The Return

4

He left the police station an hour earlier than usual and drove straight home. The letter was still where he’d left it, on the bookshelf in the hall. He opened it and read it once more. The text was still the same:

We are pleased to inform you herewith that a time has been reserved for the operation on your Cancer Adenocarcinoma Coli on Tuesday, May 5.

You are requested to confirm this date by mail or telephone by April 25 at the latest, and to present yourself at Ward 46B no later than 9 p.m. on Wednesday, May 4.

After the operation a further two to three weeks in the hospital will probably be necessary; we mention this in order to assist you in planning your domestic and working life accordingly.

Yours faithfully,

Marike Fischer, Appointments Secretary,

Gemejnte Hospitaal, Maardam

Oh, hell! he thought. Then he checked the data at the bottom of the page, dialed the number and waited.

A young girl’s voice answered. Twenty-five at most, he decided. Like his own daughter, more or less.

“I suppose I’d better turn up then,” he said.

“Excuse me? Who’s that speaking?” she asked.

“Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, of course. I have cancer of the large intestine, and I’m going to let this Dr. Moewenroedhe cut it out, and…”

“One moment.”

He waited. She picked the phone up again.

“May fifth, that’s right. I’ll make a note. We look forward to seeing you the day before. I’ll reserve a bed for you in Ward forty-six B. Have you got any questions?”

Will it hurt? he thought. Will I survive? What percentage never come around from the anesthetic?

“No,” he said. “I’ll get back to you if I change my mind.”

He could hear the surprise in her silence.

“Why should you change your mind?”

“I might be busy with something else. You never know.”

She hesitated.

“Are you worried about the operation, Mr. Van Veeteren?”

“Worried? Me?”

He tried to laugh, but even he could hear that it sounded more like a dying dog. He had some experience of dying dogs.

“That’s all right, then,” she said cheerfully. “I can assure you that Dr. Moewenroedhe is one of our most skillful surgeons, and it’s not all that complicated an operation after all.”

No, but it’s my stomach, Van Veeteren thought. And my intestine. I’ve had it for a long time and I’ve grown quite fond of it.

“You’re welcome to call and ask questions if you like,” she added. “We’re here to help.”

“Thank you very much,” he said with a sigh. “OK, I’ll probably call you beforehand, in any case. Good-bye very much.”

“We look forward to seeing you, Mr. Van Veeteren.”

He stood for a few seconds with the letter in his hand. Then he tore it into four pieces and threw it into the wastepaper basket.

Less than an hour later he had eaten two bratwurst sausages with potato salad on his balcony. Drunk a glass of dark beer with it and started to wonder if he ought to go to the corner shop and buy a pack of cigarettes. He had run out of toothpicks and it was a pleasant evening.

I’m going to die, in any case, he thought.

He heard the clock striking six in Keymer. In his bedside cupboard he had two half-read novels tucked away, but he accepted that they would have to remain half read for some time yet. He wasn’t sufficiently at peace with himself. On the contrary, restlessness was lurking inside him, sharpening its claws, and of course there was no mystery about why.

No secret at all. The air was mild; he could feel that. A gentle, warm breeze wafted over the balcony rail, the sun was a red disc over the brewery roof on the other side of Kloisterlaan. Small birds were twittering away in the lilac bushes behind the cycle shed.

Here I am, he thought. The notorious chief inspector Van Veeteren. A fifty-seven-year-old, 195-pound cop with cancer of the large intestine. Two weeks from now I shall lie down on the operating table of my own free will and allow some totally inexperienced butcher’s apprentice to cut out four inches of my body. Hell.

He could feel a vague turmoil in the lower part of his stomach, but that was always the same after eating nowadays. No pain as such. Just this little irritation. Something to be grateful for, of course. It was true that bratwurst was not on the diet sheet he’d been presented with when they did the tests in February, but what the hell? The main thing was to last until the day of the operation with his mind still working. If all turned out well, then it might be time to consider a new lifestyle. Healthy living and all that.

There’s a time for everything.

He cleared the table. Went to the kitchen and piled the dirty dishes in the sink. Continued into the living room and sorted absentmindedly through his collection of CDs and tapes.

Four inches of my body, he thought, and then was struck by the photographs he’d seen that morning.

The headless man out at Behren.

Missing a head, two hands and two feet.

Could have been worse, he thought.

Between fifty and sixty, Meusse had judged.

That matched. Perhaps the two of them were the same age, in fact? Fifty-seven. Why not?

It could have been much worse.

Ten minutes later he was in his car with a Monteverdi choral piece rattling the loudspeakers. Another hour and a half before it got dark. He had plenty of time.

He only wanted to take a look, that’s all. He didn’t have anything else to do…

There’s a time for everything, as he’d already established.