The commissaris didn't hear her.
"You are thinking of something," Katrien said.
His attitude didn't change.
"Stop stirring your coffee, dear." She took away his spoon.
He looked at her over the rim of his cup.
"You don't have a premonition, do you?" Katrien asked. "I have one myself. Or was it that dream you were going to finish telling me about this morning? About the driver of a Number Two streetcar? You did tell me something but I kept dozing off."
"The Angel of Death," the commissaris said. "The driver was an angel. The message had to do with death, but not mine, I don't think."
"Good," Katrien said. She worried-about his frail health, the strenuous journey he was about to undertake, his coming retirement.
He helped his wife wash up.
"Will you tell me about that dream now?"
The commissaris busied himself stacking plates in the cupboard.
"Don't put that funny look on," Katrien said. "I know that look. That streetcar driver was a woman, wasn't she now? I know the one you mean."
"Which one?" he asked.
"That blonde? Long legs in the glass driver's cabin, glass all the way down to the street. On the new type of streetcar. You forget we were together when you noticed that lady driver. You were all eyes. You wouldn't talk much afterward."
The commissaris admitted that the driver had made an impression, had set off an erotic fantasy. The new model Amsterdam electric streetcars had all glass fronts, enabling the drivers to see in every direction. The drivers were therefore visible themselves. A long-legged female driver on a Number Two streetcar had made an impression. The woman displayed her body well. She wore a miniskirt and had a magnificent hairdo. She sat there like a prostitute in a window in the inner city, proud of her qualities, pretending not to notice men leering, possibly drooling. As a tram driver in uniform she was unapproachable, of course-the tram's radio connected to all police cars. This unapproachable status made the fantasy even stronger. "But the dream wasn't really all that sexy, Katrien. I mean, nothing happened."
Katrien smiled sincerely. "Enjoy your naughty dreams, Jan."
"It was more like a mystical dream," he insisted. "There was an extra meaning. More like divine, Katrien." He looked up. "One doesn't have sex with angels."
"Yes, right," she said kindly.
He was arranging the silver, forks with forks, knives with knives, neatly lined up in their drawer.
"Jan," Katrien said sternly, "is that why you use public transport nowadays? You want to be near that long-legged blond driver again, have her take you where she wants to?" She patted his cheek. "And you have such a nice car."
"I don't use the Citroen anymore because there is no more parking in town, Katrien." He sighed. "Not unless one tolerates the exorbitant charges. Last time I tried I was delayed and they put a boot on one of my tires. Another enormous hassle. A fine. I had to stand around while they took the boot off."
"It's all right," she said kindly. "When was the last time you saw that angel driver? In reality, I mean."
It was the day he had received the auxiliary policeman. "They don't issue miniskirts to tram drivers," Katrien said. "That beauty you and I saw had the garment cut short herself."
"Yes, Katrien."
"Bah." She glared at him. "I used to have nice legs too, but you never noticed."
"I did, Katrien." He smiled. "They still are very nice."
"You're not going to be a dirty old man, are you?"
He said he didn't think so.
She laughed. "You look worried."
He thought he looked more frightened than worried. He had just remembered that the dream driver had no eyes.
"A hollow gaze, Katrien."
Katrien liked to understand dreams. She tried to analyze his. Did he feel encouraged by the seductive angel? Was she urging him to cross the Atlantic? Was there any connection between the mystical presence and his future retirement? Very often male retired high officials couldn't bear to lose their sense of importance, respect, their self-esteem. They withered away or met with accidents or took heroic risks while they still could. Like the commissaris, at the end of his career, reaching out into a region where he would have no protection.
He didn't know what to answer.
"You're really going on this wild goose chase, aren't you?" Katrien asked.
The commissaris nodded.
She shook her head. "You'll get bashed yourself. Parks in big cities aren't the safest of places. You'll be another corpse in the azalea bushes."
Later that day she waved a travel guide, borrowed from a neighbor, at him. "It says right here: Central Park should be avoided after dark. Even during daylight solitary hiking is not encouraged on paths that seem deserted." She banged the book on his desk. "Isn't that terrible? Guidebooks are supposed to promote travel and even so they warn you off."
He said he'd be all right.
She showed him a folder advertising the Cavendish Hotel. "Nouvelle cuisine, Jan, you might like that. Here, look at this spread." He admired the displays of mini-helpings on maxi-plates. The plates were surrounded by dishes filled with gleaming fruit, jars of shiny candied foodstuffs, flasks filled with glowing wines or juices. There were elaborate flower arrangements too. He also studied a photograph of a Cavendish suite: a complete apartment- air-conditioning, every luxury provided. "You can watch nice movies."
Australian movies, the commissaris thought. He had read de Gier's report, specifying what Jo Termeer liked. The commissaris didn't care for action movies himself but liked simple drama. He remembered an Aussie film featuring a drunken party. Each guest had to bring his own pornographic object. One guest brought an attractive woman, who set out to seduce the host. The party didn't end well. There were arguments and disappointments. Sunrise found the host watching his car being driven into a tree by guests.
She pointed out furniture to him: a four-poster bed, Chippendale couches. Yes, he would be able to lie down there.
"And a view of Central Park. You'll be looking down on all your suspects."
He looked at the rates. "But so much money, Katrien."
"Aunt Koba's present."
The inheritance, of course, he thought.
"And you won't stay long, will you?"
Not at those prices.
"Kiss me," she said.
They embraced.
Later that Sunday the commissaris walked in the rear garden of his house at Queens Avenue, between three-foot-tall weeds. His pet turtle, waiting for lettuce leaves, made swaying movements on his private rock.
"Let's hope we face no evil out there," the commis-saris told Turtle. "Katrien is probably right. A showdown in Central Park could be bloody. Hooliganism, gang-t related. And I would be alone. This Detective Hurrell doesn't appear very alert."
Turtle chewed more lettuce.
"Never mind?" the commissaris asked. "Jo Termeer insists that God is Good and Justice will be Achieved and who am I to argue with Positive Thinking?"
Turtle, sarcastically, closed one eye.
"I'm doing this because I am getting very feeble now?" the commissaris asked. "My last chance to win medals?"
Turtle started one of his slow dances.
"Katrien is right?" the commissaris asked. "Realizing I am entering my Final Agony now I plan a last fling? I will be all set to lose my life there spectacularly after setting things right?"
Turtle gummed more lettuce.
"I don't have any teeth either," the commissaris said, baring his long dentures, fair enough copies of what had once been real, craftily shaded a pale ivory hue. "Pure plastic, my dear."
Turtle swallowed, looked up expectantly.
"Or is this one of these instances that calls for detachment?" The commissaris winked. "We do this for Nothing? We don't walk the way that can be called a way? No, Turtle, we surrender." The commissaris smiled down on the reptile. "We are merely aware, we meditate, we gain ultimate insight."