The Perfidious Parrot (7 page)

“Hur-rah,” Grijpstra chanted along with the rowing sailors.

“To put some pressure behind Ambagt & Son’s proposition,” Cardozo said nervously.

“How-de-do,” sang Grijpstra along with the rowing sailors.

“Because de Gier refused to accept that job.”

“Hur-rah.”

“And now you are the one who refuses.”

“How-de-do.”

“You know you are the endangered party now?”

“Hur-rah.”

“And so am I,” Cardozo said. “Because I am with you.”

“Please,” Grijpstra said.

“I think we are about to be pushed overboard and drowned,” Cardozo said.

“Please,” Grijpstra said. “My dear fellow. We are in a sloop owned and operated by Ambagt & Son. Nothing could be safer.”

“Operated by Ambagt & Company employees,” Cardozo said. “Not by Ambagts.”

Grijpstra had to laugh. “So who could possibly push us over?”

“That police boat,” Cardozo said. He pointed. Behind a foaming bow wave a harbor patrol boat approached at full speed. Blue lights sparked above the cabin. A siren wailed. The boatswain in charge of the sloop looked up in fear. He pushed his rudder. The patrol boat, alongside now, didn’t have enough space to turn. The sloop’s portside oars splintered against the steel side of the patrol boat. Sailors, boatswain and passengers raced to starboard. The sloop capsized. “Didn’t I say so?” Cardozo shouted shrilly.

“I keep telling you,” Katrien said to the commissaris during breakfast, while beheading her egg, “and you just sit there smiling like a retard. Is this Alzheimer’s now?” She looked worried. “Yoohoo? Jan?”

“Who are you?” the commissaris asked. “Do I know you?”

Katrien got angry. De Gier was spending his second day in the hospital and Grijpstra, according to Nellie, kept kneeling in his bathroom while filling up the toilet bowl with slime imbibed at the bottom of the river IJ. Inspector Cardozo had found out that the water police who had run the sloop down were intimate friends of Ketchup and Karate. Nothing but trouble everywhere and the commissaris was putting too much cream into his coffee. All this was bad.

“Cholesterol,” Katrien said. “Think of your waistline.”

“What waistline?” the commissaris asked. “And what do I have to do with de Gier and Grijpstra?”

“More than with me,” Katrien said, “and K&K knew that.”
Grijpstra and de Gier were dear boys, she would admit that, and not inexperienced, not really dumb, quite capable of solving simple problems but the minute a situation became slightly complicated there they were at the commissaris’s door, begging for their master’s guidance. “Without you there would be no Detection G&G Incorporated.”

“I told you a million times,” the commissaris said, “don’t exaggerate, dear Katrien.”

Katrien swore, while sweeping her hands about furiously and raising her voice, that, on the contrary, she had been minimizing the situation. Grijpstra and de Gier had, during their lengthy police training by her husband, changed into the commissaris’s efficient projections. A triumphant triad had scoured the Amsterdam underworld. Grijpstra/de Gier, marionetted by their chief. Tweedle Dee/Tweedle Dum, and the Holy Ghost on top. Now that G&G (Katrien smiled disdainfully) were working in their own so-called business, was she to understand that the situation had changed?

“But they are
not
working, dear,” the commissaris said. The commissaris cut himself a large slice of honeycake, buttered it thickly, ate the slice quickly. “So-called or otherwise. Grijpstra keeps Nellie happy by shopping with her and watching TV, de Gier has his plantation of weeds and Nietzsche if he isn’t reading in Spanish.”

The commissaris reached for the Gouda cheese. His wife slapped his hand.

“All that fat,” his wife said. “Better go for your walk, dear.” She pleaded. “You know what is going on here, don’t you? I happened to see Nellie yesterday. The woman is right. Ketchup and Karate recommended
you
to those yachting people. That
Antillean business is well beyond G&G’s powers. Those Rotterdam folks definitely need you in charge of their project. Those are bad guys, Jan. They lost their illegal goods and they are poor losers. They’ll do anything to even things out.”

“Nellie and you?” The commissaris shook his head. “Tarot cards again?”

Katrien ate her diet biscuits with sugar-free imitation fruit spread. “Nothing to do with you.”

“Nothing is good,” the commissaris said.

“All my effort for nothing,” Katrien said. “The cards say you will have a nice time with this case.” She bit her lip. “And I have to baby-sit. I am jealous I suppose.”

“So what you are saying,” the commissaris summarized professionally, “is that our potential client, Ambagt & Son, while wandering about the fun Caribbean island of St. Maarten in between sailing their royal cruiser, happened to run into Ketchup and Karate who like to spend their time off in the Netherlands Antilles. Ambagt & Son are in the crude oil business, K&K are in the corrupt police business, in Amsterdam of all places, hub of the criminal universe these days. Skipper Peter and young Carl knew at once that K&K are bad. There is a discrepancy of lifestyle. The Amsterdam Municipal Police pays real wages but even when two constables first class, both childless, combine their salaries the happy couple cannot afford a summer cottage in well-heeled Philipsburg, St. Maarten. Mortgage free. Like their superb apartment in Amsterdam, overlooking the river. And they fly across the ocean like evil-faced gadflies. On what kind of money? Could I have one of those biscuits, do you think?”

“Never,” his wife said.

She gave him one anyway.

“Tastes like fax paper,” the commissaris said. “No. Tastes like unprinted E-mail.” He thought. “Some combination, Katrien. Two policemen serving Lucifer in our magic city here, connecting to St. Maarten, owned by Dutch and Italian gangsters. Can you see that meeting? A tropical bar? Striptease performed by selected beauties from, didn’t I read that somewhere, Santo Domingo, home of the western hemisphere’s most luscious …”

“Yes,” Katrien said. “I see it. So do you. Wouldn’t you like to do the selecting?”

“Bongos,” the commissaris said. “You can hear good bongos in Amsterdam now but real bongos, no. And out there, there’ll be Mexicans on trumpets and black drummers out of New York, taught by Tony Williams or even,” the commissaris smiled dreamily, “or even by Jack de Johnette, Katrien.”

“How nice.” His wife began to clear the table.

“I am only sketching in the circumstances,” the commissaris said. “While all this goes on in the background it turns out that Ambagt & Son has suffered a severe loss, a tanker-load of crude oil taken by pirates. The amount involved could be their entire working capital for all we know, but they have no recourse as they themselves are illegal. Liberian citizens selling Iranian energy to Cuba right under the nose of Uncle Sam?

“And even if they were still Dutch, and reported the piracy to the Dutch
Rijks
Police in St. Maarten? A lieutenant in charge of a dozen constables trying to safeguard tourists going wild in casinos and stripbars and worse? Besides, the piracy took place in international waters, the high seas. Yo ho.”

“What?” Katrien asked.

“Yo ho,” the commissaris said enthusiastically. “Not a chance, Katrien. But what happens? Haven’t I always said so? Good luck comes to those who are lucky.”

Katrien banged a ladylike fist on the table. “You did not, Jan. You used to say that good luck comes to those who keep trying.”

“I don’t think so now,” the commissaris said, “I gave in. I no longer believe in positive thinking. Things don’t get better and better, things just are, and you can always fit in with things somehow. Things just happen, I happen along.”

“
Shit
just happens,” Katrien said. “Like me getting old and ugly. You going off on your own again. Having fun.”

The commissaris banged a gentleman’s fist on the table. “No, Katrien. I marry you and you are beautiful and then you are a grandmother and baby-sit and you’re still beautiful. You were just fine then, you’re just fine now.”

“I look like shit,” Katrien, smacking her hips with her hands. “Look at me. Bah.”

“You know,” the commissaris said. “I find you more elegant as you grow older.”

“I am just fine,” Katrien said. “Everything is just fine. Crime is just fine. Crooked Ambagt & Son running into corrupt Ketchup & Karate is just fine?”

“It just
is
. I call it fine because I prefer laughing to crying.” The commissaris shrugged. “And it will be gone in the end. Look at our world, Katrien. Think back a little. A meteor hits a planet. Because of that impact dinosaurs will eventually be replaced by us, human monkeys, as the dominant species. Now look ahead a little. A few million years pass like a flash and another meteor will hit the same planet. This time the planet
changes into empty space. All is gone. Even the records, for there is nobody left, nobody to recall that anything went on. I can’t even say that anything went on
here
for there won’t be a here. Just empty space where the planet burned out.”

“You know,” Katrien said furiously, “I think you’re dreaming up your own universe. You got bored. You had to dream up some action, so you dreamed up this giant tanker so that Grijpstra and de Gier would have something to do again, and you could lead them into trouble.” She poured coffeeless coffee. “Enjoy.”

“This,” the commissaris said, tasting, “isn’t even unprinted E-mail. This is embryonic. This is not even a concept. This is pure cyberspace sh—”

“Jan!”

“You used that word just now.”

“I am a woman,” Katrien said. “Women can say anything now. You’re an archetype.”

“Of what?”

“Of the old wise man.”

“I am?” the commissaris asked. He kissed her cheek. “What do wise old men do? Stick to their diet and walk briskly in one of Holland’s last enclaves of pure nature?” He put on the hat with the pheasant feather Katrien bought him for his birthday, grabbed his cane and limped out of the house.

The commissaris parked his old model Citroën behind the windmill at the entrance of the nature reserve north of Amsterdam. He grumbled and groaned as he hiked along the shore paths. Insects rose from cattails and ferns and successfully penetrated his armor of bug spray. Summering boating people
sipped lukewarm beer while singing along with radio transmitted advertising jingles. A giant helicopter carrying nature reserve-watching tourists thundered over the protected wetlands. The commissaris reached a graffiti-covered bench and sat down to enjoy the remnants of silence. He observed waterfowl. He reflected that this was his life now. There was the investing on behalf of Grijpstra and de Gier, of course, but the money kept increasing. No challenge there. Most days looked alike. The money business required glancing at the financial paper, analyzing his computer screen twice a day, attending to the pains in his legs. Left thigh becoming too sensitive? Sell winners. Right thigh bone feeling hot? Buy recent losers. That interesting kind of splitting cramp with twisting and soaring red-hot arrows that reached both his knees? Sell anything that the analysts were telling him to hold on to. He didn’t really care to do this kind of work now; there was too much money in the account anyway, the boys would never have any need of it. De Gier considered the stuff a useless burden and Grijpstra no longer believed he could please Nellie by buying her more kitchen gadgets. It would be better if G&G were to engage themselves seriously again. It no longer interested the commissaris to watch de Gier grow ever more silly-named weeds in his paradise-loft, while waiting for Eve’s apple. Grijpstra might have his apple now, fed to him thrice a day by the queen of his dreams, but Grijpstra was gaining weight, hardly played his drums and kept painting the same dead ducks.

And what about his own quest? A superior garden reptile to have a monologue with, but Turtle’s interest seemed to be waning lately. Besides, what did he require the turtle-conscience for now? Did he need advice to make choices? Yes
or no to another holiday with Katrien? Holiday from what? Katrien was minding the grandchildren, she was done with travel. Perhaps Turtle might advise some discreet drinking, even whoring, at expensive locations, some private brothel on Apollo Avenue, or maybe an apartment in Beethovenstreet with a stately goddess specializing in pleasing old gents, catering to senile perversions, but should he even consider such a waste of his decreasing energy?

The commissaris rubbed his aching body against the back of the park bench. He tried to visualize a goddess in the Beethovenstreet apartment. Perhaps a somewhat mature woman in a long simple dress, hardly any makeup, gradually opening up to a more intimate conversation while she stepped out of her gown, yesyesyes, but even so, the woman could be his daughter, or if she happened to be younger, his grand-daughter—once he considered those aspects the end result, if any, was sure to fall short of expectations. Still, he had better continue his enquiry. If not he would be like other old men whom he saw fading away while they roamed the city’s parks and nature reserves. Former directors of downsized corporations, once powerful city officials forced into accepting early retirement, now being quacked at by water fowl peering at the human ghosts wandering between willows and cattails.

The commissaris dutifully observed black coots, busily swimming about. There were fat coots with white bills and slender coots with red bills. They kept nodding their heads, not because they wanted to confirm his soul-searching but because their biological programs made them bob their heads forever. Walk-bob-head. Swim-bob-head. The commissaris had gotten up to look at tall water lilies when he heard shots.

The Bosnian Serbs are attacking, the commissaris thought. The Tutsis invade the Hutu camp. Ceylonese Tamils are launching a suicide attack. Arabs on the rampage. A German young intellectual has finally, after watching too much evening news, converted to fundamental Neo-Nazism and now has to prove himself by killing me.