"You generally succeed?" the commissaris asked.
"I've got a strong character," the old man said. "I never stop trying. No matter what they do to me. They won't knock me over."
"Let's have the bill," the commissaris said.
Troelstra looked out the window. Shadows moved through the street, dating back to a far past. Comrades-in-arms? A dying Russian? Wild men, with bones through their noses? An assistant inspector who didn't handcuff the traitor and took him to Headquarters in a streetcar?
"That won't be necessary," Troelstra said. "I still owe you. You kept me alive. I could experience a few good moments. New Guinea is beautiful, there are some fine birds out there, colorful, with long tails, and flowering shrubs that grow nowhere else. The voyage, there and back, tropical seas, palm trees on beaches, going on for miles. And the cafe here at the end, I don't mind doing this."
"Scherjoen?" the commissaris asked.
"Can't help you there."
The commissaris didn't catch on at once. He wondered whether he should ask.
"Is there something else you can help me with?"
"Last week…" Troelstra interrupted himself and looked at the old man, who was smiling and occupied with rolling a cigarette. "Would you mind moving up?" he asked the commissaris, who got off his stool and followed the coffee cup that Troelstra slid across the counter.
"Last week," Troelstra said softly, "two heavy boys came here to have a few. A certain Ary, small chap and bald, and a certain Fritz, big fellow with a tuft of stiff hair on his big head. Southern types, from the Belgian border. I had some sheep dealers too, well away in the bottle. A Friday it was, when there's the cattle market in Friesland and they had collected some cash, safely tucked away in the purse. The Frisian purse is chained to the neck. It's all cash with us up north, we don't believe in checks and such. We're a bit silly that way."
"Frisians aren't silly," the commissaris said.
"Maybe they are sometimes. Carrying cash into this district? Cash that comes from evading taxes should be well hidden, I believe." Troelstra smiled. "It's silly to pay taxes, of course, especially when the money leaves the country. Hasn't everybody always been after our profits? The Romans, the Spanish, the French, the Germans, we kicked them all out, and then came the Dutch."
"And you were fighting for United Europe?"
Now why did I say that? the commissaris thought. Here he wants to tell me something and I have to argue.
"United Europe," Troelstra's eyelids dropped. "That's the dream. Why shouldn't it come about some day? All together and still apart? America has done it. Why don't we do the same? The State of Friesland, and the State of Germany, and the State of Russia, and so on and so forth? United above our troubles?" He poured more coffee.
"You're too early," the commissaris said. "It'll come if we grant ourselves time."
Troelstra held a finger alongside his nose. "That's what I think now, but I'm still not sure. Maybe the urge to fight is too strong in us. Maybe it's part of human nature. Ever seen little kids play? They'll always invent weapons and bang away at each other. Have you ever seen little kids play peacemaking games?"
"Well…"
"Take the movies," Troelstra said. "I fought too, I know how bad it is. Creep up to a Russian camp and see the enemy eat, or sleep, or shit in a quiet corner, and you still have to mow them down. That can't be right. So why do I go to see future air vessels destroying each other, with humans in them, eh? I enjoy watching that destruction. So how can that be? If it isn't right, I mean?"
"About that bald Ary," the commissaris said, "and Fritz with the tuft."
Troelstra closed one eye. "You don't know either, right?"
"I don't know," the commissaris said.
Troelstra laughed dryly. "Nobody knows, I think. Maybe we just do what we were planned to do, maybe we have no say. I read the paper. There's war all over the place again. Same thing all over."
The commissaris waited.
"Right," Troelstra said. "Here's a fight for you. Ary and Fritz were watching my sheep dealers and licking their chops. Suppose each dealer was carrying some twenty thousand in cash, and you hit them all-then you have a year's good wages. That's hardly enough if the risk is a few years in jail. Ary and Fritz had just come from jail."
"So?"
"So," Troelstra said, "they discussed better possibilities and I listened in a bit, for they kept ordering refills. On the cattle market in Leeuwarden…"
"Hey, hey," the commissaris said. "And the subjects are professionals?"
"Bank robbers," Troelstra said.
"But listen here, at the Leeuwarden market there'll be hundreds of dealers, and there are only two of them."
"It can be done," Troelstra said. "Each dealer has a purse, and if you pull the copper chains, they'll snap. Herd them together…"
"Thanks." The commissaris felt for his wallet.
"No money." Troelstra crossed his arms.
The commissaris put down a note. "Not for me, for your customer over there."
The old man in the dirty coat laughed gratefully. "It's really quite easy."
"You're sure now?" the commissaris asked.
"Have a few drinks with me, sir, and you'll know for yourself." The old man waved an all-explaining arm. "Drink your ignorant self to the center where the mystery lives. Once you see it, everything becomes clear."
"And can you stay there?"
The old man winked. "Follow me."
"I'd rather go alone."
"The method is the same," the old man said. "I'll guide you a bit of the way."
"Perhaps later," the commissaris said, and escaped through the door.
\\\\\ 5 /////
Detective First-class Simon Cardozo, temporarily serving with the Murder Brigade, objected to the easy small talk of his more established colleagues, standing around him in the Headquarters canteen. His colleagues looked down on Cardozo. He was small in size and sitting down. He also looked down on himself. A more powerful and larger-size Cardozo talked to the little one, for he had split himself in two, to simplify the situation, and was engaged in dialogue.
Little Cardozo complained. He was not treated with respect, so he told Big Cardozo. Take this Douwe Scherjoen case, for instance. Was it acceptable to have to look at a file dropped casually on his desk? "Have a look at this," Grjjpstra had said. "Do something," de Gier had said. And gone they were, to flirt with Jane, no doubt. Jane was important. Jane was abused too, but at least she was treated with respect. She was told good things about herself so that the stupid girl would go to make eyes at the garage sergeant so that the Brigade's old Volkswagen could be repaired again. But he, Little Cardozo-who had to do real work, who had to gather data that would unmask a murderous unidentified madman, who subsequently had to arrest the merciless criminal, and subsequently had to prepare a charge that would hold up in court-he, Little Cardozo, had a file dropped on his desk. "Do something, Cardozo."
"Now, now," Big Cardozo said.
"Don't belittle me," Little Cardozo said. "I get enough of that from them. They hang out in some pleasant province, enjoy the sights, live off the fat of the land, while I, the stupid sucker, the shit-upon, under risky circumstances, unprotected…"
"Now, now."
"You keep on saying that," whined Little Cardozo. "And I don't feel well, either."
"Do your job," Big Cardozo said. "Commit yourself to doing. Don't stew over the actions of others. If you do, you'll isolate yourself and your productivity will suffer."
"Why don't you do something," Little Cardozo said, "instead of reading that idiot article in the Police Gazette to me? That's theory for morons."
"You fret," Big Cardozo said. "So you're still temporarily with the Murder Brigade? So what? You want to be fixed? Whatever is fixed can't move freely. Move away, float lightly through the city, think of a theory and find some facts that'll hold it up. Aren't you lucky that you can finally work alone? Others hold hands while they stumble about, but you, carried by your very own cleverness, make your individual moves, relentlessly closing in on the culprit who cowers in darkness."