"You are Dutch," the captain said, "and the Dutch always eat something when they drink. I have come to so often that I have picked up their habits. In Venezuela we drink when we drink. What have you got, cook?"
"Noodle soup, boss."
"No eggrolls?"
"Eggrolls, too."
"Yes, please," the commissaris said.
The food arrived within minutes and the hunchback set the table, taking the rum bottle with him in spite of the captain's protests.
The commissaris stayed another hour, listening to the captain's tales. He heard about the ports of Venezuela and Colombia and there was a long story about Guajira, the peninsula between the two countries where smugglers rule and where Indians still live the Indian life. He was told about the many islands, about revolutions, about sudden gales.
"I nearly lost my first mate then," the captain said, "Maria's brother. How is he, by the way?"
"Her brother?" the commissaris asked, "but she only has
The captain was trying to light a soggy cigar and, after several attempts, threw it out of the porthole and selected a fresh one from the tin which the commissaris had put on the table.
"Different mother," he said, "but the same father. Maria's father has a lot of children but he was very fond of this son. His mother had come out from Holland to teach here. De Sousa looked after her when she became pregnant and built her a little house in the South. Maria knew her brother, they would come and play on this ship sometimes. The boy went to high school in Amsterdam and later graduated from the merchant navy college. Then he came back."
"You knew him well?" the commissaris asked.
"Of course. He sailed under me for several years. Poor fellow."
"Poor fellow?"
"Yes." The captain stamped on the floor three times.
"Captain?" the hunchback's voice came from the lower deck.
"Can I have that bottle back now?"
"No," the hunchback shouted, "but you can have a beer."
"Beer!" the captain shouted.
Two tins arrived and the captain shoved one to the commissaris. They pulled them open.
"Health."
"The poor fellow," the commissaris reminded him.
"Yes. Natural child, you know. He had his mother's name. His mother married and she didn't have much time for her first child. He hated his father. And he is a small chap, small chaps have a difficult time. He looks small too, some small chaps don't look small but he does. Became very Christian, Bible and all. And then he wouldn't stay with me anymore, he couldn't put up with the drinking and goings on, used to lock himself in his cabin at times. I couldn't help him. But he was a good seaman, I liked him."
"So where is he now?"
"He went back to Holland. Surely you know. Didn't you run into him when Maria got killed?"
"No."
"He is on Schiermonnikoog, 'The Eye of die Gray Monk. Funny name, that's why I remembered it. He gave up die sea but he had to stay close to it so he picked an island to live on. He became a ranger on a nature reserve. Always liked birds and plants."
"What's his name?" the commissaris asked.
"He has his father's first name and his mother's surname. Ramon Scheffer."
"Thank you," the commissaris said.
14
It was close to four o'clock and still dark. Adjutant Buisman had forced their small dinghy onto the muddy beach.
"This is as close as we can get," he said in a low voice. "You better take off your boots, they'll get stuck in the mud, it's easier if we walk barefoot."
Grijpstra stared at the inky water, de Gier had already pulled off his short boots.
"Ah well," Grijpstra said, more to himself than to anyone else. He found it hard to move in his oilcloth suit and the souwester had tipped into his eyes. With a grunt he managed to get out of his boots and he lowered one foot carefully. It looked very white in the dim early morning light.
The water was cold, about as cold as he had expected it to be.
"Anrgh," he said in a loud voice as his foot sank into the thick mud.
"Sssh," the adjutant whispered, "the birds. We don't want to disturb them."
"Birds," Grijpstra mumbled. He felt the mud ooze between his toes.
"Bah," he whispered to de Gier, "are you sure this is mud?"
"What else could it be?"
"Dogshit," Grijpstra said.
De Gier laughed politely. He was having his own troubles with the mud which sucked at his legs.
"Careful with the binoculars," the adjutant whispered to Grijpstra. "If we don't bring them back my sergeant will be very upset. He has only just got them."
"Yes, yes," Grijpstra said, and began to wade toward the shore. The dinghy appeared to be sitting on a small bank for the water continued for another fifty yards.
Grijpstra tried not to think as he waded, he only wanted to get to the shore. His foot struck an empty tin and he stumbled but succeeded in staying on his legs. He was the last to arrive.
"Wipe the mud off your feet," the adjutant said, offering Grijpstra a handful of grass. "What happened to your foot? It's bleeding."
De Gier sat down on his haunches and studied Grijpstra's foot. "A wound," he said.
Grijpstra looked down but all he could see was his wide oilcloth trousers.
"Let's go a little farther," de Gier said. "There's some dry sand over there. I've got a torch."
The wound was fairly deep and de Gier cleaned and bandaged it. "Bad luck. Try and walk on it."
Grijpstra could still walk. They put on their socks and shoes again.
"Aha," the adjutant said. "It's getting light now, this is the best time. Look!"
Grijpstra looked and saw a bird, followed by another.
"Plovers," the adjutant exclaimed, adjusting his field glasses.
Grijpstra obediently looked, lifting the heavy binoculars. He saw a blur and felt too cold and too tired to try to adjust the glasses. De Gier saw nothing, he hadn't taken the protecting caps off. The adjutant told him about it.
"Ah yes," de Gier said.
He saw the two small birds.
"Plovers," the adjutant said again. "There are quite a few of them here now, more than last year. Lovely birds. Graceful! Watch them run! They aren't afraid, if they were they would fly. This is a reserve, they know we won't harm them."
Grijpstra moved and his trousers squeaked.
"That's bad," the adjutant said, "can't you take them off? The squeak will irritate the birds. Look! A redshank."
"Where?" Grijpstra asked, feeling that he had to show interest.
"I don't know," de Gier said, "all I can see is a fat yellowshank."
The adjutant had moved away. Grijpstra suddenly turned around and de Gier, startled by Grijpstra's looming shadow, staggered back.
"Cut it out, will you. You got me these saffron monstrosities."
"But they are all right, aren't they? They are waterproof. It has begun to rain."
"So it has," Grijpstra said.
It drizzled but Buisman's enthusiasm increased. There were birds everywhere around them and he reeled off their names, telling his guests about the birds' habits.
"Oystercatchers! They can break open the thickest shell with those strong red beaks. Look."
Grijpstra and de Gier looked.
They looked for several hours, staggering about, too tired to lift up their binoculars, gazing dutifully at the busy shapes of seagulls and seemingly endless varieties of duck.
"Eggs," Buisman whispered every now and then. "Be careful! There are a lot of nests about."
"Fried eggs," Grijpstra whispered to de Gier, who had hidden behind a tree, trying to smoke and shielding his cigarette from the rain.
"Fried eggs, and bacon, and tomatoes, and toast."
"Coffee," de Gier said. "We should have brought a thermos flask. I always forget the most important things. Hot coffee!"