Death of a Hawker

12

"Let's eat," the Commissaris said.

"They always cry, don't they?" Grijpstra said. "Or they just look dumb, like animals, stupid animals, loads, snails…" He was going to mention mote stupid and slippery animals but the commissaris interrupted him.

"Snails," the commissaris said and leaned back into die foam rubber seat. "Yes, snails. I wouldn't mind having some snails for dinner. Constable!"

"Sir," the constable said.

"Do you remember that old windmill, the restaurant you took me to some time ago, with the public prosecutor?''

"Yes, sir."

"We'll go there again, that is, if the adjutant has nothing against eating snails."

Grijpstra looked dubious. "Never ate them before, sir."

"Oh, you'll like them. The French have been eating them for thousands of years and they are supposed to be more intelligent than we are. Did you say the lady struck you as stupid?"

"Not the lady in particular, sir. Most people behave stupidly when they connect with death."

"You aren't criticizing, you mean, you are observing."

Grijpstra looked hurt. "The police never criticize."

The commissaris reached out and patted Grijpstra's solid shoulder with his thin almost lifeless hand.

"Right, adjutant. You've remembered your lessons. We observe, connect, conclude and apprehend. If we can. The suspect always tries to get away, and when we do manage to catch him the lawyers will criticize and excuse him in turns and our observations will be made to fit in with whatever the lawyers say, and in the end nobody will really know what happened or why it happened." The commissaris' hand was back in his lap again. It suddenly became a fist and hit the seat.

"This is a silly case, Grijpstra. I don't understand how all these people link up. Take the lady we saw just now, for instance. Abe slept with her, but he slept with a number of women. What did he see in her? She isn't especially attractive either. Did you think she was attractive?"

Grijpstra's thick lips curled derisively and he shook his head. "No, sir. Thin legs, not a very good figure, a lot of fluffy curls on a round head. But there is no accounting for a man's taste."

"Her mind?" the commissaris asked, but Grijpstra's expression didn't change.

"A bookworm, sir."

"Right," the commissaris said. "Exactly. Living on her theories, or on what she thinks are her theories, on something other people and maybe a few books have droned into her. Surrealism indeed! And that's what the link between her and our corpse is supposed to be, a mutual interest in French surrealist novels."

"You don't believe in surrealism, sir?"

The commissaris shrugged and looked out of the window. The car was following the narrow road past the Amstel River and they had a clear view of a wide expanse of water, hardly ruffled by a quiet breeze which had lost most of its force in the river's protecting belt of reeds and bushes.

"Yes, yes," he said slowly, "but the word irritates me. No meaning. It's like saying 'God,' or the 'infinite' or 'the point where two parallel lines meet.' They'll say those words and wipe away a tear. What would a girl like Corin Kops, a brittle stale bunch of bones topped by an unspectacular brain, know about surrealism!''

Grijpstra looked away. He pretended to rub his mouth to hide his smile, remembering that he had once described the commissaris to de Gier as a dry stick topped by a razor blade.

"Hasn't understood anything at 811," the commissaris continued. "She just doesn't know. They try to define something that can never be caught in a word, but they'll think of a word all the same and then use it as if it had real meaning. Like the Dutch Reformed preachers holding forth about God. In the old days anyway. They have learned a little more modesty now, and there aren't so many of them left, thank heaven. What do we know about reality? Maybe we do at moments. Like early this morning, with my half-witted turtle pottering about in the grass and a thrush singing away. Maybe I understood something then but it was gone when I tried to put my hand on it. But a woman like Miss Kops thinks she catches it and coins a word, and before you know it the word is in the dictionaries. Hey!"

Grijpstra, whose eyes had been closing, looked up.

"Constable!" the commissaris shouted. "Stop the car!"

The constable stood on the brakes and Grijpstra lurched forward.

"Back the car up," the commissaris said softly, "but slowly. Very slowly. We mustn't disturb him."

There," the commissaris said. "See?"

Grijpstra saw the heron, a majestic specimen of its race, well over four feet high, standing under a willow on the right side of the road, its plume crowning the thin delicate head. A huge goldfish was held in its beak, tail and head hanging down.

The constable laughed. "He doesn't know what to do with it, sir. That fish must weigh a few pounds."

"That's right," Grijpstra said. "Herons catch small fish and swallow them. He'll never get that whopper through his throat. But how did he manage to catch a goldfish? There aren't any goldfish in the river and he's on the wrong side of the road anyway, the river is behind us."

"Must be a fishpond behind that mansion," the constable said. "The bugger sneaked in there and took his chance."

"Let's go," the commissaris said.

Grijpstra caught on five minutes later. The commissaris hadn't said anything and seemed half asleep, hands on knees, head reclining against the top of his seat.

"A heron is a lovely bird," Grijpstra said, "and that heron was a beauty."

"Indeed," the commissaris said.

"One doesn't often see a heron with a goldfish in his beak."

"Quite," the commissaris said.

Grijpstra tried once more. "I am glad you stopped the car, sir."

"Why?"

"The beauty of it, sir."

The commissaris waved at the river. "The river is beautiful too, Grijpstra, and it's there all the time. So are the trees, so is that old windmill over there. We are surrounded by beauty. Even the new blocks of apartments we saw this morning are beautiful, and not only at sunset or early in the morning."

"It's not the same," Grijpstra said.

"Yes. The heron was different. He had a goldfish in his beak. Most unusual. Maybe the sudden unlikely image shocked something free in you. It's only when we get shocked that we can see something, but it's tricky. Like a man suddenly being knocked down by a car. He is crossing the street, dreaming away, and wham, there he is, flat on his back, with a wound somewhere or a broken bone. I've seen it dozens of times. They cry, they hold your hand, they are all upset. So they are rushed to the hospital and are shot full of dope, and whatever they were able to understand, because their world broke up, is drugged away again."

"That bird looked pretty stupid, sir," the constable at the wheel said gleefully.

"Like us," the commissaris said. "We've got a beautiful case, stuck right up our throat, but we are damned if we know what to do with it."

Dinner took an hour. They had half a dozen snails each and fresh toast and strong red wine from an unlabeled bottle. Grijpstra poked about suspiciously, extracting the small black rubbery lumps from their shells, frowning while he slowly chewed them.

"Well?" the commissaris asked.

"Very nice," Grijpstra said, carefully cleaning his plate with a piece of toast. "Good sauce this."

"More?"

Grijpstra thought. The commissaris nodded encouragingly.

"Yes."

Grijpstra ate another half dozen. He also ate half a chicken and a plateful of strawberries and asked the waiter for more whipped cream.

"If I can get it on your plate," the waiter said.

"Try."

The waiter ladled on more whipped cream.

"You can leave that pitcher on the table," the commissaris said, "and put it on the bill."

"You'd better not kiss your wife tonight," the commissaris said as they left the restaurant, "That sauce you liked so much was solid garlic."

"I never kiss my wife," Grijpstra said and burped. "Excuse me, sir."

"Never mind, but don't burp in the car. You'll knock out the driver and we still have to see that other girl."

Grijpstra nodded gravely but he wasn't listening. A second burp was forming itself at the bottom of his gullet and seemed stuck sideways, sideways and askew. It burned and cut simultaneously and he began to pat his chest anxiously in a vain attempt to dislodge the bubbly obstacle. The commissaris was still talking and the Citroen waited for them at the end of the path with the constable at the door.

Funny fellow, don't you think?" the commissaris asked. "He always refuses to eat with me, poor chap still lives in the last century. He probably had a cup of coffee and fried eggs on toast on the terrace while we stuffed ourselves inside. I'll see if I can get his bill. Can't let him pay for himself, can I?"

Grijpstra was still patting his chest.

"What's wrong?"

"I'll be right back," Grijpstra said and turned off the path. Hidden behind a thicket of young ash trees he thumped his chest and wriggled his large body but the burp stayed where it was, obstinately lodged below an invisible impediment. Determined to free himself Grijpstra jumped up and down, flapping his arms and suddenly the burp, having grown meanwhile into a full-grown belch, roared out and touched his vocal cords, vibrating first into a growl and reaching the impact of a thunderclap at its summit.

Grijpstra dropped his arms and staggered back.

"Well done," the waiter said. He had been watching Grijpstra ever since he turned off the path.

"Beautiful," the waiter said now. "Never heard any* thing like it. I am surprised there are still leaves on the trees. Try a fart now. Go on."

Grijpstra felt too relieved to be hurt. "Shouldn't you be inside working?" he asked mildly.

"I should be," the waiter said, "but I am not. I am here, taking five minutes off and smoking a cigarette. It's my last day at this establishment. I am starting a little snack bar in town next week."

"Where? Maybe I'll come and try it."

"Not you," the waiter said, threw down his cigarette, stamped on it, and walked away.