Amsterdam Noir

Devil’s Island by Mensje van Keulen

Duivelseiland

Amsterdam has changed so much since smoking was banned from bars, restaurants, and public spaces. Walk, bike, drive, or take the tram or bus across the city and you’ll see knots of people out on the sidewalks, clouds of smoke billowing above their heads. Cold weather, heavy wind, gloomy surroundings, the blare of traffic — nothing seems to bother them, especially not when a bunch of them are clustered together. I guess misery does love company, after all.

I am mildly asthmatic, so not a smoker, but after Jacob — who’s one of my oldest pals — was deserted by his girlfriend for a stage director, I’ve sometimes found myself part of such a group. See, it turned out not to be such a great idea to have Jacob over to my place to unburden himself of his woes: the walls of my apartment are thin, and the later it got the louder he wailed... not to mention what his damn chain-smoking did to my air. Going out on the town with him wasn’t an ideal solution either, because I have to get up early for my job, but I couldn’t just tell the poor schmuck to deal with it, because, I mean, he was truly hurting.

The last time he turned up at my door was three days ago. I was exhausted, and I’d just fished a package of soup out of the freezer — comfort food, right? — when the bell rang and there he was, unshaven, face pale as a ghost. When I asked him if he’d eaten, he told me food was the last thing on his mind, and I stashed my soup back where it had come from.

“Let’s go,” I said, pulling on a jacket and leading him outside.

“Thirst never sleeps,” he muttered.

“Hey, we’re not gonna spend the whole night drinking. I’ve woken up with enough hangovers, thanks to you.”

“Pain never sleeps either, but you’re better off with an aching head than a rat gnawing at your heart.”

“You’ll get over it, Jake.”

“You say that every time I see you, but the rat just keeps on gnawing.”

I wanted to tell him that accusing me of repeating myself was a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black, but I was afraid that’d result in more screaming about how nobody understood him, and he couldn’t live without Martha, and he was so lonely, and he wished he was dead — or, like we’d been through two weeks before, him collapsing to the ground and weeping like a little baby.

“Come on, let’s go find something to eat,” I said, steering him by the elbow. “And a beer,” I added quickly, before he could begin to protest.

We turned into the Pieter Baststraat and passed a storefront that had the name of our little neighborhood lettered on its plateglass window.

“Devil’s Island,” Jacob growled. “If only. I wish the devil really existed, I’d pay him a little visit, right this second. Sure, fine, go ahead and laugh. But I mean it: I’d sell him my soul if he’d make Martha come back to me.” He scoped out the storefront a second time. “What is this place, anyway? Another barbershop? Do we really need more barbers? How often do people have to get their hair cut?”

At that, he bent his head mournfully, but before he could start in on how Martha always used to cut his hair for him, I told him he was overdue for a hearty dinner.

“Booze,” he said, and then, as we passed the cigar store on the corner — a prime location, right across from Café Loetje — “booze and a smoke.”

I pushed him through the door into Loetje, which has evolved over the years from a small café with billiards to a restaurant three times its original size — though sometimes you still have to wait an hour or more for a table. They were full that night, not even a couple of stools at the bar, but one of the servers recognized me and gestured it’d only be half an hour or so before we’d hit the top of the list.

A minute later, we were back on the sidewalk, each with a glass of beer, surrounded by half a dozen smokers — mostly thirtysomethings and fortysomethings — who I figured for realtors or some other well-paid professionals. Two of them were women, having a girls’ night out. Jacob gulped his brewski, alternating swallows with deep drags on a cigarette. Across the street, the Old Catholic Church loomed, swathed in darkness.

“Got a match?” came a voice from beside me.

I turned to say I don’t smoke but realized the guy was talking to Jacob, not me. He held a cigarillo between slender fingers.

“Sure,” said Jacob, reaching for his lighter. It took him three or four tries to produce a flame.

“Much obliged, friend,” said the man.

That friend seemed a little presumptuous, but Jacob smiled.

“These things taste better when lit with a wooden match,” the man said, exhaling smoke in the direction of the church. “But who carries those old-fashioned lucifers around in their pocket these days? I love the smell of them, though, that momentary blast of sulfur. Would you like to try one of mine?”

“Thanks,” said Jacob, and he lit the proffered cigarillo with the stub of his cigarette.

I hadn’t heard a polite word out of Jacob in quite some time — and spoken to a stranger, no less. I took a closer look at the man. He was not unattractive, with black hair slicked back to just below the collar of his obviously expensive jacket. All things considered, I would call him a rather elegant fellow.

“May I pose a question?” The stranger’s gaze flicked from Jacob to me to the other smokers. “Did any of you happen to know a gentleman who lived in this neighborhood, a certain Van der Meer?”

“Van der Meer,” said a smoker who had overconfidently left his jacket inside. “You mean the professor?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Don’t waste your time looking for him: he’s dead.”

The man nodded. “A heart attack, I know. Does his widow ever patronize this establishment?”

“Yolande?” said one of the women. “No, I haven’t seen her since he passed. When they used to eat here, I always looked the other way, and not just because he ordered his steak so rare the blood dripped all over his chin.”

“Gross,” said her girlfriend.

“I took a class from him once, and he was what you call a real skirt-chaser, totally annoying. I think she was one of his students — she was at least twenty years younger than him, maybe thirty.”

The man nodded again, and this time blew a perfect smoke ring that drifted lazily skyward.

“When he was out here smoking,” the woman went on, “I made sure to keep my distance. But I think he finally quit. The last few times I saw them here, he stayed inside. I’ll tell you, he seemed crankier about it every time.”

“They lived in a big house up the street, right where the Museum District begins,” said one of the men, grinding out a cigarette with his shoe. “It came on the market three days ago, and somebody bought it without even asking to see the inside. No surprise, really: this neighborhood’s red-hot.”

Two names were called, and most of the smokers took one last puff, stubbed out their cigarettes in the standing ashtray, and headed into Loetje.

The few who remained moved closer to the door and went on talking, which left Jacob and me alone with the stranger.

“I bought that house,” he said calmly. “I’ve been looking for a suitable home in the city for some time. I don’t care for hotels, I’d much rather have a place of my own.”

“Jeez,” said Jacob, and I thought I heard a note of admiration in his voice.

“You bought a house without checking out the inside?” I said. “That seems a little risky.”

“Oh, I know the place well — I paid a call there not long ago. It’s quite lovely, and there’s a marvelous art collection on the walls.”

“I assume the art doesn’t go with the property. Or are you some kind of dealer or collector?”

“Both,” he said with a smile. “Which is why I spend so much time traveling. When I finish my business here, I’ll return to my country house outside Seville. I may stop off in Paris, I have a little pied-à-terre on the Place Vendôme.”

He exhaled a plume of smoke that came straight at me and sent me into a fit of coughing.

“Please forgive my filthy habit,” he said. “I forget that others might not appreciate the bouquet of fine tobacco as much as I do. Van der Meer ultimately had a problem with it too, which is why he had to give up smoking. Of course, that wasn’t his only problem.”

“You mean his wife?” Jacob guessed.

“In a way. She was, as you heard a few moments ago, quite a bit younger than he. At first, that was precisely what attracted Van der Meer to her, but their situation changed as he got older, and for the last few years it had all become — how shall I say it? — rather disastrous.”

“What do you mean, their situation changed?” asked Jacob. “She didn’t stop being younger than him.”

“Yes, but that was the point, you see. He began to blame her for making him feel like an old man.”

“Sounds like she’s better off without him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say better off.” The man grinned, and — unlike Jacob, who had unbuttoned his jacket — I suddenly felt a chill.

“Explain that,” I said.

The stranger flicked the stub of his cigarillo over the bike rack and into the darkness. “Well, I was sitting in a café, she happened to be sitting alone at the next table. She accidentally spilled her drink, I handed her a napkin, and — I don’t know why, but I seem to attract people with a need to get things off their chests. Or perhaps I’m attracted to them. In any case, she told me her story. The bottom line was that her husband was a sadist who was making her life hell. There was no way he would agree to a divorce, and she couldn’t possibly leave him, because she had nowhere else to go and she couldn’t support herself on her own — she was a French tutor, and not many children seem to select that language these days. How, she asked me, could she ever get free of him? Well, a nasty old man with a weak heart, the world certainly wouldn’t be any worse off without him.”

“Are you saying you offered to murder him?” asked Jacob eagerly.

“That’s a strong word, friend. I wouldn’t call it murder to send a man on his way without ever laying a finger on him. I asked her about his weaknesses, and she mentioned something I thought I could use.”

“And that was?”

“Religion.” The man took a fresh cigarillo from his inside pocket and waved it at the church. “Van der Meer was a devout atheist who seethed at the sight or sound of anything remotely pious. I immediately devised what seemed to me an appropriate plan, and I presented it to her. Might I trouble you again for a light, friend? And here, have another yourself.”

The man laid a hand on Jacob’s wrist. Neither of them paid me the slightest attention.

“That very evening, I appeared at their door. She admitted me, as prearranged. That in itself infuriated Van der Meer, the idea that she would permit a stranger to invade his sanctum. I informed him, quite humbly, that I was there to return a book. ‘A book?’ he said. ‘I never loan out my books.’ ‘I didn’t borrow it,’ I said, ‘I found it lying beside your trash can.’ I extended it to him, and he cried out in horror: ‘A Bible? What makes you think that belongs to me? I’ve never owned a Bible in my life!’ ‘That’s very strange,’ said I, ‘for your name is inscribed in it.’ His face turned bright red, and he shrieked, ‘Take it away! Remove that wretched volume from my sight!’ I said, ‘The seven plagues of Egypt will afflict you, brother, if you insult God’s word in such a detestable manner.’ He cursed at me and screamed, ‘Get out, you vile liar! Get out!’ I stood before him, opened the book, and showed him his name. And that was the coup de grâce. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, he shook uncontrollably, and he collapsed to the ground, stone dead. But let me tell you what happened next: his widow began to dance. She was now a wealthy woman, she exulted. She would sell the house, it would surely bring at least two million euros, she would travel to sunny climes, indulge herself in cruises, I can’t remember the full shopping list. I began to feel pity for the corpse. After this tasteless exhibition, she telephoned for an ambulance, her voice trembling, and — without so much as a thank you — showed me to the door.”

“Women,” sighed Jacob. “Such heartless creatures.”

“You are exactly right, friend. We must beware their treachery. Well, I offered 2.3 million for the house, and the paperwork awaits completion. The professor left behind no power of attorney, so the widow Van der Meer is required to make an appearance at the signing. And that will be difficult.”

“Is she already gone?”

“Not quite. Her... departure still needs to be attended to. I would value some assistance, and if you’re inclined to volunteer I will reward you more than generously. You seem to be a man with a gray future before him, yourself in some need of assistance. Am I correct, friend?”

“Gray?” said Jacob. “My future’s black, ebony. What can I do to help you?”

“This neighborhood is crowded with tourists, no one will notice two gentlemen strolling leisurely toward the Hobbemakade with a trunk on wheels. The canal there is surely sufficiently deep, and there are brief gaps in the traffic when the lights at the crossings turn red. She weighs 130 pounds at most, and is perhaps five feet nine or ten in height — or should I say that she was five-nine or -ten? I believe she must have been a jogger, since her long legs — once so alluring to Van der Meer’s goatish eyes — were too tightly muscled for an ordinary steak knife.”

“Jacob,” I said, filled with revulsion, “don’t listen to any more of this bullshit. Let’s go inside, I’m cold.”

“With the exception of a few soft spots, the rest is rather lean, tough meat. That particular part of the process is as yet incomplete, and I could certainly use your help there as well, my friend. It would be best, I think, to wait until the blood has fully coagulated. Van der Meer may well have decorated his home with the finest available artwork, but he doesn’t seem to have paid much attention to the outfitting of his bathrooms. There are a number of broken tiles in the floor, and those will have to be thoroughly scrubbed.”

“Jacob, seriously, don’t listen to this lunatic!”

“If we can’t fit her into the trunk, there’s also a carry-on bag with wheels that we can use.”

My name was called and, almost gagging, I said, “Please, Jacob, let’s go in.”

He didn’t react, his eyes and ears riveted on the stranger, who whispered, barely audibly, “It’s a nice little piece, the fabric is a Scottish tartan, so even if there is some blood, it won’t show.”

“Jacob, for God’s sake!”

“Yeah, I, ah, I’ll be right in,” he murmured distractedly.

They seated me at a little table by a window. I peered over the top of my menu and saw them standing there outside, their heads close together. When a server came to take my order, I told her I was waiting for someone. She asked if I wanted a drink, and I said I’d have a glass of the house white.

When I turned my attention back to the window, they were gone. I have to admit that it was cowardice that kept me in my chair. I couldn’t eat a thing, just sat there pouring glass after glass of wine down my throat. The place emptied out, the chairs were turned upside down and put on the tables, and I just sat there with no idea what to do.

I tried repeatedly to reach Jacob over the next couple of days, but his phone went straight to voice mail and at night his apartment windows were dark. I kept asking myself what could have happened to him and was plagued by the most gruesome images. I even walked along the Hobbemakade a couple of times, searching for something floating in the water.

So you can understand how relieved I was earlier this evening when I walked into Café Wildschut — one of my regular after-work hangouts — and spotted Jacob sitting in one of the shadowy corners in the back room. And you can understand how surprised I was to see him in the company of a woman — and not just any woman, no, but the one and only Martha. They looked so lovey-dovey I decided not to disturb them, and I hesitated for a second, debating whether it would be the better part of valor to take a seat at the bar or just leave the place altogether.

At that moment, Jacob glanced up and saw me and waved. Smiling broadly, the two of them stood and approached me. Martha handed Jacob her glass of wine so she could wrap me in an exuberant hug. I smelled expensive perfume, and saw over her shoulder that Jacob’s hair was freshly cut and he was wearing a sharp new suit that must have set him back more than he could possibly afford on his salary.

“How nice to run into you both,” I managed.

“Back atcha,” said Jacob. “We’re gonna go out and grab a smoke. Come with, and we’ll tell you about our plans.”

A few seconds later, we settled around one of the high-tops on the terrace.

Martha squeezed my arm and said, “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Leaving?” I glanced at Jacob, who avoided my eyes. “I was afraid you were already gone.”

He grinned and shook two cigarettes out of a pack. “We got fantastic job offers.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what I say, my friend. Our worries are over. A new life awaits us.”

“You’ll come and visit us,” said Martha.

“Absolutely,” said Jacob. “Who knows, maybe there’s a golden opportunity for you in the south of Spain too, and you can quit your stupid job.”

He put the cigarettes between his lips and struck an old-fashioned wooden lucifer. The stink of sulfur burned my eyes, and he blew a cloud of smoke right in my face. I made my excuses with a gesture and hurried home, half-choking.

And as I lie here in the dark, unable to sleep, I realize that my gesture was also a wave of goodbye, because I’m afraid — no, I’m quite certain — that I’ll never see either of them again.

The Man on the Jetty by Murat Isik

Bijlmer

Some call us Amsterdam’s deplorables. Others claim there are only junkies and dealers left in the Bijlmer, our neighborhood. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, though it’s true that we live in a godforsaken part of town mainly inhabited by those who can’t find anywhere else to settle. It’s also true that the storage rooms in the Bijlmer’s apartment buildings’ basements have devolved into the exclusive domain of the city’s addicts.

Saleem and I knew we had to watch out, not just for the junkies, but especially for those lost souls who might loom up from out of nowhere and surround us. So we were on our guard the moment we set foot in the stairwells, and we stayed alert as we slipped through the narrow streets after dark. And ever since a guy whipped out his dick in the elevator and scared the shit out of me, I knew I had to get out of the Bijlmer, the sooner the better.

One day, Saleem and I were on our way home. His uncle was visiting, and he’d brought with him a wrestling video featuring our hero, the Ultimate Warrior. As we chattered excitedly about the mythical man with the painted face who’d stolen our hearts, I spotted something in the distance I’d never seen before: an object shimmering like mercury streaked along the bike path, like Marvel’s Silver Surfer cruising from planet to planet on his cosmic surfboard. When I looked more closely, I realized to my disappointment that it was just an ordinary mortal on a racing bike. He approached us at dizzying speed, and — with his mirrored sunglasses, Spandex shirt and shorts, and futuristic bicycle — he was the closest thing to a professional cyclist the Bijlmer had ever seen. When he was thirty yards off, he began to slow down. He braked to a stop beside us and looked us up and down inquisitively. “Hey, boys,” he said, his tone friendly. “I saw you walking and thought, I bet those kids can help me.”

He removed his shades, and I stiffened at the sight of his eyes. Those steel-blue eyes. It was him! This was the same guy who, a few months earlier, breathing heavily and staring at me full of sick desire, had pulled his prick from his pants in the elevator. Did he recognize me too? I looked around, trying to decide which way we should run.

“I think I’m lost,” he said, smiling.

You are definitely lost, I thought. I elbowed Saleem, telling him without words to keep walking, but he just stood there, not taking the hint.

“Where you trying to get, mister?” asked Saleem politely.

The man eyed us, grinning. Anyone who saw him would have taken his expression as sympathetic, filled with warmth and humanity. But I knew the dark desires that hid behind it.

“I’m looking for the Hoogoord Apartments, but these buildings all look the same.” He began rubbing his upper thigh. And then I saw it: he had a huge boner, though he was totally casual about it, like it was built into his bike clothes and he always pedaled around the city that way. We had to get out of there. We had to get out of there right away! I poked Saleem again, harder. Pretty soon the guy would recognize me, and then he’d grab for me or...

“Hoogoord?” asked Saleem.

The man nodded patiently, and his grin broadened as my friend spoke.

“It’s in the Bullewijk,” said Saleem.

“Is that far from here?” the man asked sweetly, but I could tell he was faking, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. His hand slid to the inside of his leg, as if he wanted to call our attention to his wiener.

But Saleem was oblivious. “Not so far, not with a bike like that.”

I shoved him so hard he almost fell down.

“What’s your problem?” he demanded. “Why are you pushing me?”

I fought to keep my voice from trembling. “We have to go,” I said, loudly and clearly. “Your uncle... he’s waiting for us.”

The man looked right at me now, and it was as if an icy hand crept under my shirt and slid up my back.

“Metin, would you let me tell the man how to get to Hoogoord, please?” said Saleem, his voice overly articulate, as if to prove he wasn’t just some street rat. “My uncle can wait an extra minute.”

I pulled him close, put my mouth to his ear, and whispered, “He’s the guy I told you about, from the elevator!”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded, and said through clenched teeth, “Look at his shorts, dammit!”

And Saleem’s gaze finally dropped to the guy’s woody, still big as ever, probably stimulated by our innocence. Saleem’s breath quickened. “Shit,” he muttered, “we gotta get out of here.”

“I’ll go first,” I whispered. “You follow me.”

The man looked like he was about to dismount from his bike. “Something wrong, boys?”

“No,” I said flatly. “We have to go.”

“Yeah, we have to go,” repeated Saleem, his voice shaking. “And you” — for a second I worried my friend was about to panic — “you want to go that way.” He pointed back in the direction from which we’d come.

“That way?” the man asked.

I was sick with tension.

“Yeah, yeah,” Saleem stammered. He leaned into me and whispered, “Should we run?”

“Wait,” I said, though I didn’t know what we were waiting for. Maybe I didn’t want to throw the situation off balance. Maybe I was afraid the guy would lunge for us if we freaked out. “Just take it slow,” I said, barely audibly, and started off for Saleem’s building. “Come on,” I said, loudly now, “your uncle’s waiting for us.”

Saleem eyed the man nervously. “Sorry, mister, we gotta go.” But he stayed where he was, as if he needed the man’s permission to give up his role of helpful guide to the Bijlmer.

“Hey, fellas, what’s your problem?” The man suddenly grinned again. “You never seen a cock before?” He picked it up with his free hand, like he wanted to show us it was in good working order. “It’s a penis. Your daddy’s got one just like it. There’s nothing wrong with a penis, is there?”

Saleem took off, running like I’d never seen him run before. I set off after him, yet I could barely keep up.

“Hey, wait!” the man called after us. “You’re not upset, are you?” Next thing I knew, he was biking alongside me, totally relaxed, like he was cheering on a marathoner. “Boys, why are you running away?”

“Leave us alone!” Saleem shouted. “Leave us alone, you pervert!”

“What did I do wrong?” the man said. “I was just asking for directions.”

I sprinted as fast as I could go, but he stayed right beside me on his bike. “Hey, you look familiar, kid.” He stared at me intently. “Didn’t we share a pleasant moment in the elevator?” I tried to go faster. “Yeah, you’re the kid from the elevator!” His breathing suddenly grew heavier. “And now you’re running away.” He raised a hand. “Come on, kid, can’t we just talk for a minute? I’ve got a Nintendo at home with like a hundred games.”

I rocketed after Saleem, caught up to him, and passed him. I ran like a horde of hungry, hungry hippos were at my heels. I ran for my life. After maybe ten seconds, never slackening my pace, I risked a glance behind me, just at the moment the man gave up the chase. He braked to a stop and set off in the opposite direction, as if he’d decided at last to follow Saleem’s instructions.

I stopped running and bent over, gasping, my hands on my knees.

“What are you stopping for?” Saleem demanded.

“Gone... he’s gone.”

We walked on quickly, hearts pounding, looking back every couple of steps.

“We have to call the cops,” I said.

“First let’s tell my uncle,” said Saleem decisively.

Soon we arrived at Saleem’s building.

“I’ll call up and ask him to meet us when we get off the elevator.”

I wasn’t used to Saleem taking the lead — I was always the one who made the decisions in our friendship — but the role suited him surprisingly well. Saleem thumbed the intercom button longer than usual, then shouted that Uncle Imran should wait for us upstairs at the elevator door.

As we stepped into the car, I worried that the man might rush in behind us and pick up where he’d left off.

“Were you afraid?” asked Saleem, as the elevator finally jerked upward.

“No,” I lied.

The car came to a stop, and the door was ripped open. A giant with his head shaved bald stared in at us.

“Uncle Imran,” Saleem cried, “I am so happy to see you!”

His bulk filled the entire doorway, and his broad shoulders and huge forearms were those of a man who had been blessed with extraordinary strength. If I hadn’t known he was Saleem’s uncle, I would have shrunk back against the elevator wall.

“What has happened, Saleem?” His voice was youthful and soft, in contrast with his intimidating appearance. “Did someone hit you?”

“No, not that.”

“Then what?”

“There was a man... he showed us...”

“Showed you what? Just say it, Saleem!”

“He showed us his thing.”

“His thing?”

Saleem nodded.

“What else did he do?”

“He...” Saleem fell silent for a moment, and I wondered if I should take over the telling of the tale. Maybe Saleem didn’t dare bring up this sort of thing in front of his uncle. “He was touching it. And when we ran away, he followed us.”

“Where? Where is the bastard now?” There was rage in Imran’s voice. Rage and a determination to take revenge.

“He rode off on his bike.”

“Where to?”

“Toward Hoogoord,” said Saleem. “He was lost.”

The elevator car shuddered when Imran stepped inside. “We’ll find him.”

Imran must have been at least six foot three, and with his apelike hands he looked like a laborer who spent his working hours hauling blocks of granite. Saleem had told me he worked in a garage. He played cricket like every Pakistani man, but he also boxed, and he was a star in both sports. One day he’d knocked out his sparring partner even though the other man was wearing a helmet. Since then, no one would spar with him anymore.

“Take me to the place where you last saw him,” he said. “I’ll teach him a lesson.”

Saleem looked at me gleefully, but for some reason I felt uncomfortable. What would happen to the man if Imran found him? He wouldn’t just politely ask the guy to give up his dubious hobby. No, he’d probably feed him a knuckle sandwich.

“Which way?” asked Imran when we got out of the elevator. Saleem led the way, walking quickly. We passed a group of black boys who stared at us in awe. “What you looking at?” snarled Imran, and they immediately turned away.

We approached the path where Saleem and I had sprinted at least three hundred yards. “He followed us on his bike all this way,” said Saleem.

Imran laid a hand on my friend’s shoulder. “Listen, you point him out to me the second you see him. Don’t be afraid, he can’t hurt you now.”

But strangely enough, I wasn’t worried about the man on the bicycle anymore. I was worried about Imran, about what he would do to the man. I summoned all my courage and asked, “Uh, what are you going to do when you find him?”

Imran snorted. “Like I said, teach him a lesson.”

The way he pronounced the word lesson, his dark eyes flashing with determination, I knew it had to mean something painful, something accompanied by screams and desperate pleas. I flashed back to the gangster movies I’d seen, where things never ended well for people who were taught a lesson.

“But,” I said hesitantly, “shouldn’t we just call the cops?”

“The cops?” Imran guffawed. “No, we definitely should not call the cops.”

Encouraged by his laughter, I dared to ask: “Why not?”

He shook his head and spoke to Saleem in Urdu. From his tone, I gathered that his words meant something along the lines of: What are you doing mixed up with a sissy like this?

Imran gave me a penetrating look. “Listen, boy, the police don’t do anything but write reports. That’s all they’re good for.” He tugged at his beard as if he wasn’t completely satisfied with his explanation. “In Pakistan, the cops would beat the shit out of a bastard like this guy. Then he’d never do such a thing again.” He pounded his palm with his massive fist to emphasize the thoroughness of the Pakistani police. “But the Dutch cops will sit the guy down, give him a cup of coffee and a slice of cake, and talk the situation over with him, ask him why he did it, explain the rules, tell him little boys are fragile creatures, that sort of bullshit. And then the dirty pervert gives them an understanding nod, and they offer him a ride home. But I’m telling you: you don’t solve a sickness like this with polite conversation.” He snorted, probably with revulsion and not just because he had something stuck between his throat and his nose. “If I’ve learned anything these last years in Holland, it’s that you don’t trust family matters to the cops. Let them write their traffic tickets and sit behind their desks scratching their fat asses until it’s time to clock out for the day.”

“Uncle Imran,” Saleem said suddenly, “the same man frightened Metin in the elevator.”

“The same man? In your building? The goddamn shitbag!”

“He asked Metin if he’d ever seen a grown-up’s penis,” said Saleem, suddenly without shame. “And then he showed it to him.”

“The bastard!” snarled Imran. “And next time it’ll be you in the elevator with him, or your little brother.” A new sort of rage welled up in him. “Fucking hell, man! This is too much, this bloody pedophile has gone too far!”

As we walked on, Imran appeared more determined than ever. He was terrifying me.

After a while, Saleem said, “Here! This is where he talked to us.”

Imran examined the place as if there might still be traces of the man to be found. He scouted the area like a detective investigating a case. Then he crouched down and pulled a loose brick from the pavement. “Let’s go on,” he said, the brick clutched in his hand.

Two hundred yards farther, I almost choked with shock. The man we were looking for was sitting on a bench on a jetty overgrown with weeds, gazing out at the canal. His racing bike was leaning against the bench. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What was he still doing here? Why wasn’t he long gone? Why would he take such a risk?

One leg crossed casually over the other, he sipped from a clear plastic bottle. And as he sat there drinking peacefully, looking out at the water, apparently enjoying the afternoon sun, for a moment I couldn’t imagine there was anything really evil lurking within him. He was probably nothing more than an ordinary pencil pusher.

Saleem was a few yards out in front, and he hadn’t noticed the man through the high weeds. And though Imran was looking around alertly, he hadn’t yet seen him either.

What should I do? What else could I do but announce that I had spotted the guy we were searching for? Imran would make sure he never bothered us again. There’d be no reason for us to be afraid in our own neighborhood anymore. But what exactly would he do to the man? He’d said he would teach him a lesson, but did that mean just put the fear of God in him, or would he go further and work the guy over with his fists, like the Pakistani cops he had praised?

I hesitated and glanced at Imran, at the brick in his hand and the muscled arms that stretched the fabric of his tight black polo shirt. He walked clumsily for a boxer. He stomped his feet and looked more like a wrestler about to go on the attack.

What should I do? Saleem and his uncle had already gone past him. The man unfolded a paper sack and took out a piece of bread. He broke off a bit and tossed it into the canal. As the bread hit the water, a raft of ducks surrounded it with a great flapping of wings, but just before they got to it, a covert of greedy coots chased them off, their eyes red, their beaks sharp. The man was clearly enjoying the show, since he went on tossing bits of bread into the canal. Soon, a colony of seagulls joined the battle. The squawking and splashing got louder, swelled to a cacophony of sound. Saleem turned around to look, and his eyes slowly widened.

“That’s him!” he shouted. “Uncle Imran, there he is!”

Not asking if he was sure, Imran stepped from the pavement onto the strip of grass that bordered the canal. He marched heavily toward the jetty, began to run, like a warrior who’s suddenly recognized his enemy in the distance. He must have stepped on a pool of bird shit, because his legs flew out from under him and he lost his grip on his brick, which arced into the weeds. Imran’s huge body landed with such a loud thud that it attracted the attention of not only the man but also the coots and ducks and gulls. He hauled himself upright, roaring with anger. He brushed off his jeans, now spotted with greenish-brown stains, and, cursing, wiped the bird shit from his hands onto his pants. And then he set off again at top speed, aiming for the bicyclist. Like a gladiator confidently entering the arena for his final battle, he leaped onto the jetty, which creaked and wobbled beneath his weight, and flung himself at the man, who by now, shocked by Imran’s approach, had gotten to his feet and instinctively raised his hands.

Imran quickly grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and yanked him close. No one who might have witnessed such a scene would have expected the giant bald man to speak before punching his insignificant opponent’s lights out, yet that’s exactly what he did. Imran gestured wildly toward the two of us and demanded, “Why were you bothering these boys?” The question didn’t match his wrathful appearance. It was as if the gladiator had stopped himself at the last moment to make sure the figure who’d appeared out of the dust clouds of the Colosseum was in fact another gladiator and not some innocent deliveryman who’d accidentally stepped through an open doorway into the arena.

“Who, me?” the man mumbled.

“My nephew says you’ve been waving your dick in his and his friend’s faces.”

The man stared at us, astonished. “What? No! I... I only asked them for directions.”

Imran pulled him closer, and the man’s heels left the ground. He dangled on his tiptoes, like a doll. “Are you sure?” It wasn’t a question. It was a warning that threatened impending disaster, as if that hadn’t already been announced.

“I was lost! I swear, I was lost, I only asked the boys for help!”

Imran shook him violently. “Don’t lie to me, you bastard!”

“Let me go,” the man whined. “You’re hurting me. Let me go, I didn’t do anything!”

“You showed two little boys your fucking cock!” barked Imran. “And then you followed them, you pervert.”

The man tried to worm out of Imran’s grip, swatting ineffectually at the hand that held him tight. When that had no effect, he jerked away, screeching. His fluorescent bike shirt tore, and he fell backward, leaving Imran holding nothing but a scrap of fabric, glaring at it in confusion like he was doing an impression of King Kong. The man scrabbled away, trying to escape.

“You’re not going anywhere,” growled Imran. “I’m not finished with you.” He crouched down and grabbed the ripped shirt, but the man kept crab-walking backward, and the shirt tore off completely, leaving him naked from the waist up, flopping around on the jetty like a fish out of water, about to be gutted and fileted. Imran took hold of his wrist and hauled him to his feet as if he was weightless. The man struggled to get loose, pulling and hitting the hand that held him captive.

“Stop it!” Imran ordered, and he hit the man on the ear. “Stay still!”

But the man failed to obey, went on shrieking that Imran had to let him go.

Imran dealt a second blow to the bicyclist’s mouth with the back of his hand. The man cowered in Imran’s grip, his hands clapped over his lips, and then he seemed to go insane. He unleashed a fearsome cry, then sank his teeth into the hand that still held him and shook his head wildly, like a hungry caiman ripping the flesh of its prey in the brown waters of the Amazon.

It was weird to hear our mighty protector yelling like a wounded beast. His voice tormented, he snarled, “You’ll pay for that!” He balled his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the man’s left eye. There was the sound of bone cracking, and a hellish scream.

“My eye!” the man wailed. “My eye!”

At that moment, I felt an intense sense of pity for the man. I turned to Saleem, filled with concern, but he was hopping up and down, swinging his arms like a charged-up Roman citizen who’d spent the whole week looking forward to this battle and was now enjoying it to the max.

The man staggered, and only remained on his feet because Imran was holding him up. Suddenly Imran noticed that his hand was bleeding. He stared at it, unbelieving, his massive chest heaving. Then he returned his disgusted attention to the bicyclist and spat, “If you gave me AIDS, you fuck, I’ll kill you!”

Imran swiveled his torso and hip and let loose another right-handed wallop. This one caught the man full in the nose, and there came again the crunch of bone. The man sank to his knees.

We had to do something before Imran really did kill him. We had to stop the slaughter. I yelled at Saleem, but he didn’t react, just stood there transfixed by his uncle’s merciless attack. Maybe he was reminded of the many times we’d watched our hero, the Ultimate Warrior, on the mat. But this was no theatrical wrestling match: a human being was actually being torn apart, and all we could do was watch.

As Imran kicked the man in the ribs, I grabbed Saleem’s arm. “We have to stop him! He’s gonna kill the guy!”

Only then did Saleem face me, the color drained from his face. “Yeah,” he muttered, “but... what can we do?”

“Pull him off,” I said. I dragged Saleem onto the jetty. As we came up behind Imran, he kicked the guy again, then a third time. It sounded like all the air was leaking out of the man. I shoved Saleem forward and said, “Do something!” But he just stood there, watching his uncle go to town. So I pushed him aside and approached Imran myself.

“Stop,” I shouted, “you’re killing him!” But Imran seemed not to hear me.

And right then I heard a shout from the apartment building on the far side of the canal.

“Hey, stop it!” a voice called. “Leave the man be!”

That gave me the encouragement I needed. “Please,” I said, “stop, before you kill him. Have mercy!”

Imran whirled around, his expression furious, and when his eyes met first mine and then Saleem’s, it was as if the gladiator’s mask slipped from his face and he morphed back into a concerned uncle. Imran was still holding the bicyclist by a limp wrist. He glanced down at his victim one last time, then let him go. The man collapsed onto the jetty. His thin body convulsed.

Imran took a step toward us. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, “I... I lost control.” He looked at his bloody hand and wiped it on his shirt. “He shouldn’t have bitten me. I was only going to rough him up a little.”

The man dragged himself to a sitting position, looked around in a daze, and dropped his head to his knees. He sat there defeated, folded almost in half to protect his battered rib cage from further damage, his spine so slender it seemed it might snap in two at any moment. Again I felt pity wash over me.

Imran fetched his water bottle from the bench and held it out to him. “Drink.”

Without looking up, the man took the bottle. As he drank, blood dripped from his nose down his chin and onto his naked chest. I figured his nose must be broken. As if he’d only now noticed it, he waved at a fanny pack lying on the bench. I picked it up, unzipped it, and found a ring of keys, three foil-wrapped rubbers, lip balm, and a pack of tissues.

Groaning, the man got to his feet. He seemed only barely conscious, with nothing left to lose. One eye was puffed shut, his nose was unnaturally bent and continued to bleed. Not saying a word, he held out his hand to me, palm up. I hardly dared to look at him, but as I gave him the pack of tissues, I couldn’t avoid the sight of his chest all covered with blood. With a trembling hand, he pulled a tissue from the pack and pressed it to his nose. The white paper immediately reddened.

“You’ll never see me again,” he said. He dropped the bloody tissue to the jetty. “As far as I’m concerned, this never happened.”

Imran nodded. “None of it happened.”

The man picked up his water bottle, staggered to the bench for his fanny pack, and strapped it to his waist with some difficulty. Then, breathing heavily, he righted his bicycle and pushed it through the weeds to the path. Moaning, holding onto the handlebars with one hand, pressing the other to his ribs, he pulled himself onto his saddle.

Without looking back, he pedaled away.

Lucky Sevens by Theo Capel

De Jordaan

The A4 was crowded, as usual. Felix had been stuck behind a brand-new Seat Ateca for some time. He could almost see the guy in front of him frowning in his rearview mirror at Felix’s old Cordoba. It was time for a new car. There was enough money to buy one in the inside pocket of his uniform jacket. The problem was, it wasn’t his money.

When he hit the ring road, the traffic got worse. Up ahead, somebody slammed on his brakes, and Felix barely managed to avoid rear-ending him.

Eyes on the road, he told himself.

Imagine getting into an accident with all that cash on him. Some of his brothers in blue would surely suspect him of being crooked. He wouldn’t even be given the chance to explain himself. He shook off the thought and proceeded carefully to the exit for the S105 — he still insisted on thinking of it by its traditional name, the Jan van Galenstraat — which would take him to his home in the Jordaan. The bureaucrats didn’t care that the Jordaan was the best-known part of the city. They felt it was good enough to put a simple Downtown on the exit signs.

It had been an unusual day for Felix. He was on his way back from South Holland, where he’d attended the funeral of a fellow Amsterdam police officer. Every cop there had been in uniform, including detectives like Felix. Dark-blue jacket, peaked cap. That had caused an uncomfortable moment, later in the day. Coincidentally, he’d also had an appointment in The Hague, at the headquarters of the agency that ran the national lottery. Tickets were cheap, and if you were lucky, instant happiness. Felix wasn’t a gambler himself, but today he’d walked in the door with a scratcher that had revealed a fifty-thousand-euro prize beneath its layer of foil. He’d bought it at the corner cigar store, along with two packs of filtered cigarettes and a magazine. Felix didn’t smoke, and it wasn’t a magazine he liked to read. The winning ticket wasn’t his either, and that’s why he’d collected the money in cash.

They’d been upset at the sight of his uniform. They were expecting a Mr. Felix de Grave, and what they got was a cop. He’d cleared up the confusion, but there’d been another misunderstanding when he left. The woman who showed him out was surprised by his pale purple car. She’d anticipated a police cruiser, not this sad old jalopy. She’d just been telling him that lots of winners bragged the first thing they were going to buy was a new vehicle, but most of them wound up sticking their winnings in the bank. She seemed to think that banking the fifty thousand euros would, in Felix’s case, be a mistake. She didn’t say it in so many words, but he could read it in her expression when she got a look at his car.

They’d already thought it was odd that he’d wanted the money in cash. The unspoken suspicion was that he didn’t want his wife to know about his win. Felix wasn’t married, but the money was indeed intended for a woman. The winning ticket belonged to his neighbor, which was really nobody’s business. It was Felix and the neighbor’s little secret.

Many of the streets in the Jordaan — Carnation, Laurel, Rose — are named after flowers. Misnamed, really, because the neighborhood was originally a wasteland, with long, narrow alleys and canals that dead-ended where the world-famous seventeenth-century Canal Ring begins. Nowadays, you need to be well-off to live in the shadow of the Western Church’s bell tower, since the realtors do their best to make it seem as if the Jordaan is a part of the Canal Ring.

If Felix leaned out his living room window, he’d be looking right at the church’s Westertoren, which for the older Jordaaners would be good reason to burst out in song. Ever since the neighborhood began to attract a demographic that was still disparagingly referred to as yuppies, the tower had been considered an annoyance, thanks to the fact that, every fifteen minutes, day and night, its carillon played a little tune. For the tourists, the tower was a beacon, guiding them to the Anne Frank House, which stood just around the corner from the church, on the Prinsengracht. Every day they lined up, waiting their turn to go inside, the line usually stretching along the canal to the tower. Felix’s across-the-street neighbor, who was generally to be found hanging out the front window of her apartment, observing the passing scene below, never ceased to be surprised by the enormous interest in the Frank family’s WWII hideout.

“There’s nothing to see in there,” she told anyone who would listen. “I should charge admission to come look at my house. I’d be rich!” She loved daydreaming of wealth, and the fact that Anne Frank had come to a tragic end — which gave the Frank House a dramatic attraction hers couldn’t hope to compete with — didn’t seem to interest her.

As he turned into his street, Felix wondered if he ought to honk his horn to notify his neighbor of his arrival. Probably not necessary, he decided. She peered out her window the whole damn day, so she’d be sure to see him. Especially today, since she knew where he had gone.

Except, to his surprise, she wasn’t at her usual post. When he pulled up to his garage door and, just to be sure, looked up, he saw that her window was closed. The garage door, on the other hand, stood wide open.

Felix lived on the second floor of a building whose ground level had originally served as a sort of workshop for a company that manufactured lampshades. The company’s name still appeared on the gable in white script letters. At the time he moved in, the garage was being used to house a street organ belonging to the previous tenant, an old friend of Felix’s grandmother. When he left for a nursing home, Felix finagled permission to move into his apartment. Not long after that, the street organ disappeared, and he was permitted — for an extra monthly fee — to take over the ground floor. These days, a storage area like that was worth its weight in gold. Hardly a week went by that he wasn’t asked to sublet part of the space. His upstairs neighbor had long been permitted to stash his bicycle there and Felix had graciously agreed to continue that arrangement, and he had more recently succumbed to a plea from a couple who lived across the street and pedaled their kids to school and other activities on a traditional Dutch cargo bike, which had to have someplace to sit when it wasn’t doing taxi duty. In point of fact, he had succumbed to the wife after first refusing an identical request from the husband. Felix thought the husband, who claimed to be some kind of financial consultant, was a bit of a bullshitter, and — as a cop — he didn’t care for bullshit.

With a little maneuvering, it was possible to squeeze both his Cordoba and the cargo bike into the space. The upstairs neighbor complained that this made it practically impossible for him to get his bicycle in and out, but he was one of those Amsterdammers who have raised complaining practically to an art form.

Felix saw that the woman from across the street was standing beside her cargo bike, her back to him, and he got out of his car to see if she needed help.

“You just getting back or heading out, Iris?” he asked.

His voice startled her, and she whirled to face him. “Felix! Have you heard the news?”

“Are congratulations in order?”

He knew she was being considered for a promotion to a senior position at the bank where she worked, but various factors were delaying a final decision. Maybe she’d finally gotten the approval she was hoping for.

But he let go of that idea when he saw the expression on her face.

“You haven’t heard,” she said, and began to cry.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

She was still wearing her work clothes, and she wiped away tears with the sleeve of her gray pin-striped suit. What could have happened? One of the kids fell down the stairs? Her husband got caught messing around with one of her girlfriends?

“Fetty’s dead.”

“Dead?” He felt a shock ripple through his body, and for a moment he found that he couldn’t breathe. Fetty couldn’t possibly be dead. He had a thick wad of cash for her inside his jacket pocket.

His hand went to his chest, and he felt the bulge of the money. Was it possible for a pile of bills to have stabbed him? The pain slowly ebbed.

“What are you saying? Fetty’s dead?”

“It’s so awful!”

She had no idea how awful it was. The lottery money belonged to Fetty, the neighbor he’d expected to see leaning out her window. It was no wonder she was called Fetty. She was shapeless and fat from head to toe, and she could barely make it down the stairs to the street. Felix was one of the neighbors who ran regular errands for her. Aunt Corrie, who lived right next door, helped with the everyday chores, and Felix took care of Fetty’s weekly luxuries. Every Saturday, he stopped at the cigar store to buy her two packs of Stuyvesants. Filtered, she always reminded him, as if she was afraid the company might have suddenly started manufacturing unfiltered Stuyvesants. So, two packs of smokes, with filters, a copy of the weekly magazine My Secret, and two scratchers. The lottery tickets always had to be Lucky Sevens, because — according to her — that was her lucky game.

Her invariable habit was to open one of the packs of cigarettes in his presence and offer him the first Stuyvesant, which he always politely refused, at which point she lit it and smoked it herself, taking shallow puffs that she immediately exhaled. One of his aunts had smoked exactly the same way.

The next part of their Saturday-afternoon ritual was her asking him for a coin, which she would use to eagerly attack her scratchers. Meanwhile, Felix would page listlessly through the new issue of the magazine, which seemed more often than not to be filled with stories of pregnant women who weren’t sure if the baby was their husband’s or the neighbor’s and other nonsense that would, in his opinion, have been better kept secret.

Their routine usually ended with Fetty’s disappointed cry: “No luck!” This time, though, their visit had unfolded differently.

Felix thought at first that she’d had a heart attack. But her explosive reaction turned out to be pure excitement, not a medical emergency.

“Felix, look! Two fifty-thousands! My God, all those zeroes! And look, the last number ends with zeroes too. It can’t be another fifty thousand, can it? I can’t look. You finish it for me.”

He had scratched away the last bit of foil, and the two of them sat there and stared at the winning ticket looking back up at them from the table. The winning ticket Felix had taken to The Hague and cashed in for his housebound neighbor.

“It’s a winner! A winner!” Fetty had screamed, and she’d grabbed Felix by the arms, hauled him up from his chair, and danced around him like a schoolgirl. “We won! We won!”

Later, he’d run into Aunt Corrie on the street. “You two were certainly kicking up a rumpus,” she’d said. “I was afraid the glasses in my kitchen cabinets would get smashed. Did she have a little too much to drink, Felix?”

“Now, Corrie, the woman’s entitled to a little fun once in a while,” he’d said. And that was where he’d left it. He wasn’t going to tell the neighborhood Fetty’d won fifty thousand euros.

“Vladimir’s still at the police station. I thought you were him a minute ago. Why are you wearing your uniform? He called me and told me he had to go with the detectives, so I should pick Max up from his piano lesson. I wasn’t expecting to go out again, I didn’t even have time to change. I just put on some sneakers, and here I am. I must look ridiculous.”

Felix had noticed the bright red sneakers. They were indeed a sight, but he was more interested in her husband.

“You’re telling me Fetty didn’t just die on her own? And Vladimir had something to do with it?”

“No, of course not. He just found her. And then the police came.” She hesitated. “Is it true Fetty came into a lot of money? Vladimir said he heard she won the lottery.”

Felix had worried Fetty wouldn’t be able to keep her good fortune to herself. “Was Fetty killed?” he asked. “Is that why the detectives were here?”

Iris began to cry. “I don’t know,” she said. “Aunt Corrie told Vladimir she thought Fetty was in clover. I’m not sure what that means — I still don’t understand a lot of your Amsterdam slang. I just want to know when Vladimir’s coming home. He called me at work, I was in the middle of a meeting. He said there was a funny little car outside the building, a handicapped car. What are those things called?”

“You mean a Canta?”

“That’s it. He thinks we ought to buy one, because you can park on the sidewalk, then we wouldn’t need to bother you with the cargo bike. What am I supposed to say to that? Anyway, I was in a meeting, I couldn’t really talk. And then he called back and said he had to go with the policemen because they found Fetty dead.”

“They?”

“Him, I mean. But I don’t know for sure. All I know is Max is waiting. I have to call his piano teacher. But first I want to hear Vladimir’s voice.” She looked straight at him, wiping tears from her eyes with her sleeve. “Felix, can you call the station for me? You’re a cop. Maybe they’ll tell you something.”

“You already tried? Did you call Vladimir’s cell?”

“Yes, but he didn’t pick up. And the woman at the station wouldn’t tell me anything. She said they don’t give information over the phone.”

“You go fetch your son,” Felix told her. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I still dream about him,” Fetty had said when she was finished dancing and dropped, breathless, back into her chair.

She was so excited she tried to light the filtered end of a Stuyvesant, but Felix stopped her just in time. He wasn’t sure who she was talking about.

“He’s in trouble, and I can’t help him. Can you believe it, Felix, sometimes I wake up sobbing? But now I really can help him.” She fell silent, gazing straight ahead, beginning to sniffle. “If I only knew where he was,” she said. She grabbed Felix’s arm. “You’re a detective. You know how to find a missing person. And I have money now. You can help me. You can find my little boy for me. You’ll do it, won’t you?” She’d let go of his arm and picked up the ticket, stroking it like a pet.

He sat there and listened to the story. Long ago, Fetty had been a live-in maid for a doctor and his family, and one of the doctor’s sons had gotten her pregnant, then denied ever having touched her. The family was Roman Catholic, and the boy’s father had refused to help her. It was too late to end the pregnancy, and she didn’t know where to turn. The father’s patient list included a home for unwed mothers, run by nuns, and he made arrangements for them to take her in, which at least was something.

“And that’s where you gave birth?”

Yes, but she couldn’t remember a thing about it. According to Fetty, they had sedated her. It was better that she never even see the child, they told her. She had to sign a paper giving up custody. God had arranged for the baby to be taken in by a good family, they said. That would erase the shame the devil had caused by putting the child inside her in the first place.

“I woke up, and they acted like nothing had happened. I lay there weeping for days. They were witches, Felix, but there was one nun who took pity on me. She told me she had prayed for God to look after my son.”

He understood that the events she was recounting had taken place forty years in the past.

“You can give him the money, Felix. And keep some for yourself, for your trouble. I trust you. You’re the only one I can ask for help. People tell you things. You’re a policeman.”

She was being overly optimistic. In fact, most people had a tendency to say nothing when a cop showed up at their door.

“Here,” she’d said, “you take the ticket. You know what to do. I’m counting on you. Help me find my little boy.”

Felix swung his garage door shut and looked across the street. There was nothing left to be seen of the day’s drama. The ruffled sheets still hung in Fetty’s front window. Not long ago, someone farther up the street had passed on. Everyone knew about it, because the curtains had been taken down and white sheets hung in the windows. Many of the longtime residents said the Jordaan wasn’t the Jordaan they remembered anymore, but the old customs linger.

The Westertoren’s bells began to ring. It was the day of the weekly concert, Felix realized. Life went on. The carillonneur was known to be a Beatles fan. The bells played John Lennon’s “Imagine.” Yes, indeed, imagine...

Only then did he notice that someone in the house next door to Fetty’s was waving at him. Aunt Corrie, naturally. She saw him notice her and opened her window.

“Felix,” she called, “I’m coming down!”

Fetty had been fat and shapeless, where Aunt Corrie was fat but big-boned with more hair, which she dyed blond and wore piled atop her head. An Amsterdammer, Felix knew intuitively which women to call Auntie and which were Ma’am. Explaining the difference to an outsider would be a mission impossible.

Aunt Corrie’s eyes were puffy from crying. “Oh, Felix, I can’t believe it, gone just like that. And then the police at my door and that young man from up the street — what was he doing there? You must know all about it, don’t you?”

He could tell she was angry at herself for not immediately rushing next door to gawk. She’d been in her bedroom vacuuming and had heard screams, but she’d thought they were coming from the television, which was tuned to one of those shows where a host brings on people who are embroiled in some kind of family feud and knows exactly how to stoke the fire. By the time she returned to her living room, another program had begun and the racket had stopped. She’d looked out her window and seen Iris’s husband go in Fetty’s door. And then, later, a police car had pulled up outside.

“Well, that’s when I knew there was something wrong. But who could have guessed what it was? That poor woman. She’d finally hit the lottery, she told me so herself. You don’t think that had anything to do with it, do you, Felix? I hope not. She sent me out to buy a ridiculously expensive bottle of liquor for her. Usually, she only drank lemon gin. But she’d written the name of it on a piece of paper for me, otherwise I never would have remembered. A bottle of Highland Park whiskey, she wanted. You don’t buy something that pricey if you haven’t had a real windfall.”

She pronounced the name of the whiskey Higg-land, but he understood what she meant. It was his favorite brand. Fetty had asked him what she could give him as a thank you.

Aunt Corrie was not impressed with Iris’s husband. Neither was Felix. He’d always had the idea that Iris was the breadwinner in that family, and no idea whether or not the husband worked at all. He was certainly a world-class gabber. He’d told Felix once that he was named after a famous writer, and the implication was that he too was destined for great things.

“Vladimir,” he’d said, “after Vladimir Nabokov. Maybe you heard of Lolita? He wrote that. My father was a big fan of him.”

Felix had stood there and listened, though he had no idea why the man was telling him the story. It was not a good idea to arouse the suspicions of a detective. So Felix had done some sleuthing and discovered that the man’s middle name was Ilyich, which suggested that he had in fact been named after Lenin, not Nabokov. Of course, that didn’t mean he would harm a hair on his neighbor’s head. But Felix knew anything the man said had to be taken with a grain of salt.

“Iris is worried about her husband,” he explained. “He called her and said there was a Canta parked on the sidewalk.”

“A red one?” asked Aunt Corrie. “That must have been her brother Koos. He’s got a bad leg, so they let him drive one of those little things. But I thought they weren’t speaking, I haven’t seen him around in forever. Was he here?”

Felix didn’t know. Fetty had been a good woman, according to Aunt Corrie. But her brother was a scoundrel, only showed up when he needed money. Money for booze.

“Was he here today?” Corrie asked again.

Felix said the only thing he knew was that a handicapped car had been spotted in front of the house.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t sold that little car for booze by now. It must have been Koos. Funny I didn’t see him.”

He’d stashed the lottery money in his gun safe and hung his uniform in the closet. Back in civilian clothes, he was on his way with his colleague Dirk Blokdijk to the farthest corner of the Jordaan, just past the Palmgracht. Given that gracht is Dutch for canal, you would expect the Palmgracht to be a waterway, but the original canal had long since been filled in, and all that was left of it was the name.

“You went to the funeral?” said Dirk, a sturdy detective who preferred dogs to people. “And then came home to a dead neighbor? Some job we got, right? But whatever, we just keep on keepin’ on. So where’s this Koos Jollema you want to talk to?” He leaned out the Cordoba’s passenger window and yelled, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Then he turned back to Felix. “Just Koos, huh, no middle name? His baby sister had one: Fetty Sjoukje Jollema.”

Felix had always assumed that Fetty was a nickname. Amsterdammers loved nicknames, and one look at Fetty told you exactly where hers had come from. In fact, he’d always thought she was called Fatty, just spoken with an Amsterdam accent.

“An original Frisian name, Felix, a name to be proud of.”

It sounded like Dirk might himself have Frisian blood in him.

“Supposedly died of a heart attack.”

Which might well have been the end of the story, except the case had turned out to be not quite that simple. The coroner found bruises on her throat, and her apartment had been ransacked.

“And we caught a guy goin’ through the place.”

The guy was Vladimir. The officers who’d responded to the call had found him in the living room. Fetty lay stretched out on the carpet, and Vladimir was digging around in an open drawer.

“He handed us this bullshit story that some other guy had threatened him with a bottle right outside the dead lady’s door, then took off in a handicapped car. He’d been walkin’ past the house when he heard a scream, which is why he went up, to make sure the neighbor lady was okay. So what were we supposed to make of that, Felix? We stuck him in a holding cell so he could think over his story. Anyway, we were too busy with other cases to deal with him, if I can call this a case.”

“His wife says he wanted to ask the man about his Canta. She’s worried about him.”

“I was locked up in a cell, my wife would worry too.”

“You could have let him call home and tell her what was going on.”

“Come on, Felix. We’re cops, not the Salvation Army.” Dirk gave him a sidelong glance. “You knew Fetty. She have anything worth stealin’ tucked away in her drawers?”

How was Felix supposed to answer that question? Instead, he avoided it. “Let’s see what the brother has to say for himself. What was he doing there? He hadn’t been to see her in years.”

“What I hear, he’s not the kind of guy you invite over for tea. He’s done time, Felix, two years for aggravated assault — way back when, but still. Not to mention several arrests for public drunkenness.”

Koos Jollema lived at the end of the Lijnbaansgracht, the slender canal that formed the western border of the Jordaan. The city wall had once stretched along the far side of the canal, but in later years it had been replaced by a long row of cheap rental units squashed side by side.

There were plenty of similar one-room apartments in the Jordaan too. They were claustrophobic little dumps, which was why so many of their residents spent much of their time in the neighborhood cafés. Which, according to one of his neighbors, was where they were bound to find Koos.

“One hundred percent chance he’s drinking himself stupid at the Van der Kruk,” she told them.

And, sure enough, they spotted a red Canta right around the corner from the Café Van der Kruk, on a side street where little had happened over the last few hundred years, other than a steady decline. The café itself was shabby enough to fit right in, nothing more than a room in which to sit and drink. In addition to the bar, there was a scattering of tables, each topped with a length of Persian carpet that wasn’t antique, just old. It was quiet inside.

The bartender was a heavy man with a few remaining strands of black hair combed over the top of his head and plastered to his scalp. He knew what Felix and Dirk did for a living before they even opened their mouths.

“Koos, you got company,” he called. “Cops. You been fucking the apes in the zoo again?”

Koos sat alone at a table next to a door along the back wall.

Dirk headed toward him. Felix stayed put by the front door.

“Relax,” said the bartender. “That’s the bathroom. No windows, no way out. And he can’t run, anyway.”

Fetty’s brother struggled to his feet. He was a little fellow with a deeply lined face and baggy pouches beneath his eyes. He staggered out from behind the table, and they saw that he dragged his right leg when he walked. He was clearly drunk.

“She send you after me?” he growled. “Jus’ ’cause I took a bottle of her whiskey? She don’t have enough to bitch about without that? I should’ve smacked her in the mouth with it and knocked that guy’s block off, the dirty yuppie.” He saw Felix looking at his leg. “Yeah, why don’t you take a picture? That fucking bastard knocked me from the deck down into the hold. I could’ve died. My knee never did heal right. And they said it was my fault I stuck a knife in him. And then my sister just totally wrote me off.”

“We’d like to talk with you about your sister,” said Felix.

They brought Koos back to his apartment, but once Dirk saw the condition of the place he insisted they go elsewhere. “This joint’s a pigsty! My dog would turn up her nose. And Brother Koos stinks to high heaven. Good thing your car’s already a wreck, Felix. At least it can’t get any worse. Come on, let’s take him someplace nice and quiet.”

Felix agreed. The only thing he could see in the apartment that wasn’t filthy was the opened bottle of whiskey on the table. He tried a cabinet door in the kitchen, looking for a glass, and his hand came away sticky. Koos apparently put things away without bothering to wash them.

“There’s no money here, so he can’t have stolen any,” Dirk said. Of course, Felix already knew where Fetty’s money was.

They saw Koos staring at the whiskey.

“Take it along,” said Felix.

Dirk wasn’t so sure. “You don’t think we’ll get in trouble?”

“He’s not going to tell anyone.”

It was a brief ride to the Palmgracht, with Koos in the backseat, a small glass of whiskey in his hand. Dirk sat beside him. Koos looked ready to fall asleep, but Dirk poked him in the ribs to keep him upright.

“Come on, pal. This ain’t a cab here.”

They listened to his story. Koos denied having killed his sister, but he showed no empathy or sorrow at her death.

“She was my sister, sure, but she was a nobody. Yeah, I grabbed her by the throat, but I didn’t hurt her. She shouldn’t’ve blown me off like she did. Wouldn’t even let me have a shot of her whiskey. But she called me, you know? I mean, I don’t have a phone, but she called my neighbor and had her go get me, and then she told me this big story how she’d come into a shitload of money, so now she could make it up to her bastard son. Well, fuck him, he don’t need money up in heaven, they taught me that in Sunday school. Now she can spend the rest of eternity up there with him. He can show her around, he’s been there long enough to know the ropes. That’s what I went to her place to tell her. ‘It’s not true,’ she whined, ‘it’s not true!’ I was lying, I wasn’t gonna get a cent of her money. What was I supposed to do, just sit there and take it?”

Dirk glanced at Felix. “You have any idea what he’s talkin’ about?”

“Hear him out.”

Back when Fetty had given birth, Koos was a merchant marine. Had Felix and Dirk ever heard of Bandar Abbas? A port city on the Persian Gulf. Hell itself couldn’t be hotter or grungier. When his ship docked there, he’d found a letter from his sister waiting with the news. It was months before he was back in Holland and got the story straight from his sister’s mouth.

“No kid and no money. They just kicked her to the curb, that fucking doctor and his fucking son. Stick your dick inside some dumb little girl, blame her for everything, and then take away her baby.”

He’d shown up at the doctor’s door and convinced the man to give Fetty two thousand guilders. Then they’d be done with each other forever. The only condition was Fetty had to come collect the payment herself.

“And she wouldn’t do it. Said it was blood money. I tried to talk her into it, but she flat-out refused. We could have shared it: a thousand guilders for her, a thousand for me. But forget about it. I should have choked the little cunt then.”

“But you waited almost forty years to do it,” said Felix.

“I always been able to look out for myself. I didn’t need her.”

“You got two years’ room and board from us,” Dirk said. “And the way I see it, pretty soon the state’ll be takin’ care of you again. Only I don’t think you’ll be sluggin’ down any more expensive whiskey for a while.”

Koos ignored the remark. “She won the lottery, she told me. And now she was gonna find her little boy.”

“The little boy you told her was dead?”

“Like I know if he’s alive or dead? But what else could have happened to him? She never heard a peep out of him, all those years. Wouldn’t you go look up your real mother, if it was you? Wouldn’t you? All she had to do was set some of the dough aside for me. But no, not her. Just show me the money, I said. Show me the ticket. It wasn’t none of my business, she said. You’d think she was scared I’d steal it. And then she started screaming I should get out. She wouldn’t even give me a damn drink.” He looked hungrily at Dirk, who was holding the bottle, and Dirk in turn looked at Felix. Who nodded.

“Okay,” said Dirk, “one more. Call it your last meal.”

While Koos drank, the two detectives left him alone.

“So now what?” said Dirk, once they had parked and gotten out of the car. “We’re supposed to believe the sister was still alive when he left?”

“He choked her,” said Felix. “He admits it, we both heard him say so. And his sister’s dead, no doubt about that. I say we arrest him on suspicion of manslaughter, book him, and charge him. The rest’s up to the court. Let’s go.”

“What about the neighbor?”

“He’ll testify he saw the brother leaving the apartment.”

Dirk glanced down at the bottle he was still holding. “And the whiskey?”

“Dirk, you’ve been a cop longer than me. The man confessed. He won’t complain we let him wet his whistle. The whiskey doesn’t come into it. Hand it over.”

Felix took it and poured it down the gutter, then tossed the empty bottle in a trash can, along with Dirk’s glass.

“What a crying shame,” said Dirk.

Felix knew it wasn’t just the liquor that was worth crying over, but he kept that thought to himself.

The lottery money had been paid out in five-hundred-euro notes. They were spread out on Felix’s kitchen table, a hundred of them. He gathered them together in a nice neat stack. It wasn’t his money, but whose was it? Did he now have a claim on it? He sighed and put the bills back in the safe with his gun.

He could have used a shot of whiskey, but all he had in the fridge was a bottle of Coke Zero.

“Here’s to you, Fetty,” he said aloud, standing at his front window and raising a glass to the darkened apartment across the street. He was still thinking about the money.

He remembered a song his grandmother used to sing: Money isn’t happiness — at least it isn’t yet — but the more of it you gather, well, the closer you can get...

He realized that he was humming the tune. He reopened his gun safe and spread the bills out again on the table.

The television was on, and he looked up from the money to see an ad for the new Seat Ateca. Was that a sign from above?

The money’s rightful owner was dead. She didn’t seem to have left a will, so her estate — such as it was — would go to her legal heirs. No way that would be the son she’d given up for adoption, even if the boy — a man now, somewhere in his forties — was still alive. And the courts would disinherit the brother who had very probably been responsible for her death. Who did that leave? There was no written record of Fetty’s agreement with Felix. He had bought the lottery ticket, and he had cashed it in.

He sighed, once again piled up the fifty thousand euros, and locked them away.

“Fetty, I’m going to drink a whiskey in your memory after all,” he announced, taking his jacket from the coatrack. They carried Highland Park in the café up the street. He knew that from personal experience.

Maybe he’d just leave the money where it was for a while. Sometimes problems solve themselves, if you let them sit. Of course he knew better, but for now he was in no mood to go on thinking about it.

He pulled his apartment door shut behind him and headed down the stairs. The Westertoren’s carillon began to play. The bells tolled for everyone, but in Felix’s mind they rang for one old woman in particular.

The Stranger Inside Me by Loes den Hollander

Central Station

Monday

Ted Bundy came again last night.

Ted always comes around midnight on Sundays, every other week for a year now. He says I’m his friend, his best friend. I’m proud of that. It’s great to finally have a friend.

Mother says I have to take a shower. She says she can smell me, and that other people will say I stink and blame her. Mother’s been nagging me more and more lately. She says I eat too many eggs. Eggs are bad for my cholesterol, according to her. The blood vessels in my brain will get all sludgy. She also wants me to go back to getting my meds by injection, because the pill I’m supposed to take every week is bad for my stomach. I don’t like needles, and the pills never actually get to my stomach. I don’t need them anyway, but try explaining that to someone who believes God knows best and medication can make the negative thoughts in your head disappear.

Mothers. There ought to be a law.

Against mothers and caseworkers.

I can’t stand anybody who has anything to do with the psychiatric profession. They think they know everything about your mental ability, they label you without any idea who you really are, they ask questions and arrange your answers in their spreadsheets, and — presto! — they slap you with a diagnosis you carry around for the rest of your life. And of course you’re stuck with them for the rest of your life too.

Caseworkers should all be exterminated.

My mission is scheduled for this Thursday. The woman will be wearing a short brown leather jacket, a tight black skirt, black stockings, and high-heeled black boots. She’ll have long blond hair, and here’s the important thing: it’ll be parted in the middle. Ted really made a point about that middle parting.

The place: Amsterdam’s Central Station, track 13B. The time: Thursday, between 11:30 a.m. and 2:37 p.m. Not one minute sooner, not one minute later.

Ted knows he can count on me.

The first time he came was the night before my eighteenth birthday. I woke up and saw him standing in a corner of my bedroom.

I wasn’t surprised, and I was aware that I wasn’t. It would have been normal if I’d screamed and run out of the room, because I can really overreact when I’m startled. Instead, though, I just lay there in my bed and folded my hands behind my head and asked him who he was.

“They call me Ted Bundy,” he said.

“Is that your name?” I asked.

“I was born Theodore Robert Cowell, but it was changed to Bundy when my mother married a loser and he adopted me. You can call me Ted.” There was laughter in his voice.

“What’s so funny?” I wanted to know.

“Me, being here. You, letting me in.” He looked at me with an intense expression in his eyes. “Letting me inside you, do you understand?”

I didn’t.

It got very quiet in my room, and I didn’t know what he expected of me.

He came closer. “They stopped me,” he said. “I want you to pick up where I left off.”

At that moment, I heard Mother in the bathroom. I turned my head toward the sound. Water ran out of the tap, then stopped. The toilet flushed.

When I turned back, Ted was gone.

Anja, the psychiatric caseworker I have to see every month, always asks me if I hear voices or have visitors. She wouldn’t ask that if I’d just ignored Mother always grilling me about who I talk to late at night. But I had to go and tell her someone was coming to see me, someone she couldn’t see. She should have known that was private information, not something she was allowed to pass on to anyone else, but Mother doesn’t understand things like that. It doesn’t surprise me when every man she goes out with winds up dropping her. What does surprise me is that, with all those guys, she’s only had the one child: me.

Mother lives in a world of her own.

I don’t give the caseworker a hard time. I’m polite, I answer her questions, I tell her I take my penfluridol every week. It’s important I stay calm when she asks me trick questions. I know for a fact she’s trying to trap me.

Tuesday

Ted told me about track 13B months ago, and today I went to take a look at it.

Mother had a migraine this morning and stayed in bed. She can’t stand the least bit of light or sound when she gets a migraine, so I shut the living room drapes, made sure the windows were latched, and disconnected the doorbell. Then I snuck out of the house.

She didn’t come right out and say so, but she made it clear that the migraine was my fault. In her indirect way, she let me know that I’d disturbed her sleep by making a racket until all hours, not even quieting down when she banged her cane against the wall that separates our rooms.

See, Ted showed up again last night, which was a surprise. When I realized he was there, I tried to make a joke: “Don’t you have days of the week up there in Eternity?” I asked him, but I don’t think he got it. I backed away from his angry reaction and apologized profusely. He raised his voice, and that made me start screaming. When Mother wouldn’t quit banging on the wall, I begged him to calm down. I lowered my voice and began asking him questions. Open-ended questions, full of empathy. That helped.

He was clearly in the mood to talk, and to brag. Full of pride, he told me that, right before his execution, he confessed to more than twenty murders, but in fact his count was much higher. He explained what it had meant to him, the kidnapping, the raping, the killing, and he especially wanted me to understand how much he missed it, and how happy he was to be able to enter into me, and we were going to be a team. An amazing team that would always be there for each other.

I was so touched.

I feel this powerful connection to Ted, because we’re both children of unwed mothers and we never knew who our fathers were. That’s why I don’t think it’s weird that he picked me to be his special friend. And that’s why I’ll do whatever he tells me to. I won’t be surprised if he shows up every night this week, though he didn’t promise that he would.

He’s always welcome.

I go into the Central Station by the main entrance. The gates from the main hall to the tracks never close, so I can walk right through.

There are two women in front of me, and they keep looking around. I go past them as quickly as I can and hug the right side of the expansive shopping area. First I check to make sure all the stores are in the right order. De Broodzaak: check. Swirls Ice Cream: check. Smullers: check. The Amstel Passage is closed. The Döner Company: check. No changes, so that’s good.

There are two sets of fifteen steps up to track 13B. I have to be sure to remember to count them again when I come down.

My mission is so exciting! I can feel that it’s all going to go just right for once. The woman I’m supposed to look for will be there. Everything will work out perfectly. I know it, and that sense of certainty makes me happy.

I’ve never been so happy in my life.

The man is only a few feet away from me, and I can smell his cigarette. “There are special smoking areas,” I say, and I point to the standing ashtray not far off. He inhales deeply and blows a white cloud at my face.

I lower my head and count to ten. Every time Ted gives me a mission, he tells me not to raise my voice and not to argue with anyone. If I say something to this man...

I count to twenty.

I feel like Ted is watching me, but I can also feel Anja’s eyes aimed in my direction. Let that frustrated caseworker find herself another victim! A piece of advice: make it somebody who’ll give her a good roll in the hay. Somebody her big boobs will make all horny.

“Watch where you’re going,” a voice beside me snarls.

I’m standing next to a woman whose buttons are practically popping off her blouse. I mumble an apology and walk away.

As I approach the stairs, I see a woman in a short brown leather jacket coming toward me. Black skirt, black stockings, black high-heeled boots. Her long blond hair is parted in the middle. But it’s only Tuesday.

I hurry down the thirty steps.

Mother has left me a note. She’s gone to the beauty parlor and wants me to do the shopping. There’s a list in the linen bag on the inside of the kitchen door. The money is in an envelope.

The thought hits me the second I touch the bag.

Mother is going to poison me. She’s letting me do the shopping so I won’t be suspicious, but she’s already bought the poison, see? She tells me to get the ingredients she needs to make her endive stew with bacon, that way she figures I’ll never stop to think how easy it’ll be for her to stir the poison into the stew. She’ll serve me a poisoned dinner, a meal I know she doesn’t like and won’t eat.

She wants to get rid of me.

I don’t fit in here.

I wish Ted would come, wish just once he’d come during the day instead of at night. I could talk with him, explain my suspicions. He would give me good advice. Maybe if I sit very quietly on the sofa and stare straight down at the floor. I listen for his footsteps, not moving a muscle.

The clock in the hall strikes four. He’s not coming. I’d better go do the shopping. But I won’t eat the stew, not one bite. I won’t let myself be poisoned. Not by anyone.

Wednesday

The new day is only ten minutes old. I slipped into the kitchen half an hour ago to make two cheese sandwiches. Mother loves cheese, so that’s something she won’t poison. And bread is safe. And butter. And milk. Anything Mother eats, I can eat.

She was insulted I wouldn’t have any of the endive stew. She asked me what was going on with me, if I’m taking my penfluridol. She’s always bitching about those pills. I have to stop myself from kicking a kitchen chair to bits.

I told her I had a stomachache and couldn’t keep anything down. Then I went to my room and watched TV. With the door locked.

I’m positive Ted will come tonight. Maybe he’ll tell me about the city where he was born. He’s done that before, and that’s why I googled Burlington tonight. I found out it’s a city of interesting contradictions: it’s the biggest city in Vermont, but the smallest biggest city in any of the fifty United States. When you think that Ted’s not only a serial killer but also somebody’s best friend, you can understand why he was born in Burlington.

I have to tell him I saw her in the station yesterday afternoon, a woman who fit the description for tomorrow’s mission. Should I have talked to her? That question weighs on my mind.

He’s told me many times how he approached his victims. If you go up to a woman and you’re friendly but you don’t bug her, most of the time she’ll talk with you. But the best way to get her attention is if there’s obviously something wrong with you: your arm’s in a sling, you’re using a cane and limping, you’ve got a big bandage on your head and you act like you’re dizzy. Then they’ll be all concerned, they’ll ask if they can help you.

When Ted found out I don’t have a car, not even a driver’s license, so I can’t drive women to some remote place and attack them there, he was mad at first. But later he said I was a new kind of challenge for him, and he gave me instructions I had to memorize but not write down. He decided the starting point would be Amsterdam’s Central Station, and he told me which track and what the victim would look like. It wasn’t until he’d come to see me a dozen times that he told me he wanted to concentrate on women who looked like the victims who’d escaped from him his first time around.

I have an old schoolbag that’s just the right size to hold my bat. It has a long shoulder strap, so I can clutch it tight to my stomach when I carry it.

Up to now, my first seven tries were no good, because the women I was supposed to find didn’t show up at the right track when they were supposed to. Ted says I have to pay closer attention, be sharper. Tomorrow is my eighth chance, and this time it’s going to be just fine. I’ve already seen the woman, and I know she’ll turn up right when she’s supposed to. I’ll bandage my left hand in the morning, and I’ll walk with a cane. When the woman gets off her train, I’ll catch her attention by the stairs, and I’ll ask her to help me down. Halfway, I’ll say I’m dizzy and I need some fresh air. Track 13B is close to the station’s back entrance, and that’s where I’ll have the best chance to use my bat.

And to get away without anyone seeing me.

I know it’s risky. But I’ll take my chances. I’m not worried. Ted will protect me.

And if the woman I’m waiting for isn’t arriving on the train but leaving on it, I’ll just climb aboard with her. With my cane and my schoolbag. I’ll sit near her and make sure she notices me.

Then I’ll grab her right before the train pulls into a station. Or maybe it’ll be better to wait until the train comes to a stop, so I can get off right away.

Thinking about the woman on the track, about finally carrying out my mission, is exciting. It’s giving me a boner. I like the way that feels.

I hope Ted’s coming tonight, and that he tells me more about what he did with the bodies. He is so cool!

Thursday

Ted didn’t come last night. I’m really disappointed. It would have been helpful to discuss the plans for today one more time. Maybe he didn’t show because he thought it would be too much of a distraction. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll back out at the last minute.

You never know.

My mission begins at eleven thirty, and I’ll be sure to take a tram that’ll get me to the station on time. Better to arrive half an hour early than one minute late. Because what if the woman turns up exactly at eleven thirty and I’m not there?

I have to get this right.

Mother thinks I look exhausted, and she wants to know why that is. I don’t have a job, and I don’t really do much, so why am I so tired? She thinks I don’t get enough physical exercise but work myself up too much mentally. That needs to change, she says.

I’ll have to find a way to fake her out.

She offers me homemade jam, and I say thanks but no thanks. She wants to know why I’m barely eating anything, do I still have a stomachache? And then of course she gets on my case again about changing my meds from the pill to an injection.

I try to tune her out and concentrate on my cheese sandwich and the glass of milk I made sure to pour for myself.

Track 13B, I think. Woman with long blond hair parted in the middle. Brown leather jacket, tight black skirt, black stockings, black boots with high heels.

The bandage and the bat are in my bag. I hid the cane in the bushes by the garden gate, I’ll fish it out as I pass.

“She’ll be here in half an hour,” I hear Mother say.

I sit up straight. “Who’ll be here in half an hour?”

“Your caseworker, Anja. I called her. You’re not well, you need an extra visit. And a shot.”

I get up. “Tell her I said hi. I have to go.”

A second later, she’s all up in my face: “You’re not going anywhere until you’ve talked with Anja. I’m doing this for your own good, boy. You’ll thank me later.”

I look at her. She means it, she’s not going to let me go.

But I have to go.

Why isn’t Ted here when I need him?

The front door is locked. Where is the key?

Mother smiles.

I feel myself becoming calmer. Okay, fine, she has the key. It’s obviously in her apron pocket. She always cleans the house after breakfast, and she’s already wearing her apron.

It’s almost ten o’clock, it’s a five-minute walk to the tram stop, I might have to wait another five minutes for a tram, and then the ride takes twenty minutes. That gives me just enough time to get the key, and if she won’t give it to me willingly...

I go into the living room and sit in my chair. Mother is puttering around in the hall. She’s probably getting the vacuum cleaner from the closet at the top of the basement stairs.

The basement!

The bag with the bat is still in my bedroom, but the base of the lamp that stands on the armoire in the living room will do just as well.

I’ve put on a clean shirt and also a clean sweater. The key was indeed in the pocket of Mother’s apron. The vacuum cleaner is back where it belongs, and so is the lamp. The basement door is locked. I can go.

The doorbell rings.

“I rode my bike,” says Anja. “It’s actually quicker than coming by car, so I’m a little early. Is it okay if I leave it outside?”

“You’d better bring it in,” I recommend.

There’s a detour, because they’re working on the tramline. Signs show you which way to go.

I haven’t ridden a bike in a long time, but I don’t have any trouble. It’s nice, the wind in my hair. I’m careful not to let the wheels drop into the tram rails.

I’ve got my bag on my right side. I bandaged my hand before I left the house. I have to hurry, because it’s already five minutes to eleven. I pedal past de Bijenkorf, and I can see the station up ahead. I know for sure the woman will be there, and the thought gives me wings.

The big clock in the station’s main hall says 11:15. I’ll leave the cane in my bag until I get to the stairs to track 13B. There’s a strange noise behind me, and as I’m about to turn around to see what it is, a man in an electric wheelchair zooms by.

I’m panting a little.

Calm down, calm down, calm down.

Quickly check the stores.

There’s the stairway. Count carefully, two sets of fifteen steps.

It’s 11:25.

I’m positive I looked everywhere. I didn’t miss her, she just isn’t here. Didn’t get off the train, didn’t get on. This can’t be happening!

The train that leaves Amsterdam at 2:38 p.m. is slowly pulling into the station. It comes to a stop. The doors open, and people come out. I have a good view from where I’m standing.

It’s 2:37. The time is up. I feel all the energy drain out of my body.

And then I see her.

She walks past me, close enough to touch, and hurries to the train. I follow her without thinking, and the second I step aboard I hear the conductor’s whistle and the doors whoosh closed behind me. She heads for the first-class compartment and holds the connecting door for me.

I lean on my cane.

“You should sit down,” she says.

I obey, and see that she takes a seat in the middle of the car.

It was one minute later than the end time I was given, but I don’t think Ted will have a problem with that. I found her, and inside my head I’m cheering. She’s sitting there talking on her phone, laughing.

But not for long.

Pretty soon, I’ll be the one who’s laughing.

We’re the only passengers in the compartment. Ted must have arranged it that way.

I’m not happy about that minute.

But I’ve got her!

What Day Is It?

I’ve lost track of time, and there’s a gap in my memory. The last thing I remember is the woman on the train, the way she looked. After that, there was a lot of commotion, somebody dragged me away, I was in a cell, people kept asking me questions, someone told me I had to be examined.

I’ve got a room and a bed, but all the doors and windows are locked. The food is good. Everybody here is crazy, but the man who comes to talk with me three times a week is far and away the craziest. He tells me I tried to molest an old lady on the train, though I keep explaining that she was young. When I describe her, he contradicts me. The lady he talks about isn’t blond with a middle part, doesn’t wear a short brown leather jacket, no tight black skirt, no black stockings and high-heeled boots. When I say we must be talking about two different people, he says no, we’re absolutely talking about the same person. So he’s a total nutbag.

Each time he comes, he’s got new idiotic comments. He thinks Mother has been dead for a year, and I haven’t seen my psychiatric caseworker, Anja, since Mother died. He says I’ve been skipping my appointments, and he keeps insisting that, given my condition, isolation is my worst enemy, because if I’m alone I don’t have anyone to correct my behavior and my thoughts.

According to him, when Mother was still alive I used to take medication that kept the weird thoughts at bay. It’s apparently pretty much a miracle I didn’t go off the rails until now. If I go back on my meds, I can learn to think straight again. I’ll have to go to trial, but a good lawyer should be able to convince the judge I wasn’t accountable for my actions when I attacked the lady on the train. The shrink will recommend confinement in a psych ward. The doctor emphasizes that everyone wants what’s best for me.

I’m allergic to people who want what’s best for me.

When I very carefully describe what I did to Mother and Anja, the doctor doesn’t react.

He ought to go take a look in the basement.

They force me to take the pills. When I refuse, I get a shot. The meds make me dull, I sleep away half the day.

Ted doesn’t come to see me. Now that I can’t do anything for him, he’s abandoned me. With friends like him, who needs enemies?

What Month Is It?

They’re fed up with my continued insistence that Mother and Anja are in the basement. The doctor thinks it would help me to see Anja. She’s coming this afternoon.

I bet she won’t look too good.

They’ve decided that the meds they’ve put me on are too strong, so now they’re reducing the dosage. But they make darned sure I swallow the pills. I have to put each one on my tongue, and after I swallow it the supervisor looks down my throat, probably all the way down my esophagus. I don’t feel as foggy now, and I don’t drag my feet when I walk.

And Anja’s coming to see me.

Party time!

I sit beside the shrink and across from the caseworker nobody seems to realize is lying in my cellar. I have to admit she looks pretty healthy, and she doesn’t seem to have had any work done. I probably ought to keep my mouth shut, otherwise before you know it they’ll up my meds again. But I can’t stop myself from telling her that even though she thinks she’s sitting here, she’s actually dead.

She leans a little closer.

I pull back. She stinks like a corpse.

She tells me everything will be okay, and she’ll always be here for me.

Those words rock me, and I have to hold onto the table to keep from falling over.

How could I ever have thought Ted would leave me in the lurch? How could I have doubted his intentions? When I see him again, I’ll beg his forgiveness on bended knee, if that’s what it takes. The more I think about it, though, the more I realize he won’t be mad. If he was truly angry, he wouldn’t have sent Anja to me. The only explanation for her presence is that she’s joined up with Ted. And I’m the only one who knows.

See, this is what friendship is all about.

Now I know for sure Ted’s coming back.

With Anja.

I wonder, what will my next mission be?