Borkmann's point

52

The beach was endless.

Van Veeteren paused and gazed out to sea. There were big waves, for once. A fresh wind was gathering strength, and on the horizon a dark cloud bank was growing more ominous. No doubt it would be raining by evening.

“I think we should go back now,” he said.

Munster nodded. They’d been walking for more than half an hour. Synn had promised a meal by three o’clock, and the children would no doubt need some cleaning up before they would be allowed at the table.

“Bart!” yelled Munster, waving. “We’re going back now!”

“All right!” shouted the six-year-old, completing his final attack on the enemy buried in the sand.

“I’m tired,” said Munster’s daughter. “Carry me!”

He lifted her onto his shoulders, and they started walking slowly back along the beach.

“How is he?” asked Munster when he felt that Marieke had fallen asleep and Bart was sufficiently far ahead.

“Not too bad,” said Van Veeteren. “He’s not that concerned about the future. The main thing is that he’s done what he had to do.”

“Did he want to be caught?”

“No, but it didn’t matter very much either. He was in an impossible position once Moerk started on his trail, of course.”

Munster thought for a moment.

“How many lines were there about Brigitte Bausen in the

Melnik report, in fact?” he said. “There can’t have been all that much-”

“Exactly one page. About that year they were living to gether, that is. Her name was mentioned twice. Melnik had no idea, of course; not even he can know the names of every chief of police in the country. If he’d had a bit more time-Bausen, that is-he could have substituted another name instead of removing a whole page. If he had, he might have gotten away with it. But we were standing waiting for him, more or less, and for Christ’s sake, we were bound to have noticed that something funny was going on.”

Munster nodded.

“I find it hard to see that what he did was so dreadful,” he said. “Morally speaking, I mean-”

“Yes,” said Van Veeteren. “You might say that he had every right-maybe not to cut the heads off three people-but to do something about his enormous sorrow.”

He fumbled around in his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. Was forced to stop and cup his hand around the lighter before he could produce a flame.

“Enormous sorrow and enormous determination,” he said,

“those are the main ingredients in this dish. Those are Moerk’s words, not mine, but they’re pretty good as a summary. Sor row and determination-and necessity. The world we live in is not a nice place-but we’ve been aware of that for quite some time, haven’t we?”

They walked in silence for a while. Munster remembered something else Beate Moerk had said about her conversations with Bausen in the cellar.

Life imposes certain conditions upon us, she reported that he said. If we don’t accept the challenge, we become petrified.

We don’t have any real choice.

Petrified? Was that right? Was that really what it looked like-this vain battle against evil? Where the result, no matter how puny and unsuccessful it might turn out to be, was never theless the important thing; where only the deed itself, the principle, had any significance?

And the only reward was to avoid petrification. Only?

Perhaps that was enough.

But the lives of three people-?

“What do you think?” Van Veeteren interrupted his train of thought. “What punishment would you give him if it were up to you?”

“In the best of all worlds?”

“In the best of all worlds.”

“I don’t know,” said Munster. “What do you think?”

Van Veeteren considered for a while.

“Not easy,” he said. “Lock him up in the cellar, perhaps, like he did with Moerk. But in rather more humane conditions, of course-a lamp, some books… and a corkscrew.”

They fell silent again. Walked side by side down to the water’s edge and let their summaries sink in. The wind was growing stronger. It came in gusts, which you could almost lean into at times, Munster felt. Bart came running up with some new finds for his collection of stones. He off-loaded them into his father’s pockets and raced ahead again. When the low whitewashed cottage came into view once more, Van

Veeteren cleared his throat.

“In any case,” he said, “he’s the most likable murderer I’ve ever come across. It’s not often you have an opportunity of mixing so much with them either-before you put them behind bars, that is.”

Munster looked up. There was a new tone in Van

Veeteren’s voice, a totally surprising hint of self-irony. Some thing he’d never detected before, and could barely imagine. It was suddenly hard to hold back a smile.

“How did the chess go?” he asked.

“I won, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “What the hell do you think? It took some time, that’s all.”

A few hours later he went to the water’s edge one last time. He lit his last cigarette as well, and stood there all alone until it was finished, contemplating the agitated breakers rolling in toward the shore.

Things were breathing again. Both sky and sea-the same threatening gray-violet combination, the same irresistible force; and when he felt the first drop of rain in his hand, he turned his back on it all and made his way up toward his car.

Time to get away from here, he thought.

The curtain has fallen. The tragedy is over.

Exit Oedipus. Exit Van Veeteren.

He started the car. Switched on the headlights as darkness fell rapidly, and set off inland.

And yet, it might not be for good. Perhaps Kaalbringen would have the pleasure of entertaining his presence again…

For even retired Axmen must eventually be allowed time out on parole. And even the narrowest of leads at chess must allow a challenge.

What wouldn’t one do for a decent glass of wine?

Thought Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren as he started groping in the glove compartment for Penderecki.