his voice stifled: “Don't do anything silly, Jupp Scholten, you've got to get out of here. Come on!” He blew his nose hard, wiped his eyes. He put his foot down and drove on.

At eight-fifteen he reached the border crossing. As he slowly approached the brightly lit glass cabins he leaned to one side, lifted the lid of the cat basket and put one finger in. He felt the cat's nose. It began nibbling at his finger with its sharp teeth. “Be a good boy now, Manny,” he said. “Not a peep out of you, understand?”

He was prepared for them to look inside the basket and ask to see a veterinary certificate. Then he'd have to drive back and look for a hotel at the next exit.

The customs man looked at the photo in Scholten's passport, gave it back and said: “Have a good trip.”

Scholten said: “You're friendly for a customs man!”

“Why? Had bad experiences, have you?”

Scholten laughed. “Sometimes, yes.”

The man said: “You would with me too if you have anything in the car that shouldn't be there.”

Scholten was alarmed. He laughed. “No, no, for God's sake. Nothing to declare!”

“That's okay, then.”

Scholten stepped on the accelerator, then braked, put his head out of the window again. “Do you have the right time?”

The man raised his hand. “Look, the big clock there. Eight twenty-one.”

Scholten drove to the end of the long parking place. He put the cat on its leash, walked it up and down in the twilight. It inspected the grass for a while, then stopped, raised its tail, twitched the tip of the tail and stared at the darkness. He said: “Get on with it, Manny, we don't have all night.”

When the cat had done its business he put it back in the basket. He thought for a moment then closed the lid. Too much milk might not be a good thing now. He drove back and went to the Bureau de Change. He made out a cheque for three hundred marks and had it changed into Dutch gulden. He asked the girl sitting sleepily behind her counter: “Do you have a phone here?”

She raised her chin. “Behind you.”

He went into one of the three open phone boxes, put money in the slot, dialled the number of the weekend house. He stared at the dial.

The ringing tone, monotonous, again and again. He felt fear spread through him, suppressing every other thought and movement.

After he had listened to the ringing tone for almost a minute, he hung up. He rubbed his eyes, leaned against the phone. Then he went out. He was staggering and had to reach for the door handle twice.

22

Scholten reached the outer suburbs of Amsterdam around ten. He drove into the city centre. He got lost twice, but finally he recognized the Oude Kerk in the subdued street lighting. He drove up the side of the canal, over a steep narrow bridge and down the canal again along the opposite quay. A car was moving out just in front of him. Scholten went into the parking place it left free.

He took the basket out of the car and slowly climbed the bridge leading over to the Oude Kerk. Reflections of light wandered over the dark, restless water. He stopped, put the basket carefully on the balustrade of the bridge and held it steady with both hands.

It was just like the old days. The tall, narrow, slightly crooked houses on both sides of the canal. Not many of the upper windows were lit, but there was a reddish glow from the basements. The door of the bar on the corner opened, and a clamour of voices came out. Scholten took a deep breath. The air was cold, not as full of aromas as on a summer evening, but there was a faint smell of frying in it, of beer and cigarettes and the musty odour of silt on the walls of the quay, the vapours rising from the dark water.

He felt a sense of promise, just as he had before. Something exciting was going to happen tonight. It was waiting ahead of him somewhere, just round the corner. He felt the excitement in his belly and his legs.

He was breathing hard. He raised the lid of the
basket slightly. “Take a look, Manny. This is Amsterdam. Do you like it?” The cat put its nose out through the crack.

The tower of the Oude Kerk struck the half-hour, ten-thirty, two hoarse, broken notes that echoed back in the ravine of the canal and from the walls of the old church. He put the cat gently back and closed the basket. “No time now, Manny, you can have another look later.”

He hurried on with the basket. He found a small hotel in a side street. The paint was peeling off the façade, the steps up to the door were worn. A Moluccan with spiky hair was sitting at the desk in front of the board of keys, reading the newspaper. He wanted twenty-five gulden in advance. Scholten paid and took the key of his room. He said: “I'll be going out again. For a walk, understand?”

The Moluccan smiled and nodded.

“How long is the door open?
De deur open, du verstaan
?”

“
De heele nacht
.” The Moluccan smiled. All night.

“Fine.” Scholten was already in the doorway with his basket. He turned. “What's the time? The exact time,
du verstaan
?” He tapped his watch with his finger. The Moluccan looked at his own watch and then at Scholten's. He tapped Scholten's watch. “
Die gaat goed
.
Achttien minuten voor elf
.” It keeps good time. Eighteen minutes to eleven.

“
Ah, ja, achttien
. Eighteen to eleven. Fine.”

He went along the canal in search of a bar. The one on the corner was too full for him; he was afraid it would be too noisy for the cat. He walked over the cobblestones, looking keenly all around him, drawing in the air.

He stopped by the steps leading down to a basement. A woman was sitting behind the window at the
bottom of the steps. From above, he could see her big breasts in her basque. She looked up, waved to him. He was about to go on, stopped, undecided.

He might not feel so fit afterwards.

He walked a little way further, then turned and went down the steps. The woman opened the door and smiled at him.

He asked: “How much? You
verstaan
?” He rubbed thumb and forefinger together.

She said: “
Vijftig gulden
.”

“
Vijftig?”
He raised the five fingers of one hand. “Fifty?”

She nodded. He went in. As he was taking off his jacket, she tapped the basket. “
Wat heb je er in? Eieren?
” What do you have in there? Eggs?

“In the basket? No, not eggs. You must think I come from the country. No, it's my cat in there.”

“Cat?
'n kat? Dat is niet waar!
” A cat? I don't believe it! She opened the lid. The cat rose, arched its back and mewed. The woman began to laugh heartily, picked the cat up, stroked it, went to the door and called, “
Sonja! Kom, kijk eens! 'n kat! Die kerel heft zijn kat bij zich!
” Come and look at this! A cat! The man's brought his cat with him!

In the end there were four women standing around the cat, passing it from one to the other, stroking it and meanwhile looking at Scholten and laughing. Scholten, who was sitting on the bed and had already taken one shoe off, didn't quite know what to do. As if casually he put the shoe on again.

One of the women went to fetch milk for the cat. They bent down and cooed at the animal as it lapped the milk. Scholten watched the broad behind, clad only in knickers, stretched very close to his eyes. He felt rather uncomfortable.

It was a good quarter of an hour before the other women left the room. Scholten would really have preferred one of them, a tall blonde, to his hostess, but he doubted whether he could go back on the deal now, and he lacked the vocabulary to explain. The women took the cat with them. Scholten wanted to stop them, but he didn't know how to get his way without raising his voice. The women laughed, waved to him and disappeared with the cat.

For Scholten, it was a fiasco. After ten minutes his hostess shook her head. “
Dat gaat niet. Kijk eens
.” It's not going to work. She raised her hand then lowered it. “
Heb je gedronken?”
Have you been drinking?

Scholten got up. He reached for his trousers and asked, “Where's my cat?”

She went to the door and called: “Sonja?” She went out.

Scholten quickly got dressed and followed her, feeling anxious. The women were kneeling down round the cat in the room on the other side of the narrow corridor. The cat was sitting on the floor, eating chopped raw meat.

Scholten waited until it had finished the last piece and was licking its whiskers. He put the cat in the basket and closed the lid. He said “Thanks. Good evening,” and left. The women laughed and called: “
Tot ziens!
” See you soon.

Out in the street he swore softly. Fifty gulden for the cat. He laughed. Yes, for the cat's dinner. He walked past the Oude Kerk, looking up at the mighty stones of the plinth. It was dark down here. He glanced up at the sky.

He whispered: “Just as well.”

Perhaps Hilde was dead already. He shivered. He hoped she was dead. He hoped she wasn't suffering
any more. He shook his head, whispered: “Jupp Scholten, what a bastard you are!” On the night of Hilde's death.

No, it was just as well he hadn't been able to do it. “You'd never have been able to forgive yourself, Jupp Scholten.”

He went on, walking faster. He went into a bar. It was rather full, but he found a free place by the counter. He ordered a beer and a chaser of genever, Dutch gin, asked for the menu. He ordered an
Uitsmijter
, ham and fried eggs, because he wasn't sure what the names of the other dishes meant. By the time it came he was on his third beer and his third genever. He shovelled in the ham and fried eggs, ordered his next beer.

After quarter of an hour the others in the bar had found out what was in the basket. The landlady wanted to give the cat some milk and chopped meat, she indicated to Scholten that it couldn't hurt the cat: it was steak. “Beefsteak, good, good, understand?”

Scholten waved the offer away, inflated his cheeks, pushed out his stomach, patted it, pointed to the cat, and said: “The cat's full,
verstaan
? Cat will burst. Ping!
Verstaan
?”

The people laughed. They stroked the cat and bought Scholten a beer and a genever.

After another half hour he sang “Tulips From Amsterdam”. The people clapped and cried “Bravo!” One of them asked if he could sing “Why Is the Rhine So Beautiful?” too. Scholten sang “Why Is The Rhine So Beautiful?
”
, and in response to another request “If all the water in the Rhine, if only it was golden wine”. The Dutch hummed and sang along with him.