Chapter 5

"I like this little town of Nieuwegein," Adjutant Grijpstra said, after he had switched off the car engine. "How pleasant to get out of Amsterdam sometimes. We can even park here, Rinus. No pollution. Look at those huge trees. If those screeching magpies would shut up it would be real peaceful."

The unmarked police car stood in a private parking lot belonging to a row of new town houses overlooking the river Rhine. The houses showed their forbidding backsides to the detectives, and further hid behind a raised row of new brick planters containing baby evergreen bushes that would grow into more protection later.

Grijpstra read the note Sergeant de Gier passed him. "Lakmaker, Joop and Sara. They're the Central Park witnesses we are after?"

De Gier had given up trying to figure out how to fold the road map. He now flattened it with his fist. In spite of the long drive his mood was still good. He had followed Grijpstra's order: Gridlocked speedways had been avoided. The journey from Amsterdam had followed tree-lined canal quays and dikes twisting along narrow rivers. De Gier had pointed at fishermen in rowboats, sitting quietly behind their rods, at storks and herons planing on breezes, at turning windmills.

"Beautiful," Grijpstra said each time. "Lovely country. Nice spring we're having."

"I don't like this," Grijpstra said now. "Interviewing stale witnesses. How did Lakmaker strike you when you phoned for the appointment?"

"Member of the elderly arrogant class," de Gier said. "Old coot with a university background. Enjoys an ample pension. Addressed me as 'policeman.'"

Grijpstra grinned. "Maybe we'll end up with a cigar each, to put beneath our caps."

"You do the talking," de Gier said. "I'm allergic to their kind."

Grijpstra didn't move yet; they had arrived early.

De Gier looked at the town houses' unfriendly backsides. "Two hundred thousand each?"

Grijpstra thought the town houses would price at three. One hundred thousand extra for the view of the Rhine.

De Gier kept staring while he wondered how the old couple would live, while viewing Holland's widest, most splendid river. So what else do you do? Ignore the aching old body while watching boats sail through your picture windows?

Discipline yourself? One hour of viewing, ten minutes for checking TV GUIDE for nature programs later on? Nap? Dinner? De Gier asked Grijpstra.

"News!" Grijpstra shouted.

"What?"

Grijpstra pointed out that de Gier didn't have to shout in his face. Grijpstra had merely acted out how an elderly couple conducts dialogue. One sees a newscaster clearing his throat and shouts at the other to come watch the news. Or vice versa. Then, while one partner makes hurry-up movements, the other comes hobbling along so that the complete couple can share Worldly Horrors.

De Gier had trouble imagining the scene.

"Sharing of media-fodder," Grijpstra said. He also suggested membership in a chess club or a bird-watching society: Identified species can be crossed off a list. Or visiting even older elderly persons in institutions. The couple might also invent ways to improve life on the planet.

De Gier got it now. He suggested guilt. The old couple analyzes past mistakes. They fantasize about how things could have been better. They prepare for a painless end by studying euthanasia literature supplied by their doctor.

"Read the Rotterdam Times and quote from same?" de Gier asked. He tried to vocalize the Rotterdam Times's style of reporting, hardly opening his lips, keeping his nose closed, expressing wise-ass opinions in the latest cliches.

"Okay, okay," Grijpstra said, "it's still my paper.

Only the Rotterdam Times dares to mention police corruption."

"You subscribe?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra sometimes read the paper at Cafe Keyzer, Fridays, between mocha cake and espresso.

"The photographs are okay," de Gier said. "Politicians all look like compulsive jerk-offs, schizoid too."

"That one old drunk looked handsome, can't think of his name now."

De Gier agreed that Holland's vice president was rather photogenic.

It was about time now.

De Gier looked at macrame curtains covering the glass part of the Lakmaker front door.

Grijpstra reread the commissaris's faxed note: Find out what exactly the Lakmakers saw on June 4. Grijpstra checked the day on his watch. "Almost three weeks ago." Ask (the note ordered) why they ignored Sergeant Hurrell's queries left on their answering machine.

"Are we going to interrogate the Lakmakers separately?" de Gier asked. "In different rooms? Catch them later on all the discrepancies?"

Grijpstra didn't think so. "Might annoy them too much."

"They're annoyed already," de Gier said.

"Angry, well-meaning fellow citizens," Grijpstra said. "But don't they have a nice place to live in?" He pushed his car door open. "I attack, Sergeant. Follow me."

Grijpstra and de Gier sat on a couch upholstered in blue velvet and drank coffee from Chinese mugs adorned with hand-painted flowers. A limping white-haired old lady pointed at cargo vessels motoring along the Rhine. Her bald husband checked a plastic file on his deck. It contained maps and leaflets, mementos of the couple's recent American journey.

"That couch you two are sitting on is original Biedermeier," Sara Lakmaker said. "A wreck when I found it. Joop repaired the frame and I upholstered it. It would cost a fortune if you figured in the hours."

"The professional artistic touch," Grijpstra said. He moved carefully, anxious not to damage the couch's ancient springs, which creaked painfully under his bulk.

"The coffee you are drinking comes from Nigeria," Sara said. "It's from Zabar's, in New York. That's the biggest and best deli in the world. In New York you can buy anything. Americans still have the greatest buying power."

"A strong and interesting flavor," Grijpstra said.

"Care to join me here?" Joop Lakmaker asked from his desk. He had unfolded a map. "This is Central Park and this is where we saw the man you are inquiring about now. Just off this path, next to that meadow." Lakmaker changed both his voice and his posture so that he could be a poet, speaking loudly and with a rhetorical effect. "The grass was green," Lakmaker declaimed, "and the gent was dying. The balloon beast was rising"-Lakmaker covered his heart with his hand-"and the children were playing." He looked at Grijpstra. "How does that sound?"

"That sounds real pretty," Grijpstra said.

Lakmaker grinned. "I didn't even have to put in the blooming azaleas. I wanted to be a poet, wear a corduroy suit, live in a mountain cabin, but Sara wanted us to live usefully instead."

"Joop," Sara warned.

"And usefully we lived. A lifetime long. Do you know," Joop asked, "that I was instrumental in lowering the cost of Dutch soda pop?" Joop's bulging eyes looked through Grijpstra. "Isn't that something?"

"You were much appreciated," Sara said. "You did a good job. You raised good kids." Sara smiled. "You collected art." She pointed at three masks hung above the large TV screen. "We already auctioned off two collections and now Joop has started collecting again. Impressive? They are Bolivian. We bought them on a trip. Mine workers make them from beer cans during their yearly holiday."

Grijpstra and de Gier looked at the masks. "Devils?"

"Mine demons," Sara said. "They live underground and come up with the workers, to share their holiday."

The masks sprouted blunt horns, and blood dripped from the eyes.

"Expressive," Grijpstra said.

"I changed my interests and collected Fellini." Joop pointed at stacked videotapes. "I want that included in my obituary."

"Joop," Sara warned.

"Not in the Rotterdam Times," Joop said, "I know I'm not on that level. Maybe in the Nieuwegein Advertiser!" He was rubbing his hands. "What do you think, policeman? You think that my regression from present-day pop art to a nostalgic interest in surrealism, due to reliving World War II horrors, will make good copy?"

"So that poor old man in Central Park was Dutch," Sara said. "He spoke English to us. Amazing. Our running into a Dutchman in Central Park, I mean."

"Nothing out-of-the-way about that," Joop said. "Holland is rich so we Dutch can travel. New York welcomes big spenders. Six jumbos a day on the transatlantic route. 'Step right up, step right up.'" He made inviting gestures. "We're bound to stumble into each other in Central Park."

"Did that poor man survive?" Sara asked. "He seemed to be feeling very bad. The horse kicked him, you know. There he was, spinning and turning. And that uniformed hussy just rode off."

"Uniformed hussy," Grijpstra said. "What uniformed hussy would that be?"

"The policewoman," Sara said. "We had been watching the poor man for a while, you see. So had she. From high up on her huge horse."

"Well," Joop said, "that's what you thought, Sara. We can't know for sure. She was wearing sunglasses."

"To answer your question," Grijpstra said, "yes, the old man died. He was found in the azalea bushes the next morning. So the police horse kicked him?"

"Just a little," Sara said. "There was a lot going on. They had a big balloon beast going up for the kids, on the meadow, some kind of dinosaur."

"Tyrannosaurus rex," Joop said. "Enormous. Made from multicolor balloons stuck together."

"And there was a jazz group playing, on a big bandstand."

"Don't underestimate jazz," said Joop. "Even if I collect classical myself I admit that jazz is a superior art form." He looked at de Gier.

De Gier nodded.

"We had been listening to the music," Sara said. "And watching all the costumed people. There was a contest going on. Look-alikes of famous movie characters. Madonna in garters. Monroe pretending her skirt was caught in a draft. Marlon Brando dancing the last tango. Yves Montand being seduced by Catherine Deneuve."

"Mayor Koch was one of the judges," Joop said. "Odd-looking man but his speech was funny."

"But this man you came about," Sara said. "He was the most impressive. He reminded me of a professor I had when I was studying interior decoration in Utrecht."

"He wasn't part of the contest, was he?"

Sara seemed sure. "Oh no, not at all."

"I can see you are an interior decorator, that you are visually perceptive," Grijpstra said, looking about the apartment, noting open spaces and a different way of lighting. "Could you describe the man, please?"

"A tall majestic old man wearing plus fours," Sara said. "Like mountaineers do. Old-fashioned trousers that tie up half-way between knee and ankle. And a waistcoat and jacket, all dark brown tweed, a matching outfit. White shirt, buttoned down. Plaid tie. Long white beard. High forehead. Sharp nose. Bushy eyebrows. Lovely blue eyes. Polished boots and cream woolen stockings. A full head of hair."

"Sara loves hairy types," Joop said. "He struck me as a performer. He was standing absolutely still when Sara first saw him, but I had noticed the fellow before. He was skipping about then, an unlikely thing for a sage to do."

"Where was I," Sara asked, "when he skipped?"

"Going kootchy-coo at a baby."

"A sage?" Grijpstra asked.

"A kind of Voltaire type. You've heard of Voltaire?" Joop asked. "He had that sort of world-waking aura, but he looked rather like George Bernard Shaw. You've heard of George Bernard Shaw?"

Grijpstra looked at de Gier.

De Gier nodded.

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "He looked like them, did he?"

"Upper-class prophet," Sara said. "That's what he seemed like to me. Not crazy looking, but decent. After the skipping he stood at a crossing-still, like a statue, on one leg, leaning forward. Posing, in an exaggerated attitude, for effect. Very startling. You couldn't help noticing the man, and wondering what he was up to."

"Kids went over and touched him," Joop said. "Making sure he was real." He nodded. "Excellent performer. A showman. You know?"

"And then we became aware of the mounted cop, also watching him," Sara said. "Mounted cops look nice in America. Not operatic-looking, like here. No long coats and stupid hats. In America their wear blue helmets. And that policewoman had a long ponytail. She wore a smart uniform. Dark riding pants, a blue starched shirt. A lot of leather. High boots. Belt."

"Nice-Nazi," Joop said. "Gun belt with hardware, complete, all the sidearms and a two-way radio with waving antenna. Like in Star Wars. I liked those films," Joop said. "I don't like the police myself, of course. They're all fascists, you know. Will do anything when ordered. Like in the war when they picked up my parents. Dutch cops did that, because the Germans said to take all Jews to the railway station. If I hadn't been playing outside they would have kicked me into a boxcar too. To gas me in Treblinka."

"Yes," Grijpstra said.

"Nothing personal," Joop said. "Obedience to authority goes with being human. We like to follow orders. Gets us up in the morning. We like violence too. Now there are Jewish police on the West Bank and in Gaza. Doing the same thing. Then that will turn around and they'll be beating us up again." Joop smiled, impressed with the exactitude of his argument. "Maybe humanity can evolve though? Suddenly twist its genes and become a new species?"

"Joop," Sara warned.

"So the Central Park female police officer on horseback caused her mount to kick Termeer?" Grijpstra asked. "That was his name, by the way, the name of the man you call a prophet. She attacked Bert Termeer, using her horse as a weapon?"

"No," Joop said. "That's to say, not on purpose. This Termeer was standing still, like a statue of someone, about to take off at speed, and then suddenly he did. He leaped onto the path, to start skipping again-the other part of his act-and the horse reared and its hoof struck him."

"The policewoman ignored that?" Grijpstra asked. "She rode off? Left the scene of an accident without taking proper action?"

"No," Sara said. "She dismounted and asked him if he was okay. He said he was, and then she rode off. But he wasn't okay. Soon after that the man-Mr. Termeer- started reeling and swaying. We helped him over to a bench. The policewoman was still in view, riding about in the meadow where the people were bopping to jazz from the bandstand. When we started yelling and waving, she came back and got nasty."

"Ordered us 'on our way,'" Joop said. "We're not the kind of people that can be ordered around, you know. We complained about her. Left our card at the Park Precinct."

"Of course," Sara said, "we didn't expect to get any response."

"You didn't get the messages the NYPD left on your machine?" Grijpstra said.

Sara blushed.

"Before we went on our trip I bought a new answering machine," Joop said. "When we came home Sara pressed the wrong button and erased everything. So this gentleman-Termeer-died, did he? What of, do you know?"

"Maybe a heart attack," Grijpstra said. "The body was found in some azalea bushes, dressed in rags, partly covered by a filthy blanket. Animals had consumed some of the corpse. Mr. Termeer's dentures were found at a distance from the body." The adjutant produced the faxed NYPD report and accompanying photograph, which had come through fairly clearly. Then he folded the papers and put the photo back in his inside jacket pocket. "I don't think you want to see this."

Joop was quiet. Sara poured more coffee.

"Termeer wasn't having a heart attack," Joop said while he passed around nonpareils. "Not when we saw him. I have had two heart attacks myself. He didn't seem to have a headache, wasn't feeling his neck, there was nothing wrong with his left arm, none of the well-known symptoms. He was just dazed, but after we helped him sit down I'm sure he felt much better."

"Were there any other people around?" Grijpstra asked.

Nobody. By then, both Lakmakers stated, events in the meadow were in full swing: The balloon dinosaur was being launched, the jazz band was playing.

'"When the Saints Go Marching In,'" Joop said.

The look-alikes and wannabes were lining up for their contest. There was nobody else at the crossing where Termeer, cared for by the Lakmaker couple, was recuperating from shock.

Grijpstra seemed ready to leave the Lakmakers' residence when de Gier took over. "Why," he asked Joop, "did you pay so much attention to this, this George Bernard Shaw type?"

"You don't know about George Bernard Shaw," Joop said. "How could you, policeman? What is your rank?"

"Yes," Grijpstra looked at de Gier. "George Bernard Who?"

Grijpstra looked at Joop. "De Gier is a sergeant."

"The sergeant reads a lot," Grijpstra told Sara. "Without using dictionaries. It takes him a few years to pick up a language. He likes languages, you see."

"You graduated from a grammar school?" Joop asked de Gier. "Wouldn't that qualify you for academic study? Shouldn't you be an inspector then, or a lieutenant or something?"

It took a while for de Gier to get the witnesses to confirm that Termeer had made an extraordinary impression. It wasn't just being good Samaritans, for they weren't, both Sara and Joop admitted. In New York they had stepped over homeless people, ignored beggars, walked away from traffic accidents. And it wasn't just New York-they would do that anywhere. At the most they would "alert the authorities," but the authorities, in Termeer's case, were right there. So when Bert Termeer was sent reeling by the policewoman's horse, the couple interfered for other reasons.

"Because you were upset with the authorities?" de Gier asked.

Joop was willing to go along with that, as an easy way out, but Sara said she wanted to be honest.

The interrogation continued. Honest is nice. De Gier was smiling at Sara. He liked her.

"No," Sara confessed. Now that she was old and retired and more able to watch the human situation as is she no longer felt much pity. Her sense of duty was way down too. If a man gets hurt by the police there is little one can do. She did do that little, by complaining about the policewoman at the Central Park Precinct, but normally she wouldn't have done that either. Certainly not in America where she happened to be as a tourist.

So what was abnormal? Why did Sara Lakmaker involve herself with a man she had already called prophet-like, philosopher-like, Shaw- and/or Voltaire-like0…

"Who is Voltaire?" Grijpstra asked de Gier. "One of your nihilists again?"

De Gier didn't think so. "Voltaire insisted on being rich; it guaranteed his independence."

"A benevolent atheist," Joop said, "who abhorred useless punishment."

"The sergeant likes the idea of Nothing," Grijpstra told the Lakmakers. "He lives in an empty apartment and he doesn't have a car. He does buy clothes, though. Has them made. But he doesn't have many."

"Are you married?" Joop asked de Gier.

"He is not," Grijpstra said.

"Ever been married?"

"That wouldn't be consistent with his insight, would it now?" Grijpstra asked.

"You have a dog?"

"He lives with a cat," Grijpstra said.

"You really have no car?"

"Never," Grijpstra said.

"I did own an orange Deux Chevaux once," de Gier said, "but it was stolen."

"But he doesn't have a TV," Grijpstra said.

"And he doesn't talk much," Joop told his wife. "The fat policeman does that for him."

Grijpstra looked at Joop.

"Pordy," Joop said, patting his own protruding stomach. "I am sorry, policeman."

"Joop," warned Sara.

"So you like the idea of Nothing?" Joop asked de Gier. "You want to own Nothing or you want to be Nothing?"

De Gier was still chewing on his nonpareil.

"The sergeant wants to be Nothing," Grijpstra said. "But he can't tell you that because then he makes Something out of Nothing. We often discuss that apparent controversy. I always get tangled up."

"You would," Joop said.

"Joop," Sara warned.

"I'm sorry," Joop said. He smiled apologetically. "I would like to belong to Nothing too. That's why I refused to wear a star as a kid, even in spite of my parents, who said that I should, because the German Nazis were It then, and if It tells you to wear a star then you do that. But I didn't so I was Nothing, and I was playing outside, and that's why I am still Something today."

"So," de Gier said, "you felt attracted to this Bert Termeer, the man who was found in rags in Central Park, partly eaten by animals, under a filthy blanket."

"He seemed like a kind of prophet," Sara Lakmaker said.

"You like prophets?"

Sara did.

Perhaps, Grijpstra suggested on the way home to Amsterdam, with rain slapping against the windscreen, Sara had prolonged the interview because she felt attracted to handsome de Gier. Maybe Sara didn't want the sergeant to go as yet. De Gier shrugged that away. "Why not allow Mrs. Lakmaker to be nice?"

Grijpstra wouldn't do that.

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