The Rattle-Rat

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"Miss Terpstra," the Commissaris said, "I'm truly sorry to disturb you, but it's sometimes necessary to inconvenience people when we're facing a horrid crime. I hear your sister stayed with you during that ghastly night. Was I informed correctly?"

Miss Terpstra did look a little like Mem Scherjoen, but she had to be less intelligent, the commissaris thought. The cause would be in the arrangement of the Terpstra genes, in the way the microscopic seeds of father and mother had embraced each other a long time ago. He thought of his brother, who looked rather like him, and had grown from the same genes as his own, but in quite a different combination. My brother is very intelligent too, the commissaris thought, but he makes a different use of his brilliant mind and merely became rich so that he could retire in Austria, buy himself a chalet, and pour rare wines for his friends. In my case the genes mixed in a more useful manner, for I serve humanity and pay no attention to personal comfort. Intelligence can be applied stupidly too. It's all so tricky, and no one, perhaps, can be blamed. Human development is probably terminally determined at the moment of conception. But my brother and I share the same arrogance, the com- missaris thought, for we both assume that we really matter, a basic mistake that's not simplifying our lives.

Miss Terpstra's face was sharper than her sister's, and her attitude decidedly stiffen Her apartment in the dignified eastern suburb of Amsterdam was furnished with a straight simplicity at odds with two pairs of porcelain dogs that faced each other on the windowsills. The dogs mirrored each other. "Lovely little dogs," the commissaris said, for Miss Terpstra said nothing.

"You think so?" Miss Terpstra asked coldly.

"In excellent taste," the commissaris said. "You collect porcelain dogs?"

"I brought them from Ameland," Miss Terpstra said. "My great-grandfather started the collection, the whoremonger."

The commissaris let that go for the moment. He meant no harm, as his servile attitude showed. His wife had dressed him extra carefully that morning, because she was sorry. She knew that her worrying did not ease his life. "I do have to work," the commissaris had said that night, in his sleep. "What else can I do?" he had asked while asleep. She had kissed him, for of course there was enough else for him to do. Couldn't he play with his turtle in the garden? Or pick up garbage in the park? Or go on a journey with her? Did he have to protect society against itself? Miss Terpstra was softening too, for she hadn't had a male visitor in several months, and this one looked exceptionally neat, in his tasteful light gray summer suit, with the antique watch chain spanning the slight bulge of his stomach, and die well-arranged hair, the neat, sensitive hands folded in his narrow lap, and the cultured way in which he expressed himself. Could she possibly like this man? Miss Terpstra asked herself.

"Tea?" Miss Terpstra asked the commissaris.

He was given a cup. "What is the connection," the com-missaris asked, "between porcelain dogs and whores?"

"They were captains in the whaling fleet," Miss Terpstra said, "those grandfathers and great-grandfathers of mine, and they had the best houses on the island, with specially designed gables made of imported bricks, so that everybody could see how important and wealthy they were."

"On Ameland," the commissaris said.

Miss Terpstra nodded. "And they all abused their wives. Women accepted that in those days. They don't now, as you must know."

"Yes," the commissaris said softly.

Miss Terpstra slapped the TV next to her. "I see it in there. Last night again. Did you watch the program? The lesbian communist and her forward ideas?"

"What?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes," Miss Terpstra said happily. "We women are taking over. They can't bed us anymore, those men, they've lost our greatest gift." She spoke faster. "You know what my forefathers used to do?"

"They visited whores in those long-gone days?"

Miss Terpstra's face hardened. "The habit still goes on."

"No," the commissaris said. "Maybe a long time ago. I never planned it, but it was made so easy."

"Bah," Miss Terpstra said. "To make use of the weakness of a humble minority."

"And the dogs?" the commissaris asked.

"A despicable minor habit of the time," Miss Terpstra said. "The whalers used to visit London, before returning to our island. And afterwards the whores would give them those dogs."

"Ha," the commissaris said. He slapped his hand over his mouth. "I beg your pardon, Miss Terpstra; as a sentimental reminder, you mean?"

"Yes, so that they would come again and fetch the dog's twin. You had that type"-she pointed at the larger variety, with a golden neckband-"and there was one size smaller, the one over*there, and the tiny little ones, in case my forefathers insisted on discounts. And then they would bring the miserable little beasts home and give them as presents to their wives. Well? What do you think of that?"

"Disgusting," the commissaris said.

"Men," Miss Terpstra snarled. "Douwe was no exception- poor Mem-but now we're nicely rid of him."

"And Mem spent the evening with you? The night as well?"

Miss Terpstra understood. Her voice cut through the small room. "You're thinking…?"

The commissaris retreated into an expressive silence.

"You're really thinking…?"

The commissaris smiled.

"Do you think"-Miss Terpstra's sharp icy voice became a dagger that penetrated between the commissaris's eyes- "that I-I-would tell on my own dear sister, even if she had happened to leave my apartment for a single second? That I, the doormat on which uncouth types like you have been rubbing their soiled boots for generations-that I, the abandoned, uncared-for, ignored, insulted…"

She rose slowly. One of her hands held on to her Adam's apple, the other stretched toward the door. "Leave!" Miss Terpstra shouted.

"Good-bye, Miss Terpstra," the commissaris said.