The Rattle-Rat (10 page)

"And the other cheek?" Gyske asked. "Shouldn't we turn
the other cheek? Aren't you Christian, Sjurd?"

"You've got two cheeks," Sjurd said, "but only one..."
He stopped and thought, and concluded, "Only one." He thought again. "But what I was saying about you"—he had trouble not sliding off his chair—"that isn't true, Gyske. I've been truly stupid. You're right. I'm sorry. It'll be different from now on."

He managed to get up and steered an unsteady course for the cupboard. He clawed the handle. He skated back and pulled the cupboard door open. "Here is where it all happened, here on the shelf, in the name of the Lord. An insult to Our Lord, Gyske, by an authority of the church." He kicked the shelf, tore out the broken boards, and cracked them on his knee. "I will burn these outside. I'll take the entire cupboard out, but not now, right now I'm a little tired."

"Why don't you lie down?" Gyske asked.

"In a minute," Lieutenant Sudema said. "But the gentlemen should come along with me for a moment. I have a present for the gentlemen."

Six crates of tomatoes had been placed outside the greenhouse. "My occupation outside of work hours," Lieutenant Sudema said sadly. "More work. To sweat to please the Lord.
I was wrong there too. They all got ripe at the same time.
You do like tomatoes, I hope?"

"Delicious," the commissaris said.

•I'll fetch the car," Grijpstra said.

Gyske got hold of her husband. "You have to rest now, Sjurd." She pushed him into the house and came back alone, mumbling to herself. She passed the commissaris. "You're leaving us?" the commissaris asked.

"I think I'll visit Mem Scherjoen for a moment."

"A good idea," the commissaris said. "In times of stress, one needs a friend."

"Mem understands," Gyske said. She turned. "Mem's pain is all done now. But Sjurd can stay alive, I would like that better."

"Mem prefers Douwe dead?"

"Mem understands, that means she can accept. Do you have a cigarette?"

"Only small cigars."

Gyske took the cigar. The commissaris flicked a light.
Gyske inhaled hungrily. "Mem even accepted the dead kittens. She used to have a limping cat that showed up one night. Douwe didn't want her to feed the cat, but Mem did it anyway, behind the barn. When Douwe was away, Mem would talk to the cat. The cat had kittens, funny babies, that frolicked and gamboled all over the yard, but then they all began to die one afternoon. They didn't know they were dying, they still tried to play. Douwe had poisoned their milk, of course. He had to laugh, because Mem didn't know what was wrong with the kittens. Mem was going crazy."

"There's a turtle," the commissaris said, "that lives in my rear garden. He's my good friend, I like to share his silence.
If someone hurt my turtle, I would probably be quite upset."

"I wanted revenge," Gyske said, "because Sjurd believes in good, and that's too boring. He would say that I should put my bottom in a bucket of cold water, that would soothe the urge, so I made a grab for Anne. That bald little Anne, with his few hairs plastered over his skull, and his wrinkled neck, and his spectacles without rims, only because he happened to be around, with his three-piece suit and with his watch chain across his stupid belly and with his arrogant accent. I took revenge. I committed a sin. Mem doesn't sin."

"I see," the commissaris said. "I wish you strength. Your husband seems rather an excellent fellow."

"I'm madly in love with Sjurd," Gyske said, "but I can't go on like this. It'll have to change. There's your car backing up, I'll help you lifting in the crates."

"Enough of this," the commissaris said in the Volkswagen. 'Take me to Municipal Police headquarters in Leeuwarden, Adjutant. Select the shortest route. We've wasted time."

"You think this is the right way?" Grypstra asked.

"What are you mumbling, sir?" Grypstra asked a few minutes later.

"I'm sinful," the commissaris said. "It's rather weak to manipulate a lady who's having a mental breakdown. Indeed!
And did I learn anything?" He banged his fist on the dashboard. "Nothing, Adjutant. But what do you expect? What can anyone expect from someone like me? Bald, small, with one and a half hairs on my naked skull, with spectacles without rims, a suit complete with waistcoat. Pathetic, Adjutant, a clown from long ago, expressing his ignorance in old-fashioned language, rattling a watch chain on his belly."

Grijpstra glanced at the commissaris. "Your neck is not too wrinkled. On the contrary, it's still quite smooth."

Looking ahead again, he read a sign aloud: "Tzum."

The commissaris pondered. "That Gyske," he
murmured.
"She wasn't too fond of Douwe Scherjoen."

"Tzummarum," Grijpstra said, reading another sign.
"Marum
means 'sea.' The Romans must have been here."

"We're lost again," the commissaris said. "We shouldn't be close to the sea. The Romans came to collect taxes too. Another bunch of foreigners injecting their evil into my pure soul. Leeuwarden is more inland. Better turn the car,
but
be careful, this dike is rather narrow."

\\\\\ 9 /////

"I
WON'T HAVE IT," MRS. CARDOZO SAID. "YOU'RE NOT TO clean your pistol on my kitchen table. The oil gets into the wood. That's expensive oak, I'll have you know, I polish
the
top daily."

"Please, Mother," Cardozo said. "Don't bother me now. You've no idea how tricky... look, see what you made me do? You know what I'm doing? I make the light reflect from my thumbnail, like this, and then I look through the barrel. I'm seeing spirals now, gleaming in blue steel. I can see that when the barrel is clean. When it isn't, I see some nasty
grit."

"It'll go off. Stop that, Simon. There shouldn't be instruments of murder in the house."

"I've got it out," Cardozo said. "A detached barrel can't possibly fire. You're living in unreasonable fear. Like with the lamp the other day. I had pulled the cord out of the wall and you wouldn't let me fix it."

"Because there might still have been electricity in that lamp."

"Oh, Mother."

"And who lives under stress here?" Mrs. Cardozo said. "Do you ever hear me complain? Would you ever hear me
complain if you stopped complaining yourself for a minute?
Your whining wears me down. Chuck your job if you don't like it. You can help your Uncle Ezra in the market, he earns more in a day than you do in a month. Uncle Ezra has no kids, you can take over his stall when he retires to Mallorca.
He wants you to have his business, you only have to learn for a year. Ezra said that to me the other day. 'Manya,' he said, 'your Simon isn't serious yet. He can pick up some seriousness from me, why don't you tell that to your Simon?'"

"Oh, Mother."

"And then maybe you can learn how to dress," Mrs. Cardozo said. "And have a haircut for a change. Do you have to show yourself as a ragamuffin?"

Cardozo reassembled his pistol and slipped it into its holster. He buttoned up his rumpled jacket. "Mother, I fight evil. I don't like the way Uncle Ezra evades taxes."

"Your Uncle Ezra is a serious man."

"He's a silly man," Cardozo said. "He refuses to develop.
He's a capitalist during the day and a hedonist in his free time. Greed and luxury will get him nowhere."

"Oh, Simon."

"Egocentric," Cardozo said. "/ work for others. So that others may have a chance to develop and grow too. It isn't easy and I may occasionally be heard to complain. That's a weak trait in my character, and I'm sorry."

Cardozo dialed the telephone. "Not outside the city," Mrs.
Cardozo said. "Your father doesn't like that. The bill is too high already."

"Sergeant?" Cardozo said. "It's me."

"You were dialing too long," Mrs. Cardozo said. "You're outside the city. Keep it short, Simon, or your father will be at me again."

"Do you have Douwe Scherjoen's photo?" Cardozo asked.

"Ask Grijpstra," de Gier said. "The commissaris went off with Grijpstra, but something must have gone wrong. They're presently being saved by the State Police, between Tzum and Tzummarum."

"Is that close to Dingjum?"

"It's in Friesland," de Gier said. "Fm not Frisian. I'm not in on this. I cook pea soup from a can and take care of a rat—and of a Frisian lady who'll be fetching me in a moment."

"I've got to have that photo," Cardozo said, "if I am to do my work. Shall I come and get it myself?"

"How?" de Gier asked. "Grijpstra has the car. The commissaris has lost his car, in a well between gardens. You can't declare expenses because you'd be moving outside your area."

"A train ticket will cost some money," Cardozo said.

"You're an idealist, aren't you?"

"Aren't you one too?"

"A nihilist," de Gier said. "Nihilists don't give a shit about anything—at that depth one has to be advanced. You aren't anywhere near there yet. Look here, why don't you cycle to Friesland tomorrow? I've just watched the news, the weather should be fine. It's only forty miles or so. Make it a holiday, watch the birds from the dike. Ever seen a cormorant land? They splash down and flop up. A great sight."

"You're really not in on this?" Cardozo asked.

"No," de Gier said. He replaced the phone. The sergeant wandered past the flowery wallpaper, the imitation Gothic dining room table, the copy of a Louis XVI recliner, and then past a clothes chest modeled on an antique Eastern Dutch design. The novel by the Frisian woman author was on the table. On a shelf, Chinese knickknacks had been arranged: porcelain rice bowls, plastic soup spoons, stacked together. On another shelf, a foot-long model of a Chinese junk sailed toward a smiling fat god, with happily grinning toddlers climbing up his belly and shoulders. De Gier remembered the calendar in the neatly painted bathroom, with a dozen color photographs of places to see in Singapore.

A holiday in Singapore? Why not? An elderly adjutant of the Leeuwarden Municipal Police who, once in his life, takes his wife to the other side of the earth. Probably a special offer by the local travel agency, there and back for a couple of thousand, hotel included. By now the mortgage would be paid, the children married. "Dear, we'll be off!"

"Where to?" Mrs. Oppenhuyzen asks, not too sure whether she should be pleased.

The adjutant's eyes twinkle. 'To Singapore!"

She would rather have spent another holiday on one of the islands just off the Frisian coast, but if he really wants to surprise her, okay. She smiles. "Great!"

A subject that can be discussed on many an occasion, during birthday parties or while visiting neighbors. "You went to the Italian coast? That's nice. Yes, we were out of the country too. Where? Oh, we hopped over to Singapore." Detailed descriptions of assorted adventures. "You know, when we were in Singapore last month..."

"When I was in Friesland..." De Gier picked up the novel and flopped down on the couch. Then he was up again to look for the dictionary. She brushed her
tosksl
Is that what they call teeth? And
mt&e
would be 'mouth.' What a primitive way to describe a woman's intimate bathroom occupation. He tried to lose the image of a ghoulish shape poking between her fangs. It would be better to read on, and try to fit what he would later understand into the material he was now digesting. He plodded on, guessing, gleaning meaning from words that looked like Dutch or English or German, and gradually obtained glimpses of the heroine's insights and beliefs, her hatred of men and her attraction to those very same men; some of them seemed handsome to her, and she minded them less than others, but she still abhorred their presence until one of them, a laborer working with a dragline, picked her up, first with his machine, by accident, then in his arms on purpose. Close to his chest, she gave in, but he didn't notice her orgasm, he was only carrying her to a safe place.

Tragic, de Gier thought, and read on, slipping more easily into the next tale. Martha was married now, for some twenty years, to the same fathead, every new day another gray space. Fathead wanted nothing of her, right through the twenty years. Martha could do anything she liked, there was plenty of money, as long as Fathead didn't have to join in whatever activity she chose for herself. So now what does she do? She goes to Belgium, where firearms can be bought fairly easily, comes back with a pistol, blows a hole in Fathead, and devours him slowly.

De Gier frowned. He remembered struggling with the same tale earlier that day, when the words were still unclear. Now he grasped all the horror without having to grope for dubious meaning. The lady ate her murdered spouse because she didn't know what to do with the one hundred and seventyfive pounds he had left. Frisian women are practical; for ages they have lived off the land. They haven't forgotten tricks picked up in the past. Martha had bought just the right size freezer to fit Fathead's bulk. And she boiled him in her pressure cooker, in cuts of
Twae pûn
—two pounds, of course—enough to serve breakfast, lunch, or dinner.
Fathead
weighed heavy in her stomach.
The last sentence of the tale.

De Gier niminated. Mem Scherjoen? Gyske Sudema? Two intimate friends, two Frisian ladies, tough, practical, and frustrated. On the phone, Grupstra had been explaining the suspects' presence just now, not so much as a detective informing his colleague of developments in his quest, but rather in his role of complaining friend—how everything, once again, had turned for the worst and how he could in no way be blamed for any mishaps. First, he'd lost his way; second, he'd got stuck in marital problems; third, he'd slipped off a dike. Grupstra, through no fault of his own, caught in a web spun by fateful circumstances. Does nothing ever go right?

Think a little, de Gier thought, catch the hidden thread. And make use of helpful hints supplied by literature manufactured in this very country, showing images in a foreign language that, with a little trouble can be grasped. Literature exaggerates. Mem never ate Douwe. Reality exaggerates too, but with less use of symbolism.

De Gier, barely awake on the couch, surrendered to hellish scenes. He saw local witches, degenerated from abuse and neglect, feeding ferocious flames of revenge emerging from the darkness of each other's souls. Their fury takes on different forms: one changes her home into a trap and lures a hapless male into her cupboard, where she humiliates her prey on a shelf; the other ventures out into the damnation of die Amsterdam night, and Douwe crumbles and floats away in a burning dory.

Both scenes were equally terrifying. De Gier preferred to wake up, to drag his body off the soft couch to a hard chair at the table, where he returned to the study of literature.
What conclusions could the female author offer? A sentence stuck out.
The male can never be a true source of pleasure.

Well now, that would hardly be a good reason to dust off an antique German pistol left over from the war. Just because there was no pleasure in the beast? He read on. A dialogue emerged between two women—between Mem and Gyske?

Gyske: 'Tell me, why did you get married?"

Mem: "It was just a vague hopeful feeling."

Vague. Too vague. So Mem had married because she thought there was some slight hope in Douwe's company.
Hope for the better, of course. And the opposite came up.
Even the Amsterdam dentist had seen the devil in Douwe. How devilish had the poor bugger been? Had Douwe, evilly and by premeditation, sucked Mem of her strength? Had he bedeviled her daily? Had she slowly begun to believe in a possible revolt? Had she used the courage that had served her so well in her struggle with the German army? Was her motivation clear now? Had opportunity been available? Mem knew Amsterdam, where she often stayed with her sister.

How would Grijpstra plan his attack? By himself, he
wouldn't have a chance, of course, but the commissaris was sly, subtle, a more dangerous sleuth than even the sergeant himself. Once the commissaris got hold of this case...

De Gier turned pages, eager to discover another phrase
that might fill a gap. What else was the literary woman think- ing?
In no way will I ever be satisfied... here I am, left to
my own resources..
.
How boring ... I could climb the walls
... alone...

Clear enough. Mem, unsatisfied, hollow in her soul, locked
in a solitude created by her willful and often absent husband, was ready to jump through her restraining walls. Egged on by the equally unhappy Gyske to find a solution, no matter how painful. But was Mem wrong?

Where did the finger of justice point? de Gier thought theoretically, for he himself couldn't care less. If order had been disturbed, it wasn't
his
order. He was quite content to heat pea soup from cans and bathe a rat.

He strolled through the room, circled the Louis XVI chair, and counted a row of roses on the wallpaper.

Was order disturbed? Shouldn't someone like Douwe be deftly removed? Hadn't Mem been kind enough to do society a favor? The commissaris, once on her trail, would corner her and interrogate the woman politely. Then what? Lead her on to an institute for the elderly insane? Mem wasn't quite that old.

De Gier picked up a scrap of paper left by Grypstra on the other side of the table. He read the names of the sheep exporters who had been stripped of their profits by Douwe.
He read the names of the men and their towns:

He could leave it at that for now. Since when had minding someone else's job been profitable to him?

The doorbell rang. The sergeant, deep in thought, opened the door. "Yes? Good evening, miss."

"Hi," Miss said brightly.

"Hi," de Gier said. He checked his watch. Eleven, a little late for a visit. "Miss," the sergeant said, "Adjutant and Mrs.
Oppenhuyzen are on holiday in their summer house in Engwierum, at the coast I believe. I'm looking after the house in their absence. De Gier is my name."

"Hi."

De Gier scratched his buttocks, first the left, then the right. "You don't understand? You speak only Frisian?" He paused. "I can read some now, but I don't speak it yet. Can you read Dutch? Shall I write it down for you? Wait, I'll speak slowly. Listen, miss. The adjutant, right? Adjutant Oppenhuyzen? With his, uh,
wyfe?
Gone away?" He waved widely.