The Mind-Murders

9

De Gier stood in front of CafeBeelema. His head rested against a lamppost.

"How do you feel?" Grijpstra asked.

"Constrained. In my throat, spreading to my lungs. Everything is closing up. My veins are narrowing, the blood no longer flows. I would like to shout, or cry perhaps, at the same time, I think. Do you have cigarettes on you?"

"Cigars. There'll be cigarettes in the cafe All brands. Shall I get you some?"

"No, I just thought I'd like to know. I don't smoke anymore. I'll stand here for a while. It'll pass and then it'll come again. I'm in a tunnel; I'm a worm, a pink worm, stretched, pulled on both sides. The sensation is painful and hopeless. I suffer, Grijpstra."

"Poor fellow."

De Gier pushed himself away from the lamppost.

"Right. Hell is not forever. There are pauses. Without intermissions there would be no hell. If the experience were continuous, I'd get used to it. This way I can't. I'll suffer again later. Let's go."

They went into the cafe* and greeted Titania who stood behind the bar, Zhaver who was playing with Kiran between the tables, and Borry who sat at the counter. Zhaver pulled on what was left of the cap and Kiran growled.

"That's my cap," Grijpstra said. "That's an evil dog."

Beelema jumped up.

"I'm sorry, adjutant. Let me reimburse you. What did the cap cost you?"

"Ten guilders, but what's money? Paper with figures printed on it. I just bought that cap. I liked it. Look at it now."

Kiran dropped the slimy rag and grinned. Borry put up all his fingers and pointed at the register with his nose. Titania took out a ten-guilder note and gave it to Grijpstra.

"With my apologies, adjutant," Beelema said, "but the dog is still young. A little playful, eh? I'm glad you could find the time to drop in. The city is empty today, everybody has gone to the beach to annoy the tourists. Those of us who remain should keep each other company. Can I offer you a drink?"

"A beer," Grijpstra said and sank down on a bar stool. The beer soaked into his gulping throat. He replaced the empty glass. Titania refilled it. De Gier wandered about. A well-dressed middle-aged man came in and sat down at a table. He picked up the newspaper and glanced at Titania. Zhaver asked the customer what he would like to drink. The man didn't see Zhaver, he stared at Titania. Titania saw him but seemed unaware of his attention. The man put his hands on the table and raised himself slowly. He staggered to the bar. "Hello." His voice croaked. He was pale and his hands trembled.

"Sir?" asked Titania.

"Hello."

Titania looked at Zhaver.

Zhaver asked the man if he was all right. The man let go of the bar rail and began to rub his stomach.

"Yes," he said. "No. Excuse me." He left, swaying slightly. He had trouble with the door handle.

Grijpstra was impressed.

"And your arms were down," he said to Titania. "You're beautiful indeed. You unnerved that man."

"Maybe he was drunk," Beelema said soothingly. "It sometimes happens. We see it happen every now and then."

"They ask for a drink and we give it to them," Zhaver said. "Then they ask for another. They keep on doing it every day. Slowly they turn into alcoholics. It's sad, but that's the way it sometimes goes."

De Gier stood at the window. "He's going into Hotel Oberon."

"They have a bar too," Titania said.

"He's still on his feet, maybe he's all right."

Several tourists entered the cafe, South Americans, with mustachios and gleaming teeth; they trailed a woman in a low blouse filled with trembling, soft, fertile flesh.

The blouse's contents did not match the Titania's. Titania wasn't doing anything on purpose; she reached up, she had to, the bottles were on a high shelf. The gesture freed her breasts; the mustachioed gentlemen could see everything from the side, and those who were placed farther along the bar, from the other side. A moment is now, and now lasts forever. The gentlemen saw what they saw through narrow appreciative eyes. The lady saw what the gentlemen saw. Her lower lip tightened and her upper lip moved up just a little, but it changed her face. She hissed while she should have swallowed. The liquor burned her throat. The gentlemen beat her on her back while their eyes rested on the Titania's.

Other customers came in and were served by Zhaver.

"Are you working?" Beelema asked.

Grijpstra pushed his glass to Titania. "A little, we have a question. A simple question. Where is Rea Fortune? Answer the question satisfactorily and we'll be free."

"She is gone."

"Yes, yes."

"Don't you believe me?"

"I believe she's gone."

Borry Beelema thought.

De Gier stopped wandering and leaned against the bar. He studied the embroidered shirt of the cafe owner, the artificial color of his thick, curly, hairdryer-fluffed sideburns, his golden wrist and neck chains, the well-cut trousers that minimized the bulge of his belly and lengthened his legs. He thought he might find the man's photograph in the police files. He seemed to remember having seen the photograph. Perhaps in the drawer of sexual offenders. What would have been the charge? Shared delight with a minor? Harassing female pedestrians by holding on to these innocent and self-centered beings and, without having been invited, touching, or even kneading, certain of their prominent or hidden parts? Or would it have been the usual display of the pink pecker?

"Rea Fortune has gone," Beelema said, "which is a pity, or isn't it a pity? What do you think, Titania?"

Titania blushed.

"You're blushing," de Gier said. "How becoming. Look, Grijpstra, Titania is blushing."

"Don't," Titania said, "please."

What a lovely closed face the girl has, de Gier thought. Each feature is perfect. Then he forgot what he was looking at. Segments of another face fitted together. This other face was Asta's, but he had only seen her briefly, as she passed him in the patrol car. Yet the face was clear, clearer than Titania's. But what was Asta, apart from Grijpstra's misunderstanding of Sergeant Jurriaans's observations? He concentrated on the tip of Grijpstra's cigar. It smoldered like a pit in a Lilliputian's hell. In the microscopic flames, Asta's face formed itself again. He forced his eyes back to Titania.

"Titania is in love," Beelema said, "with Frits Fortune. It's a drama we have lived with for some time now. Frits Fortune doesn't know what goes on in Titania's heart, because she's a modest girl who resigned herself to the impossibility of her desires. The man was married, wasn't he, and he still is, but Rea has gone, so now the coast is clear."

"Heaven be praised and thanked," said Zhaver, "for we can no longer bear her unhappiness, although we, on our side…"

Titania broke into tears. "You dirty…" She didn't finish her observation. She ran away. A door slammed. The soles of her shoes rattled on a wooden staircase. Another door slammed.

"That wasn't clever of you, Zhaver," Beelema said. "Now you have to work for two. The gentleman over there has been waiting for service. Why don't you ask him what he wants?"

Zhaver took the fat German's order. The customer wanted two knockwursts on toast with pickles on the side. He also ordered beer. Zhaver dropped the sausages in a pan. Zhaver grumbled.

"What's so dirty about going to bed with Rea? Did you think it was dirty, Borry? You enjoyed it too."

"Did you sleep with Mrs. Fortune?" Grijpstra asked Beelema.

"Now and then."

"Did Mr. Fortune know?"

"I didn't tell him."

"Disgusting."

"There you go," Zhaver said. "She wanted to."

"She was often home alone," Beelema said. "It isn't that bad, is it? Times are freer, you know, and the police are slow to catch up. We did it because we wanted to help. Titania is in love with Fortune. Titania is ours and we fight on her side. Rea didn't even like her husband. A proved point, she ran away, didn't she?"

The German complained, loudly and with a thick accent. He wanted his beer. Beelema brought it to him. He also wanted his knockwurst. Zhaver fished the sausages from the boiling water, popped up the toast, spread the pickles. The German ate, blowing heavily through extended nostrils.

Grijpstra had become busy with sipping his beer, arranging his cigars and his matches on the counter, and moving his bar stool. He found some coasters to be lined up in a square. He studied a number of bottle labels. He scratched the stubble on his chin and felt his navel. In the end he patted the side of his jacket.

The concrete presence of his pistol provided some peace of mind. His body sagged back in the accepting attitude it had assumed before the disturbance of new facts interfering with a theory. Rea Fortune has disappeared, he thought again, as he had thought before forming the theory. Rea Fortune's absence remained the foundation on which all theories would rest. If Rea were there, he, Grijpstra, wouldn't be here, he would be home with his wife and children in the upstairs apartment of the Oilmakerscanal. Streetside view: water displaying floating objects, mainly made of rubber; rear view: windowsills displaying other objects, mainly plates containing scraps of food.

Rea Fortune is not there. Why? Because her husband killed her. Why did he kill her? Because he lost his temper, that's why. Everything thought out and approved, tightly completed. Next step: find corpse.

But what if everything changed? If, apart from two new lovers (Rea's), a fallen-in-love girl (with Frits)' were added to his collection? How would all this fit the original and tested theory? Grijpstra sweated. His hand dropped and once again patted the textile-hidden pistol. This support did not stop his forehead from sweating. All factual evidence so far obtained danced around the adjutant, including the headless bear Brom and the earless and eyeless Babette, including the lovers and the enamored girl, naked and pornographing.

He left his bar stool, grabbed hold of the wandering de Crier, and pushed him to a corner table.

"I won't pay," the German said loudly. "The beer was warm and the knockwurst was cold."

His statement caused no comment, but the sergeant left his chair and walked to the phone. He dialed, spoke, and returned to the table.

"I'm sorry," Grijpstra said, "I know I've been treating you badly, in a condescending manner, because of your temporary affliction."

The door opened and closed. Two uniformed constables, one male and elderly, one female and young, entered the cafe They switched off their electronic communicators and looked at Beelema. Beelema pointed at the German who was staring at his meticulously cleaned plate and empty glass. The girl constable marched up to him.

"You won't pay, sir?"

The German answered her in the affirmative and explained why he had come to his decision.

"You've got to pay, sir."

"I will not."

The elderly constable stood in front of the door, a resigned but heavy presence. He contemplated the floor. Kiran barked and embraced the girl. When he barked again, he was flat on his back in a far corner of the room and appeared to be in pain. The girl resumed her original position. The cafe became as quiet as before.

The German's eyes, embedded in pale fat, glowed. The girl's eyes sparkled through long lashes. The German took out his wallet, produced a note, and put it on the table.

"Will that be enough?" the girl asked Beelema.

Beelema nodded..

The elderly constable stepped aside. The German waddled through the door. The elderly constable followed him. The girl smiled at de Gier. She saluted. She followed the elderly constable.

"Got to have that corpse," Grijpstra was saying. "And you should help me. Without the corpse there is nothing but vagueness, nothing but…"

"A ripped fog in the early morning."

"What?"

De Gier smiled encouragingly.

"A ripped fog in the early morning. I saw that this morning, above the river, when I drove into town. Lovely, but you can't hold on to it. I understand what you are saying, Grijpstra. What a beautiful place this cafe" is. Just look at that paneling, it's rosewood and well joined. Look how Zhaver contrasts against that background of mirrored bottles. Study Kiran, lying on sunlit boards. If I were smoking now, I wouldn't have this aVareness. Nicotine narrows the potential of imaginative reception by slowing the blood flow in the brain. It limits the capacity of the senses. I'm close to the essence of creation. I see that everything is glorious indeed. Too glorious in a way, I don't think I can stand it."

"Hold it."

"I will see what I can do for you, Grijpstra. Please tell me how you intend to find that corpse."

"Right. The corpse is close, under the road bricks. But where exactly? I've thought of a method to determine its location. We must have Fortune followed. He will be attracted to the spot where he buried his wife, for marriage creates a link, strengthened in his case by crime. We can't follow him, for he knows us, but he doesn't know Cardozo. Listen carefully while I go into details and tell me what you think."

"No " de Gier said a few minutes later and smiled over Grijpstra's shoulder at the expanse of the Brewers-canal, stretched quietly in the heavy yellow light of the late afternoon.

"I'll do it anyway."

"You won't," de Gier said, "but how did you ever think of it? How wonderful."

Grijpstra inhaled deeply. De Gier cut the adjutant's protest with a loving wave of his arm.

"Not now, Grijpstra, I want to see it again." His eyes rested on the canal's surface while he saw the phantoms raised by Grijpstra. First of all there goes the suspect Fortune, wandering in solitude, a prey to his own bad conscience and his self-inflicted demons. His muffled curses interchange with gnashing of his teeth. At a safe distance follows a detective. He is Cardozo, constable first class, a member of the murder brigade, a small figure, untidy and long haired, blending with the city. He carries a bundle of red flags. Everytime the suspect's behavior changes, whenever Fortune curses or gnashes louder, Cardozo remembers where the change occurred and inserts a flag between the bricks. The flags are small but bright of color and are seen by the laborer who follows the detective. The laborer drives a yellow machine, grumbling on wide crunching tracks, the machine carries a blade, and the blade digs holes. But each hole is always empty.

"Each hole is always empty."

"But where could the corpse be?"

"Each hole is always empty, and how will you defend your decision when you are asked to explain the holes?"

"I do have serious suspicions," Grijpstra said sadly.

"You do not. You have a bizarre construction, resting on what isn't there. You have negatives and you're adding them. No contents of a house, no lady, no life in a dog. Added negatives do not make a positive. You have a no head on a hearsay teddy bear. You have an insufficiency, adjutant, you have a nothing obscured by shapes."

"What can I serve the gentlemen?" Beelema asked. "You're just sitting. You aren't ordering. It's dinnertime. Tell you what? I invite you to come to the sandwich shop with me because my kitchen is closed because Titania is crying upstairs."

"No, no," Grijpstra said. "Can't you send for some food? It's nice here, why leave?"

"Yes," Beelema said, "what will it be?"

"A roll with warm meat, another with chopped steak, another with ox sausage and another with two meatrolls."

"Yes," Beelema said, "and the sergeant?"

"A roll with meat salad, another with crab salad, another with lobster salad, and another with two meat-rolls."

"That'll be four meatrolls," Grijpstra said worriedly, "two for him and two for me, that makes four. Not two, not one for him and one for me, but two each, that's four, but only with two rolls, one for him and one for me. Can you remember that?"

"Four each?" Beelema asked. "Isn't that a lot? He doesn't smoke anymore and should be careful and you're heavy already. It isn't my concern, of course. I'll get eight, or sixteen, but…"

"Two each," Grijpstra said.

"Let Mr. Beelema go," de Gier said, "he understood."

Beelema returned. Zhaver had laid the table. Beelema joined his guests and observed them while they ate.

"I'm proud of you," Beelema said when they were done. "You didn't mess about. Where do we go from here?"

Grijpstra turned slowly. He observed the crowd at the bar. The South American low-cut lady admonished the mustachioed South American gentlemen. Two groups of glass-in-hand locals flanked the foreign element

"Introduce me to somebody who knows the Fortunes, a reliable somebody. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Beelema said. He walked over to the locals and studied them one by one. He made his choice. "Mr. Hyme," Beelema whispered, "do you see the two men sitting at the corner table? They are police officers. They want to meet you. Please go and talk to them."