It sounded like a greeting. De Gier said " Jun " too.
The gent looked expectant. De Gier explained himself. Out for a walk.
The gent spoke at length. It seemed he was describing undressed women. "Sure," de Gier said. Why not? There are women, and they do undress. Their image is a powerful motivation for lone gents walking through the night. Maybe the gent had been saying that.
The gent got hold of de Gier's arm and they were now walking together. "Mata Hari," the gent said, and giggled and tittered. He pointed at a bronze statue in charge of a little bridge spanning a miniature canal. They stopped to admire the metal female form. Mata Hari was undressed. The gent again spoke at length, and the sergeant, catching a word here and there, remembered that Miss Hari had once, several wars ago, danced her way into Paris and into the hearts of Prussian spies and that her hosts, French noblemen and officers of rank, became jealous and did away with her.
"Whore!" the gent shouted. De Gier caught more words. Miss Hari's statue was alone now, immobile, a reminder, but once upon a better time this bridge and all the alleys around had been populated by live prostitutes. The gent pointed here and there and suddenly stiffened his arm. The arm, horizontal now, pushed and pulled rhythmically while the gent whistled. De Gier grasped that the movement was symbolic of an activity the gent used to delight in, in earlier days, and lower in his body.
"So that's all over now?"
De Gier didn't quite follow, but according to the gent, the general sexual decline was somehow connected with the cattle market and the development of modern machines. Many years ago, when there were no spacious trucks, the farmers would walk their animals to market. They were stabled somewhere and sold the next day. The night in between was filled with push-of-the-arm-whistle, pull-of-the-arm-whistle.
He would never have guessed, de Gier said politely.
But now, the gent was saying, the big trucks- vrrrum. vrrrum-they throw open their rear doors-whop- the cows charge into the street-kuttubum, kuttubum-where they are chased into the market hall and sold.
"Why would that prevent their owners' later pleasure?"
The gent wobbled his eyebrows. De Gier pushed and pulled his arm, whistling shrilly.
Again, de Gier wasn't quite following the gent's explanation, but the fact that the pleasure had gone would have to do with modern business routine. Cows sold, cash collected, in the middle of the day, rather spoils pleasurable possibilities. Did he mean that again? Sure, push-whistle-pull-whistle. Even so, there might still be a way. He grabbed de Gier's arm again and pushed him along. "Where?" de Gier asked.
"Hjir" the gent said, and was gone.
De Gier recognized the square building straddling two canals that Hylkje had pointed out before. A sex club? Members only? He read the sign above the door. Mata Hari. He rang the bell. The doors swung open, and Ali Baba bowed deeply. The doorman was dressed in billowing silk trousers, a brocade waistcoat, a shirt embroidered with flowering palms; he stood on curly-toed slippers, a curved sword stuck into his broad belt. A large turban crowned the beard that almost reached around his made-up eyes. His belly rose majestically toward his chin.
"Hi, Ali Baba," de Gier whispered, impressed.
"You were brought here?" Ali asked, first in Frisian, then in Dutch.
'Try Arabic," de Gier said. "You must be trilingual. An Arab in Friesland. What brought you here?"
"I speak German too," Ali said. "And the other languages of the tourists. Did the runner bring you here? Our advertiser?"
"Gent in a felt hat?" de Gier asked, pushing and pulling and whistling.
"That's him," Ali said. "Brings in the customers, but he shouldn't tonight. Couldn't reach him in time. We're closing early. Hardly any customers showed up. Would you be desiring a full show? There's only one artiste left, Trutske Goatema, not quite the first choice, but if you insist. Do you favor fat women?"
"Joe!" de Gier shouted.
Ali's sliding slippers brought him forward. "What do you know! Would it be you, the Amsterdam sergeant?"
"Good memory," de Gier said, "which we share. Black Joe, isn't that right? I don't recall your surname."
"Do come in," Black Joe said. "What a surprise. Is Amsterdam still doing as well as I remember? What are you after? A little pleasure on the side?"
"Not sure," de Gier said. "Forget the fat lady."
"An angel at heart," Joe said. 'The good lookers were all crafted by the devil. I sent them home already, couldn't stand them tonight. I'll be gone myself next week. The joint is too much for me; let the owners find out what it's like to be Ali Baba." Joe flipped off his turban and showed de Gier the way to the bar. "A beer for the guest of honor?"
"So good to see you," Black Joe said. "Your health, Sergeant. I've thought of you often. You did that nicely, a classy trick. No, I won't forget that. I always underestimated the likes of you. That was quite subtle."
"Musn't exaggerate," de Gier said, halfway through his beer.
"Don't be modest now," Joe said. "Credit where credit is due. A difference of six months' jail for me." Trutske stepped out from the back door of the bar, illuminated by pink neon tubes speckled by uncounted generations of Frisian flies and hanging from warped ceiling tiles. "Client?" She eyed de Gier greedily.
"Friend," Black Joe said. "From the merry past. You're off now, dear, have a good rest."
"Listen," Trutske said. "I could do my number, a short* ened version, but I'll do it good."
"That'll be fine," de Gier said. "Thanks anyway. Don't bother, really."
Trutske waddled off.
"What would she have done?" de Gier asked, twitching as the front door slammed.
"Frustrated self-love," Black Joe said. "Specialty of the house. She's an expert at evoking self-centered passion. Groans, wriggles all over, uses all the furniture of the stage, the walls tremble, the clients go wild, pink flesh up to the ceiling, screams of lustful agony, that sort of show, mostly."
"All that in Frisian?"
"Crazy language," Black Joe said. "I'll never master it, although it's easy to pick up. I have a Frisian girlfriend. We're to be married soon. I bought myself a house in a rustic village nearby. I'll be fixing bicycles there. No, I'm not kidding. This side of life is driving me whoppo. You don't believe me? But it's true. I'm qualified. I went back to school during the day. I got the tools, a barn, I'm all set up. Everything you want."
"Everything you want," de Gier said modestly.
"No," Black Joe said. 'That's what you wanted me to do. Beer?"
"Your health," de Gier said.
Black Joe dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. "You remember how you got me to turn myself in?"
"Wasn't that your own idea?"
"Never," Joe said. "You led me to the station. If you hadn't, I would have been watching bars for half a year longer. The judge changed his mind when he heard I'd gone to the station by myself. He didn't like that scene in the Red Quarter. Ha!" Joe bellowed. "Another lush who wanted to fight the doorman of a reputable brothel. One tittle push of this…" His hairy fist trembled in front of de Gier's nose. "Just one little touch and there the lush goes. Ended up all in a broken heap."
De Gier nodded. "Ran backward across the street and mashed himself against a wall. You can be thankful that he was still alive. You should be aware of your strength, a little."
"And then you showed up," Black Joe said. "The very next day. I had retired to that posh terrace across from Central Station, the last place where you'd be looking for me, but you found me anyway and I was going to push you too. You didn't want that. You asked me to buy you coffee."
"I never fight in the mornings," de Gier said.