"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 amp;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 pun-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…