Tumbleweed

20

Six months later, after the brains and memories of the policemen who had dealt with the Maria van Buren case had been soaked by a great many incidents relating to a number of other cases, the commissaris' telephone rang.

"Drachtsma," a faint voice said. "Do you remember me?"

The commissaris needed a few seconds.

"Yes, Mr. Drachtsma," he said. "I remember you."

"I would like to make a statement," the weak voice continued. It was speaking slowly, and carefully. "I would be grateful if you could come and visit me."

"Yes," the commissaris said, "but where are you?"

"On the island," Drachtsma said.

"Can't we put it off until you are in Amsterdam again?" the commissaris asked. "It's a bit of a trip from here to Schiermonnikoog and we are rather busy here. I believe you are often in Amsterdam, aren't you?"

"Not any more," the low voice said. "I am ill, very ill. I haven't left the island for months."

The commissaris looked at his window. The rain was hitting it with such force that he couldn't see through it.

"What time is the next ferry?"

"If you leave your office now you'll arrive in time, and you can go back on the afternoon ferry. You'll lose a day but you'll be doing me an invaluable service."

"All right," the commissaris said.

"Pity Grijpstra didn't want to come," de Gier said.

Their car had crossed the Utrecht bridge and was joining the main traffic on the speedway.

"You can't blame him," the commissaris said. "Nature almost got him last time and I think he must know the island by now. Mrs. Buisman kept him for a full month, didn't she?"

"She did," de Gier said. "Never in my life have I done as much overtime as during that month."

"Be grateful," the commissaris said.

"Sir," said de Gier, who didn't understand.

Mrs. Drachtsma opened the door. Her face hadn't been made up and she looked old and tired but some human warmth seemed to radiate from her being.

"I am so glad you could come," she said. "My husband is waiting for you. He has cancer of the lungs and the doctor thinks he is getting close to the end. He didn't want to go to the hospital on the mainland, and he refused the ray treatment they were recommending. He kept on saying that the rays could only lengthen the torture."

"How long has your husband been ill, madam?" the commissaris asked.

"The cancer was diagnosed three months ago. He is very weak now."

Llsbrand Drachtsma had been put into a large metal hospital bed. Three pillows kept his head and shoulders upright. His face was the color of ivory and his eyes had sunk deeply under the thin dry bristles of his eyebrows. The commissaris and de Gier touched the white hand on which veins crinkled like blue worms.

Drachtsma coughed and wheezed with every breath. He was trying to speak. "Tumbleweed," he said after a while, coughing at every syllable. "You remember?"

"Yes," the commissaris said, "but don't strain yourself, Drachtsma. I think I can understand you without you trying to talk. If talking hurts you we don't want you to talk. We'll stay here awhile if you like, we'll just sit here in the room, and maybe we'll ask a few questions and you can nod your head or shake it."

Drachtsma smiled. "No. I've got to talk. You were right, it happened the way you said it happened."

The commissaris wanted to stop him but Mrs. Drachtsma put a hand on his shoulder.

"Please let him talk, commissaris. I know what he wants to say. He has told me and I have forgiven him. I have even understood him. But he wants to tell you. Let him tell you, it will give him peace."

"Yes," Drachtsma said. "I would like Rammy to be here but my wife phoned the clinic and he is still ill. My fault. I used him instead of trying to help him. I could have helped him but I didn't know it at the time, didn't want to know. Too late now. Pity."

He began to cough again and Mrs. Drachtsma cradled his shoulders in her arm and he put his face on her neck.

De Gier felt suffocated, he wanted to get up and leave the room and smoke in the corridor but the quietness of the commissaris next to him helped him to restrain himself.

"It's all right," said Drachtsma, and smiled at his wife. "Childish, that's the word. I have always been childish. Not mis, to be embraced by your wife isn't childish. But what I have been doing all my life was silly. Always chose my own benefit, what I thought was my own benefit. Maria was my toy, I didn't want her to have a life of her own. She could have other men, but her attachment had to be to me. And I didn't want her to be a witch."

"A witch," de Gier muttered.

"Yes, she was a good witch."

"Good?" the commissaris asked.

"A good bad witch. Efficient. Knew her job. The herbs helped but they were only part of it. She had learned and practiced and experimented. A dedicated woman. Things like that don't come easy, you know. A lot of trips to and she didn't enjoy going there anymore, not with her family all against her. But it got her somewhere. I don't know where. It gave her power. She could pull people. Me too. Anytime she wanted me to come I came, like a doll on a string."

"So you killed her?" the commissaris asked.

Drachtsma nodded.

His wife poured a cup of tea and helped him to take a sip.

"Yes. I had her killed. I was too clever to do it myself. I thought of it but you would have connected me with her death. I know how to make other people work for me, how to use people. I picked her own brother. I thought that was very clever. I was proud of my intelligence. I have always been proud. Pride is good sometimes, it helped me get away during the war. But it is dangerous too. Pride should be a tool, a man should be in charge of his own pride."

Drachtsma closed his eyes.

"Rammy," he said suddenly. "Rammy was my tool. I willed him into throwing that knife. I gave him the knife. It was my own knife. I had kept it in a box, nobody knew I had it. I worked on Rammy for a long time, told him his sister was evil. A whore. A witch. He had to kill her. lb keep the world clean. He knew where she lived, he had been there once, a long time ago. He hated her, he was jealous of her. She was a real child of his father, he wasn't. Jealousy makes people very easy to handle.

"My wife forgave me," Drachtsma said. "Do you forgive me, commissaris?"

"Yes," the commissaris said.

"There are others, too many others. Rammy is one of them. I can't ask them. And there is no other chance, I would like to have another chance."

Drachtsma drank more tea.

"Shon Wancho," the commissaris said.

Drachtsma's eyes opened again.

"The witch doctor," Drachtsma said. "Yes."

"Did you know him?"

Drachtsma shook his head. "No. I never went to . I didn't want to go and I don't think she wanted me to either."

"What do you think? Is he an evil man?"

Drachtsma shook his head. "No. Not evil."

"A good man?"

"Yes," Drachtsma said. "He warned her. She told me he warned her. She talked about him in her sleep."

"So what did she learn from Shon Wancho?" the commissaris asked.

"Insight," Drachtsma said and coughed. "Just insight."

"And she had to find out what to do with it?"

"Yes. Magical insight. Strong. Can be used the wrong way. She did."

"What happens if you use it the wrong way?" de Gier asked. He couldn't help asking it. He would have preferred to sit quietly, waiting for the ordeal to be over.

"If you use it wrong," Drachtsma said slowly, "you go wrong."

There seemed nothing else to say and the commissaris looked at Mrs. Drachtsma and pointed at the door with his head.

"Yes, commissaris," Mrs. Drachtsma said.

De Gier was at the door when Drachtsma called him. He walked back and bowed down to the slack body in the large bed. The white hand came up slowly and closed on de Gier's wrist.

"Don't win," Drachtsma said. "To try to win is childish."

De Gier wanted to go but the hand held his wrist.

"Sergeant," Drachtsma whispered.

"Yes, Mr. Drachtsma."

"Don't ever try to win. You are still young. You can unlearn a lot."

"Yes, Mr. Drachtsma," de Gier said.