The Perfidious Parrot (24 page)

“You think that is funny?” Skipper Peter asked.

The commissaris excused his sudden hooting. He pointed at a small mountain with a jagged peak on the south side of the island. “A volcano? Active, you think?”

“Dormant,” Ambagt Senior said. “But the Antilles are treacherous, you can’t count on anything. Same with the natives. And to think we set them such good examples.” He carefully felt his nose which looked more swollen than usual. “Do you know that St. Eustatius used to be known as the ‘Golden Rock’? Dutch merchants used to make big bucks here.”

The commissaris showed interest. “Two hundred years ago, up to fifty ocean-going ships
a day
used to anchor here,” he was told. “Benjamin Franklin himself kept a mailbox on St. Eustatius.”

“Here, eh?” The commissaris contemplated the silent inactivity ashore. A mini volcano to the south, a narrow valley straight ahead, five molehills to the north. Behind the narrow beach a bit of a boulevard with a few trees here and there, vainly trying to cover up a dull dry yellow inland. The village
consisted of crumbling walls and some sagging tiled roofs. There were no other ships in sight. Oranjestad reached into the water with a single short pier, a few hundred feet long. At the far left end of the island there was a far more imposing structure built out into the ocean, a giant quay where two supertankers were being pumped dry of their cargo. Between the low hills large aluminum storage tanks gleamed.

“Billions were earned here,” Peter Ambagt croaked, “measured in today’s values. Billions, dear sir. All made by smart thinking. Golden British pounds, yessir.” He held up index finger and thumb, some two inches apart. “Solid. The Golden Age, the era when America was still a colony and Britain made it illegal for her American subjects to trade with anybody but the homeland. Colonists sold their raw materials cheap and had to pay top dollar for finished British goods.”

“So there was smuggling,” the commissaris said cheerfully. “I like restrictive laws.” He nodded approval. “Invite illegal business so we can all have adventures. Cops and robbers forever, Skipper Peter. British cops, eh? American free men?” He rubbed his small slender hands. “A splendid conflict. So deals with America were made through our merchants here?”

So it was, Skipper Peter said. Smuggling between the Netherlands and America was channeled through Statia where large cargo vessels kept coming and going. Gigantic craft in those days, three stories high, filled to capacity with high-margin products. Why this particular island when there are so many? Because St. Eustatius had a perfect anchorage on its leeside. “Right where we are now,” Peter said. He raised his glass to toast the location.

The commissaris visualized the scene. Wooden frigates and
galleons, hoisting or striking thousands of square feet of complicated sails. The Netherlands tricolor flying, ashore and on many mast tops. Melodious shouts in many tongues as multiracial crews loaded or warehoused cargo. Rowboats manned by boisterous sailors skimming underneath bowsprits adorned with barebreasted figureheads of mermaids, courtesans, even noblewomen. Live women on the beach, posturing to attract potential clients’ attention. Gurgling jars filling pewter mugs with rum or jenever in cool basements or under quayside sunscreens.

Statia’s commerce, Skipper Peter related, doubled as soon as America prepared for her own liberation.

“Weapons,” whispered the old man greedily. “Gun powder. The never ending need for ammo. Uniforms. Food. Transport. The military is a money hole.” The mercantile fleets kept coming, protected by Dutch warships. It was the time of the great Dutch admirals. Old Ambagt pronounced their names with reverence: Heyn, Tromp, the redoubtable Michiel de Ruyter.

“Pete Heyn,” Ambagt Senior sang in an off-key treble, “his name was sma-all.”

“Big were his ba-alls,” sang the commissaris, remembering the lines of a patriotic school song.

“His dee-eeds were fi-ne,” sang Skipper Peter. “His name still shi-nes.”

“Wasn’t Admiral Heyn the man who seized the Spanish silver fleet?” the commissaris asked. “Much earlier on, in the sixteen hundreds?

Yes. No matter. Profit is profit. Skipper Peter’s long spidery fingers trembled with greedy tension. Those were the days, he told the commissaris. The Spanish fleet was anchored off the
Cuban coast. They had been through a bit of a storm and, stupidly, were sleeping in. The Dutch vessels anchored behind a wooded island, invisible, masts mingled with the silhouettes of tall trees. Admiral Heyn had his crews board sloops and row quietly toward the enemy. The small boats were shrouded by early morning fog. When Spanish guards raised the alarm they were already being shot at by marksmen using long barreled matchlock rifles.

“Buena Guerra,”
shouted the Dutch officers, “good war”, indicating that the enemy would not be harmed upon surrender.
“Buena guerra, amigos queridos.”
The beloved friends promptly surrendered. Shiploads of silver treasure taken from Inca temples changed hands once again.

An example of profitable warfare, Skipper Peter explained, but there were also Dutch privateers, and there was always the slave trade. All business was transacted via Statia. Sugar plantations flourished on the tiny island, some coffee was grown, there were extensive vegetable gardens, cattle was grazed, there was an abundance of poultry.

“Free black labor,” Skipper Peter squeaked, “a blessing for free white spirits. The Golden Rock, my friend.” His dentures clicked as he laughed. “Check the public library in Oranjestad. Nice etchings.” The excitement made old Ambagt squeeze his nose too hard. Blood seeped between his fingers and stained his gold-buttoned whites. “The ugly ones worked in the fields, the beautiful ones were kept around the villas. Handsome slaves walked naked. Free labor.” He wiggled his bloody fingers while tittering dementedly,
“Mhree mhree.”

“Free labor for free spirits?” the commissaris asked.

There were stupid people, Skipper Peter explained, spilling
liquor and catching his upper denture, snapping it back smartly. There were also clever people. The stupid are doomed. The clever are blessed. The doomed are to be ruled by the blessed. Ah, the blessed merchants of St. Eustatius.

“That was then,” the commissaris said, watching the quiet coastline ahead. “What happens now?”

Now little happens, Skipper Peter said sadly. Statia dozes like her volcano Mazinga. Mazinga, an old Indian word, means “Eater of Men,” but at present Statians were just sitting around, waiting to be eaten later. He himself would never put another foot on the damned island. It wasn’t worth the trouble to risk heart and lungs to climb the steep Slave Path up to the village. “They don’t have to carry me, slaves are out of fashion for the moment, I know, I know …” he was whining again, “… but they could install an elevator if they want to attract big spenders like me.”

“Pity I don’t feel up to walking up steep heights right now,” the commissaris said, rubbing his painful thighs.

Skipper Peter looked at the commissaris’s legs. He laughed.

“I limp better than you,” he said, banging his stick on the deck. “You got nothing on me. I am the Eternal Winner.” He emptied his glass and held it up for the servant to fill. “You know that winning never bores me?”

“Even now?” the commissaris asked, winking. “Do you really not mind losing that uninsured
Sibylle
cargo? Or do you have something up your sleeve perhaps?”

Skipper Peter winked back.
“Heheheheh.”

Commissaris and skipper watched Statia’s shore through powerful binoculars, handed them respectfully by the servant. They saw how burly Grijpstra and tiny Carl climbed the path
that twisted between cliffs and trees. The narrow coastal strip, crossed by the path, looked like a green belt around the island. “Behind it there is nothing but misery,” Peter Ambagt squeaked. “Those few palm trees don’t fool me. I’ll stay right here.”

De Gier, from his balcony, watched Grijpstra and Carl approach. The hotel was within the island’s narrow green zone. Mauve bougainvillea and white oleander blossomed alongside the Slave Path. Cocos and royal palms waved their fronds above hibiscus and frangipani bushes. Red brick walls and blue roof tiles reminded him of Holland.

Meanwhile, on the
Rodney
, the commissaris told Skipper Peter that the island looked pleasant. “The previous splendor could be brought back, don’t you think? Fix up the cottages, plant flower and fruit gardens. Invite a jazz combo to play under the palm trees. Go for quiet walks in the early mornings. I’m sure the islanders could be manipulated into cleaning the place up. Figure out what the locals are good at, have them do that, shower them with praise. Flatter the island’s government, make it believe that all the changes are its own work. Wouldn’t you like to do that, Skipper? A project for your old age? You, being a genius, might enjoy restoring St. Eustatius to its former glory.” The commissaris, energized by his own eloquent salesmanship, waved enthusiastic hands. “I might help you. Have a beauty contest, a music festival, a beach cleaning race, get the kids to draw or sculpt examples of local wildlife, rediscover popular dishes and make the grannies proud of their cooking. Play on their religion. Get priests and parsons involved, the governor, elders. Give them all the credit.”

“Sounds like work,” Skipper Peter said moodily.

The commissaris didn’t think so. “All you do is initiate the project. If it works out, okay, you leave it to them and tell them it’s their own doing. Then we sit back and get them to pick their beauty queen. You get to pin on the medal.” He pointed at the mountain. “You’ll be beloved.”

Skipper Peter contemplated the idea. He admitted that it might provide some pleasure. His drunkenness ebbed as he talked about a descent into Mazinga’s crater some time back. There had been songbirds and giant lizards, an authentic rain forest, Statia’s own species of giant fern. He mentioned archaeologists, who found imprints of Carib Indian dwellings, similar to Venezuelan native housing that still exists, a type of pagoda with triple roofs. The Statian villa would have had walls of woven rushes, removable, so that seasonal sea breezes could cool the rooms. Old Ambagt’s thin arm swept toward Mazinga’s silhouette. “A clear view of forest and sea. The place was different then. Lots of tall trees, plenty of ponds in the valley.”

“The present ecology could be improved,” the commissaris said. “A worthy experiment maybe. Have clever students figure out a way to use solar energy to distill sea water. Once you have irrigation get everyone to plant a hundred trees.”

Skipper Peter shook his head. “I’m a scavenger, not an improver. The planet is going down. I’m after the final pickings.”

The commissaris was quiet.

“There are better spots,” Skipper Peter said gruffly, “where everything is in place already, like on Bora Bora, Fiji, the southern Solomons. But wherever I go ashore they’ll make me pay taxes.” He pointed at cannon barrels peeking out of Statia’s
ancient fortress, then shook his fist at the Dutch flag flying over the ancient battery. “They’d squeeze my bank account dry.”

“Quadrant Bank,” the commissaris said, “employed that British fellow, Stewart-Wynne, who broke his neck driving a jeep through Duval Street. You didn’t know the man, did you?”

“Who?” Skipper Peter asked.

“Insurance inspector Thomas Stewart-Wynne,” the commissaris said.

“
Bank
inspector,” old Ambagt said triumphantly, squinting at the commissaris across the rim of his glass. “Quadrant is a bank.” He gingerly touched his nose. “Nothing to do with insurance.”

The commissaris shrugged. “You know how it is with these big companies nowadays, they like to branch out. I hear Quadrant has been in freight insurance for a while now. Specialized in tanker cargos, so I am told.”

Skipper Peter’s eyelids fluttered uncontrollably.

“Hire a cop to do dirty work,” the commissaris said. “and you face the curiosity that police training breeds.” He smiled at his host. “And now that you admit to having insured the
Sibylle
’s cargo would you mind filling me in on its worth?”

Skipper Ambagt nodded. “That would be the exact amount I expect you to recover.” He gestured for a refill. “Half, dear boy.”

“You’re sure you don’t want a full glass, Skipper Peter?”

Ambagt Senior watched his glass fill up. He sipped, then squinted at the commissaris. “The cargo’s value? Twelve million gallons of crude in the
Sibylle
. Forty-two gallons to the
barrel. Say twenty dollars value to the barrel. Lemmesee. Twelve million divided by forty-two, that would be around, mhree, two-hundred-and-eighty-thousand barrels? Times, whaddeewesaynow? Twenty? Yes? Okay. That would be, eehrm, five-and-a-half million dollars worth.” He showed his fist. “That isn’t cat piss.”

The commissaris tsked compassionately.

“It’s the complete cat,” Skipper Peter yelled. “And you’ll skin it for me Mr. Fuzz, you and old Fatso and Master Movie Mustache.” He banged his glass on the upturned nude woman table. “If you know so much, eh, do you know that Quadrant has not paid me yet?”

“Is the insurer denying your claim?” the commissaris asked pleasantly.

“Delaying the claim pending a routine investigation.” Ambagt Senior was squeezing his nose again. “And because that insurance inspector, that faggoty storefront cowboy, couldn’t drive a recreational vehicle through Key West without killing himself, the delay keeps on.” Old Ambagt smashed his glass on the table. “That’s why Carl told you the cargo wasn’t insured. As long as we haven’t been paid, that statement is true.” The skipper’s nose seemed ready to burst now. “You know what money
costs
these days?”

“Seven percent?” the commissaris asked.

“For risk-taking entrepreneurs like me?” Ambagt’s polished boots stamped on the teak deck. “Eighteen-and-a-half percent, and that’s with the
Rodney
as collateral.” The boots stamped faster. “Anything goes wrong and I lose my vessel.”

“How,” the commissaris asked, “did you come to know that
the Quadrant inspector was gay, dressed like a cowboy, and lost his life driving a jeep in Key West?”