Hard Rain

\\\\\ 35 /////

"But I'm dying," Fernandus said, sitting up against his clean, fluffy cushions. "Don't look so nervous, Jan. There's no gun under the sheets. You won. You said you were going to destroy me, and by Jove, you did."

"You believe in Jove now?" the commissaris asked, wondering who would have sent Fernandus the red roses on his night table.

"The nurse brought them in," Fernandus said. "They have lots of flowers here. Nobody would send me flowers."

The commissaris acknowledged the information with a careful smile. Fernandus nodded too. "I could always read your thoughts. Conforming thoughts. The obvious again. You think like the majority. Not amazing at all, the way our lives turned out."

"Can I smoke here?" the commissaris asked.

"Sure. Got a cigar for me?"

The commissaris brought out his tin, holding it close to his chest.

"No," Fernandus said. "I don't believe this. Go on, give me a cigar. You're still punishing me? Thanks. A light too, if you please."

The commissaris looked about the bright room. "No guard?"

"No." Fernandus held the tip of his cigar under his nose and sniffed. "You could buy a better brand. Leave the tin anyway, I'll be gone tomorrow afternoon. At four sharp, they say, got the word today, that's why I called you."

"Back to jail?" The commissaris felt his leg. "If you're dying, they might let you do it here."

"They'll kill me here." Fernandus grinned. "Pain in your legs? Good. Is your trouble getting worse?"

The commissaris got up. "You enervate me, Willem. Mind if I cut this short? Is there anything in particular you want to say?"

Fernandus struggled weakly into a more upright position. "Sit down, Jan, I've got pains too, the pleasure is mutual, you can laugh at me. I've got leukemia, did they tell you that?" He held up a finger. "Listen. I looked it up. Acute forms are fatal within weeks or months. Symptoms include weakness, fatigue, anemia, and hemorrhaging. Leukemia is invariably fatal. This is goodbye. Say goodbye in style."

"Goodbye," the commissaris said. He sat down.

"You don't want to know about the euthanasia?" Fernandus asked.

"So you'll be killed at four o'clock tomorrow," the commissaris said. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry to hear it?"

Fernandus kept sliding back. "Help me up."

"Maybe you're more comfortable lying flat."

"I'm not." Fernandus grimaced. "Go on. Thanks. A little higher. Push that pillow down. Mind my cigar. So how do you feel about our little war now, eh? I hear you got the baron killed and that Guldemeester has been arrested. Did you mess that up?" He shrugged. "It doesn't always quite work the way we set it up. They fell down together and Guldemeester broke his legs. Or was that the way you planned it? Exterminate everyone who ever associated with me? Stamp out the vermin?"

"Who told you about that happening?" the commissaris asked.

Fernandus pointed at the phone next to the flowers. "Ten Haaf."

The commissaris shook his head. "That was a forced move. De la Faille would have shown up in Holland again; the police are patient."

"Yes." Fernandus nodded at the nurse who came in. "We could have some tea. Thank you, dear, you're looking even prettier today." He looked at his visitor. "So now you're the official again, using proper methods? I took that away from you for a while. Dropped the rules. You should be grateful. You could prove yourself." He reached over and touched the commissaris's knee. "You think you did well?"

The commissaris smiled. "Yes. All things considered."

"No," Fernandus said. "Your motivation was wrong. Do you know that now?"

"Wait," the commissaris said. "Before I forget. What happened to Ryder's car? Did Ten Haaf mention the Ferrari?"

"Ten Haaf's got the Ferrari." Fernandus raised a shoulder. "That's an unimportant detail, Jan. Your man left the car. Your fellow came too late." He lifted an eyebrow. "What was the matter with that sergeant? He couldn't arrest the baron in Spain, or had you arranged for a foreign warrant? Was there time for that?"

"Never mind," the commissaris said.

"But I do." Fernandus thumped his bed. "Must have been something personal too. Like you and me. Your man used a stolen car. Is he still with the police?"

"Rinus is in New Guinea now," the commissaris said, reaching out too, but withdrawing his hand before it could touch Fernandus's leg. "That part of our conflict worked out rather well. I've been wanting de

Gier to strike out on his own for a while now, but he kept clinging to his routine."

"Or to you," Fernandus said. "Halba…" He grinned. "What a lout. You got him to resign, I hear. Stupid ass. Halba said you have a dedicated staff- sort of groupies, you're a father to them."

The commissaris accepted a cup of tea from the tray the nurse was holding.

"You've been drinking?" Fernandus asked after the nurse had left. He sniffed. "Whiskey?" He looked at his watch. "You drink at your office?"

"A wedding party," the commissaris said. "My secretary got married."

"The secretary?" Fernandus's eyes gleamed.

"Yes."

"Whom did she marry?"

The commissaris put down his tea. "I'll be right back."

He came back some twenty minutes later.

"A long leak?" Fernandus asked.

The commissaris sat down again. "I spoke to Dr. Peters."

"Oh." Fernandus nodded. "Let's have another cigar. I say, do me a favor and look in that closet. There's a bottle there, the guard bought it for me before he was sent back."

The commissaris fetched the bottle. "Pour it in the cups," Fernandus said. He waved both hands. "Don't be an idiot now. We go back forever, Jan, and this is it. You saw the doctor, so you must believe me now."

The commissaris muttered while he poured the whiskey.

"Did you say 'shit'?" Fernandus asked. "You don't want to face me? Here's shit in your eye."

The commissaris raised his cup. "Your health." He lowered the cup again. "Sorry."

"Not your health either," Fernandus said. "I want you to suffer. Here's to the pain in your leg." He drank. "Do you know why I asked you to come?"

"Sure," the commissaris said. "To brag. Save your last breath, Willem." He raised his hands. "No, really, shut up. I'll drink your liquor, but I've had enough of your claptrap by now." He drank too. "Sixty years of wrong views. I know your side of the argument. I'm the weak one who refused to experiment. We agree there are no absolute morals…"

"We do," Fernandus said. "In theory you always saw that, but you were conventional, you took the easy way out. Sold your soul to the opinion of the majority. Waved the flag, sang the national anthem."

"And why not?" The commissaris looked over the rim of his cup. "This isn't a bad country. You betrayed it."

"I never betrayed myself," Fernandus said. "I maneuvered along with whoever happened to be in power, always covering my exits. I'm for me, like everybody else is for everybody else, it's a nasty truth and I faced up to it. I had a good time. You didn't."

The commissaris winked. "Always covered your exits, eh? So how come I caught you at the taxi stand?"

Fernandus held up his cup. "You betrayed our mutual views. And you and I are the same. You're my weak side, my eternal embarrassment, my shame. Of all those eager watchdogs, you were the only one who could foresee what I might do." Fernandus smacked his lips. "I hoped-it's true, even if you don't believe me-I hoped that you'd let me go, to continue the game. But you had to get rid of me, you ass. Couldn't face the truth."

The commissaris refilled the cups. "The truth… what if there isn't any?"

Fernandus sighed pleasurably. "Good buzz. Hits the painkiller just right." He looked at his cigar. "You thought I'd die of lung cancer, I'm sure. I had stopped smoking, then I started again because of you. I thought about that later. Did you know they suspected lung cancer, the doctors?"

"No." The commissaris balanced his cup on the palm of his hand. "Why should I know that? I have been avoiding you. I asked you a question. What if there isn't any truth? What if even our supposition that there's no truth isn't true? Wouldn't we have to make up our own truth then?"

"But I did," Fernandus said loudly. "You didn't. You accepted the made-up truth of present unevolved society. I hypothesized that nothing matters and that therefore I could make myself matter and that I should do anything to bring about the best possible time for me. I succeeded at doing that. Most of my life I had everything that my own gods would hand me on a platter." Fernandus giggled. "Including your secretary. Now whom did she marry?"

"The junkie," the commissaris said, "who is no junkie and whom you failed to kill. A most courageous and talented artist. Carl."

Fernandus studied the swirling contents of his cup. "The unbalanced boy who stutters?"

"Yes."

Fernandus drank. "Yes, I didn't figure that out very well, you can't blame me for that. You always had the power of the state behind you, and I could only rely on my own weak crew. I was handicapped. Even so, I did pretty well."

"You didn't get my secretary," the commissaris said. "She was my spy. You never knew that."

Fernandus held up his cup again. "But I did, I saw through your gambit at once. I never trusted Toine." He grinned. "But what a chance! She had to play along a bit and I stretched that out as far as her imagination would go. I reconstructed Miss Bakker… heh heh."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "You sure you can drink this much? The alcohol might conk you out."

"I'll be all right."

"Sure," the commissaris said. "You'll be fine. Tomorrow you die and nobody cares. Your wife has become a fat slobbering sow. Your son waits for you in hell. The baron, your trusted right hand, will turn into a festering demon who'll spread himself all over your ghost. Heul and the junkies you overdosed in that garbage boat changed into cancerous cells that are now sucking your marrow."

"Whoa," Fernandus shouted. "Save your poetry, Jan. What brings on this petty rage? Getting sozzled already?"

"A bit." The commissaris nodded. "Just a bit. I'd better not get drunk. If I do, Katrien will be furious."

Fernandus imitated the commissaris's voice. " 'Katrien will be furious.' Here you are, sixty years old, head of the municipal police, a knight in the Order of the Queen, and you live in peril of your dragon lady."

The commissaris frowned. "Katrien wanted to come too. Be grateful she didn't."

"I would have told her about Miss Bakker," Fernandus said, slurring the edges of his words. "That's where it all started. It's so simple, looking back. That's what's nice about approaching death. Suddenly the worn-out memory becomes quite clear. Listen"- he gestured, careful not to spill his whiskey-"listen, Jan. You and I were both born of middle-aged, flat-chested mothers, that's the key to our desire. Absence of good breasts. We both tried to make Miss Bakker our mother. You succeeded because you were good at being cute. I got you off her lap. I deprived you of motherly love, of big breasts to lean your cute little head against, and to feel a bit, I saw you do that."

"No," the commissaris said. "Right. Let's assume you're right. It would have made no difference if I had stayed on Miss Bakker's lap or not. Now listen to this. I agree, we keep going back to that basic supposition, I agree that there's nothing at all. No morals. No good or evil. We made it up ourselves. We, humanity." He waved his cup wildly.

"Careful," Fernandus said.

"So there's this big empty universe," the commissaris said. "With some minute specks of matter floating around, and we're on a speck. But the speck is nothing, either. So we can do as we like. We can be friendly or unfriendly. Maybe we're clever, you and I…"

"Very clever," Fernandus said. "But what's the good of intelligence if it isn't used? You never used yours. You toed all these lines. On the tips of your toes, tongue hanging out, conforming, pleasing essentially powerless authorities like the Queen. Bah! Never daring to do anything at all on your own, refusing the good gifts. You never even had a proper car.

"I have a very nice car," the commissaris said, "serves me well, thank you, and a comfortable house, and a turtle, and a coffee pot, I've got everything. Now hold off for a minute. So maybe I'm clever. I can manipulate the others, make them do what I like. Abuse them. What good does that do?"

"There's no good," Fernandus said. "There's only our own selection of self-made values."

"Please," the commissaris said. "Don't interrupt all the time. I have manipulated people, I still do, but for their own…"He hesitated.

"Good," Fernandus finished. "There you go again. There is no good. There's pleasure and there's non-pleasure. There's tension and a nice free feeling. There's frustration and indulgence. I always went for pleasure. Whose pleasure, eh?"

"Your own," the commissaris said. "Look where you are now."

Fernandus patted his cushion. "I'm comfortable. I arranged for my own painless death tomorrow. I don't want well-wishers around when I die. Just a scientist in a nice clean coat, holding a clean needle with fast poison. I won't even feel death, for I'll be put to sleep first. Nice sleep, Jan. You're an old man too. You know how good it is to nap." He smiled. "Drift away slowly, the bright colors around you fading into all sorts of subtle soft shades. The sounds dying out, and suddenly you drift free, that's what it will be like."

"And then?"

Fernandus shook his head. "Then nothing. I'm looking forward to that. My body is old now, I'm getting rid of a faulty instrument, and my mind can go too. I had fun with it, but it's getting slow. It didn't get me out of the damned airport. The hell with my mind." He pounded the mattress. "And the hell with you."

"No," the commissaris said. "I'll go to heaven." He sighed. "Maybe you did right after all, Willem. Hell could be exciting. Heaven will be dull. Hell is probably like your club and I'd be forever looking at half-naked women and eating caviar on toast."

"You're serious?" Fernandus asked. "I also think hell will be like the Society's club, or like the motel at the lakeside. I wouldn't mind that. Being young again. I'll swim. I used to enjoy that."

"In boiling tar," the commissaris said. "And I'll be on an aromatic cloud. You hurt and I float in boredom." He emptied the bottle into the cup. "I hope the angels will send me down to relieve your pain."

"I'd pull you into the tar too," Fernandus said. "You'd be very welcome."

The commissaris got up. "You did that during our final adventure. I lost a lot of face. My men thought I was this detached eternal father who could be shaken by nothing earthly at all. Now they're bad-mouthing what's left of my image. De Gier broke away. Grijpstra gets cleverer by the day. Cardozo sees through my veils. Katrien.. ." The commissaris groaned.

"I'm sorry," Fernandus whispered.

The commissaris didn't hear.

Fernandus whispered louder.

"You're sorry?" the commissaris asked. "You?"

"I'm human," Fernandus said. "You're right. I lose. I see that now. You'd better go."

The commissaris got up.

Fernandus stirred weakly. "Help me up again, Jan, the pillows keep slipping down."

"You should rest," the commissaris said.

"I'll sit up," Fernandus said, glancing at the phone. "I'd better receive death properly."

"That'll be tomorrow," the commissaris said. " 'Bye."

The commissaris walked slowly to the elevator. He wasn't too drunk. The bottle had only been half full, and Fernandus had drunk half of that. But he wasn't sober, either. My judgment is impaired, the commissaris thought, remembering a lecture on alcoholism. Drunks have impaired judgment. Should I forgive Willem? the commissaris thought. Do I accept his humanity after all? Or am I too mellow now?

He crossed the hospital's parking lot, on his way to his car. Why had Fernandus wanted to sit up? Why had he glanced at the phone? Whom did he want to contact so urgently?

No, the commissaris thought, taking time to admire an ominous dark gray cloud filling in a piece of blue sky. Sure, policemen habitually go for the lowest motive when they analyze a suspect's activity, but Fernandus was no longer a suspect. And, under present circumstances, he himself should no longer act as a cop. Cops are human too, they forgive and forget. Hadn't Fernandus admitted to his humanity after all? Even said he was sorry?

The commissaris put his hand on the Citroen's door. Then he let go of the handle again and turned around. Behind him the hospital stared silently, through its many window eyes.

Perhaps, the commissaris thought. Yes, perhaps. There had been a case in Rotterdam where a high-ranking police officer, out of uniform, driving home after a party where he had been manipulated by a colleague into overindulging, was arrested by officers trailing him in a patrol car. The Rotterdam commissaris had lost his job, the officers who made the arrest were promoted ahead of time. The colleague had taken the ex-commissaris's position. A clear motive in that case.

Again?

Why not? the commissaris thought sadly. Criminals never have too many choices as to how they will materialize their petty schemes.

The commissaris walked away from the Citroen and crossed the parking lot, in spite of the sudden downpour released by the ominous cloud. He reached the avenue that passed by the hospital. There was a tram shelter and he sat on its hard bench. A coincidence, no doubt, but there was a patrol car across the road, partly hidden behind a parked truck. Two cops were staring at the hospital's parking lot.

The commissaris stood up and located Fernandus's window in the large building behind him. He thought he saw a pajama-clad figure, partly hidden by curtains. He waved, but Fernandus wouldn't be able to see him through the dirty glass of the shelter's wall.

A tram came riding up, harshly clanging its bell. The commissaris stepped outside, shivering as cold raindrops hit him sharply in the neck. The rain was coming down so hard that drops ricocheted from the pavement, lashing at his hands and cheeks. He shivered, thinking of his warm dry car. Well, he would pick it up later. The commissaris boarded the tram.

"What are you doing out of bed?" a nurse asked Fernandus. "Here, let me help you." She was too late. Fernandus had fallen over already. She frowned as she pulled the muttering patient up. Such a nice little gentleman. Such horribly foul language.