She drove straight through Linzhuisen without stopping and arrived at the house soon after half past nine. Got out and walked up to the door. Managed to open it with a little difficulty, and then it was not many minutes before she realized that her worst fears could very well be true.
It was far from certain, of course, but having come this far she clearly had no alternative but to contact the police.
She did that shortly afterward; from the telegraph station in Linzhuisen, to be exact, and the call was logged in to Maardam at 10:03 by the duty officer, Police Constable Pieter Willock.
Ten minutes later Detective Inspector Rooth marched into Inspector Münster’s office without knocking and announced with ill-concealed excitement:
“I think we’ve got him.”
10
Sleep, he thought. That’s all I want.
The hours before he had been admitted were not the orgy of solitude he had imagined, and perhaps it was those telephone calls just as much as What Is In Store that were hounding him and keeping him awake long into the early hours.
Not that they had phoned to bid him farewell—or at least, it hadn’t sounded like that. But if something unexpected were to happen, they would naturally feel better, having spoken to him that final evening.
Renate was first. Beating about the bush as usuaclass="underline" talking about the holiday cottage they had once owned; about books she hadn’t read, but had seen; about her brother and sister-in-law (that awful brother of hers: For some unknown reason he got on rather well with the sister-in-law—in the old days, that is); and it was not until after a quarter of an hour or more that she came around to mentioning the operation.
Was he worried?
Worried? Of course not. No, needless to say she hadn’t expected him to be. Perhaps he could give her a ring when it was all over, in any case?
He had half promised. Anything to prevent her from going on about how they ought to get together again. They had been living apart for almost three years now, and if there was one thing in this life that he didn’t regret, it was the separation from Renate.
Maybe that was sufficient reason to claim that their marriage hadn’t been such a bad thing after all, it suddenly struck him. As a means to an end, that is.
Depressive people should be wary of one another, Reinhart had announced on some occasion or other. The sum often becomes greater than the parts. Much greater.
Then there was Mahler. No sooner had he put the phone down after the first call than he had the old poet on the line.
He must have let slip something about what was in store for him at the club, of course. Presumably while playing chess last Saturday, or the Saturday before. In any case, it was a surprise. Mahler was not exactly a close friend—whatever that means—but it could be that there was more to their companionship in the smoke-filled vaults than he had imagined. Or dared to imagine. He hadn’t thought very deeply about it, needless to say, but the call was a genuine surprise.
“I suppose you’ll have to miss a few matches,” he said. Mahler, that is.
“I’ll soon be back,” Van Veeteren had countered. “Nothing boosts your potency better than a few weeks’ abstinence.”
And Mahler had laughed in that deep voice of his and wished him the best of luck.
Last of all, Jess, of course.
She gave him a big daughterly hug over the miles, but promised to visit him in a few days with grapes, chocolate and grandchildren.
“Not on your life,” he protested. “Drag the kids a couple of hundred miles to gape at a doddery old bastard? I’d frighten the life out of them!”
“Balderdash,” said Jess. “I’ll treat them to an ice cream afterward and they’ll get over it. I know you’re frightened to death of this operation even if you flatly deny it when anybody says so.”
“I flatly deny it,” said Van Veeteren.
She laughed, just like Mahler had done, and then he’d spoken to two three-year-olds in his schoolboy French, and they also threatened to come and gape at him shortly. If he’d understood them rightly. And they seemed to know all about it, he had to admit.
“You’ll get an injection; then you’ll fall asleep,” said one of them.
“They put the dead bodies in the basement,” added the other.
When he had survived that call, it was high time to set off. He left a key with Mrs. Grambowska, two floors down, as usual, and tonight even this white-haired, faithful old servant seemed to exude a strange sort of glow full of sympathy and reconciliation. She took his hand and stroked it tenderly, a gesture the likes of which he had never seen from her in all the years he had known her.
“Good-bye,” she said. “Take care.”
I’ll disappoint them all if I pull through this, he thought as he got into the taxi. Not a bad tip to send him on his way, in fact. Take care! When he was lying on the table, drugged and carved up, he should avoid getting carried away and doing something silly. He must remember that.
He was aware that the only one who hadn’t been in touch was Erich, but of course it was possible that he’d tried earlier in the afternoon. The match with Münster and the visit to Adenaar’s had taken a lot of time, and he’d been at home for only a couple of hours or so. No doubt there were restrictions even on such things as telephone calls when you were in prison.
There were two beds in the pale yellow room that the nurse ushered him into, but the other one was empty and so he was able to lie alone and think his thoughts without distraction.
And they were many and varied. And sufficiently urgent to keep sleep at bay. He used the phone calls to grope his way back through time: It was not a mapped out journey, but his thoughts dragged him along in their wake and before long he had started to remember all the pains and delights his life had afforded him, and he tried to understand what had made him what he had become, and what he was…. If he could be excused such an infantile way of putting it. But in any case, the time seemed to be ripe for reflection; like writing his own epitaph, it struck him—his own obituary, written in advance, with authentic facts. Or questions.
From memory, not in.
Ex memoriam.
Who am I? Who have I been?
Needless to say, no answers came to him, apart from a realization that quite a lot seemed to have followed a pattern. Piloted him in the same inexorable direction in some mysterious way.
His father: that deeply tragic figure (but children are blind to great tragedies, of course), who had such a significant influence on him. Unswervingly and inexorably he had inculcated into his son a certainty that we can never expect the least favor from life. Nothing is permanent; all is transient, arbitrary, coincidental and obscure.
Well, something like that, if he’d understood his father rightly.
His marriage: twenty-five years with Renate. To be sure, it had produced two children and that was the important outcome. One of them was in prison and likely to continue along that path; but there again, Jess and the grandchildren were an unexpectedly healthy branch on the old, sickly tree. There was no denying that.
They put the dead bodies in the basement!
His job: If nothing else had pointed in that direction, thirty-five years of Sisyphean labor in the shady side of life and society must have presented him with the occasional indication that something positive can be achieved.
Yes, there was after all a trace of a pattern.
He thrust his hand down under the stiff blanket and fingered his stomach. There…Somewhere around there is where it was, to the right of his navel, if he had understood it rightly. That was where they were going to cut into him.
He squeezed tentatively. Suddenly felt hungry, as if he had been pressing a button. He had been forbidden to eat anything after six p.m., and it struck him that in fact he hadn’t eaten since twelve. At this very moment his intestine was doubtless locked in a vain struggle to suck the last drop of nutrition from the beer he had drunk at Adenaar’s…. He tried to conjure up the process in his mind’s eye, but the images that shimmered into view were blurred and abstract, way beyond the limits of comprehension.