Tumbleweed

10

The KLM plane began its descent toward Plesman Airport, , and the commissaris woke up. His small wizened face looked almost eager and he acknowledged his own excitement with good-natured understanding. He hadn't traveled much in his life although he had wanted to, and apart from the south coast of France, where he had spent a number of holidays with his family, first in cheap hotels and later in a rented cottage, he only knew the world through books which he collected, buying them second-hand from the book stalls in the Old Man's Gate in the inner city. He had looked through the few books which mentioned , immediately after he had come home to tell his wife that he was leaving the next morning, and while his wife fussed and packed his suitcase and found his passport and his medicines, he turned the pages of a thin volume written by a poet who had lived on the island. He read the lines aloud, repeating some of the words. "Cunucu," the commissaris said.

"Yes, dear?" his wife asked.

"Cunucu, that's the outback, the outback of ."

"Outback?" his wife asked.

"Fields," the commissaris said, "with nothing on it. Just cactuses, I imagine, and a few goats maybe. There used to be forests and Indians."

"Ah," his wife said, folding up a shirt. "Do you want a lot of ties?"

"Not too many. I wonder who chopped the forests down. I hope the Spanish did. They had it before us, you know."

"Indians?" his wife asked.

"There aren't any left."

"Where did they go?" his wife asked, tucking some socks into a corner of the suitcase.

"We must have murdered them. Or the Spanish did."

"Ah," his wife said.

"A land of grasshoppers and prophets," the commissaris read aloud. "I wonder what that means." He looked at his wife but she had stopped listening.

He was looking at the cunucu now, a dry brownish veld stretching on for miles, and he was pressing his nose against the little window. The thorned bushes and pale green cactus trees seemed thrown about haphazardly. A dreary land, but then he looked at the coastline and changed his mind. The sea was breaking against rough cliffs, sending up rhythmical spray in high sparkling waves, sundrenched curtains, transparent and cool. "Lovely," the commissaris thought, rubbing his dry hands. "I must go out there. I'll hire a car and go by myself."

He saw the road, a narrow strip of tar, following the coastline. There were a few cars. The plane was low now and the view very clear. He saw an old Negro riding a donkey. He also saw the airport and a row of old-fashioned planes, bombers which he remembered having seen during the war. He recognized the Dutch markings on their gray sides. Dutch bombers on an island in the Caribbean. He shook his head. But he was still excited. There would be much to see, much to think about later, when he would be back in his garden in Amsterdam fighting the pain in his legs. Then he noticed that the pain had stopped. There was no pain at all, not even the slight twinge vibrating in his bones which had never left him during the last five years. The discovery stunned him. No pain. He saw himself living on this island, in a cottage, or even in an adobe hut like the one he had just seen on the cunucu. He would sit in the shadow of a tree and smoke a cigar and there would be no pain. But then the twinge returned and he shrugged.

"Silva," the big man with the suntanned face said as he carefully shook the commissaris' hand. "We are honored. It has been a long time since I welcomed a Dutch police officer. Did you have a good flight?"

The commissaris smiled and mumbled a polite phrase. They were standing at the bar of the airport.

"Jenever?" Silva asked. "Or rum? Rum is the drink here."

"Do you make rum in ?"

"Two daiquiris," Silva said to the barman. "No," he said, "we don't make anything here. The rum comes from Jamaica, packed in drums, rum jelly. We mix it with water in a little factory somewhere. Your health!"

They drank and the commissaris smacked his lips. The iced rum cocktail went down well. The twinge in his legs had gone again. He wondered if he should tell Silva about it; he suddenly felt very friendly.

"Silva," he said, "that's a Portuguese name, isn't it?"

Silva nodded. "Yes. There are many Portuguese names on the island, and Spanish, and English. But I am Dutch. I was born here but I studied in Holland and I came back. Most of us don't come back "

"You like your island," the commissaris said "

Yes. I love the island. It's nothing but a dry rock, of course."

The commissaris sipped his rum and studied the tall healthy-looking man, trying vainly to place him, but none of the general information his brain stored would fit. It seemed as if he belonged to a different species of man, in spite of the blue eyes and the dark brown hair. He had seen healthy suntanned men with blue eyes and dark brown hair before. A policeman, definitely. That much was clear. He would have recognized him as a policeman anywhere but when he tried to find out what, in particular, made Silva a policeman, he was groping again. Well, he would find out later.

"A dry rock?" he asked. "But you have beaches, surely, and the sea is all around."

"The sea is there," Silva said. "It's always there, nibbling at our foundation. The rock is mushroom-shaped, standing on a slim stem and the sea keeps on eating it away. One day the stem will break and we will all go down. But the rock itself is bare. It supports some hotels, and the refineries, and the tourists and the oilmen spend their money here and meanwhile we sit around and drink a little, and gamble a little, and gossip about each other and tomorrow is another day."

The commissaris laughed. "That sounds all right."

Silva's face lit up and he touched the commissaris lightly on the forearm. "I thought you Dutchmen didn't like idlers."

"We do, if we are honest enough to admit it. But you are Dutch yourself, you say."

"Island Dutch; it's a different brand."

A constable brought the commissaris' suitcase and the commissaris stared at the blue uniform. Silva noticed the stare.

"You recognize the uniform?"

"It's identical," the commissaris said, amazed, "exactly the same. Our uniform. I thought you would wear khaki and shorts and leather straps."

"I have one like it at home," Silva said.

"So have I," the commissaris said, still amazed.

But the landscape they were seeing from the car had nothing to do with the green pastures of Holland. The low barren hills hid the horizon; some tiny little black boys tended a small herd of goats. "We call them cabryts," Silva said. "Their milk tastes good and the cheese is even better, if you can acquire the taste. Cow's milk is expensive, a macamba's drink."

"Macamba?"

"A Macamba is a Dutchman, a Holland-born Dutchman who doesn't speak the local language, Papiamiento, a mixture of many languages."

"I am a macamba," the commissaris said. "I didn't know."

The constable laughed. "Macamba is a bad word, sir," he said.

"An insult?"

"Yes," Silva said. "The true Dutch aren't very popular. They make all the money."

"But you are accepted?"

"I am from the island," Silva said, "born and bred. I was brought up with cabryt milk and rum, I speak the language. I understand the poor people of the island. If I didn't I would never solve a single crime."

"Do they keep you busy?"

"No, not really. The island is small, one hundred and forty thousand people on three hundred square miles, everybody knows everything. Some fighting and thieving and that's it, but the island is dangerous. There's always a chance of explosion. Too much poverty, too little security and a mixture of races. Once the island was the center of the slave trade. Nobody has forgotten."

"I see," the commissaris said. He was wondering what the island would have been like when the first Spanish vessel sighted its coast. According to his books it would have been covered with trees. "It's us," the commissaris thought. "We are the curse of the planet; the earth would still be beautiful if there had never been any people."

They were in town now, entering Willemstad from the north. The town looked neat, with villas and gardens. Some of the houses were seventeenth-century Dutch in style but the colors differed. The commissaris had never seen a pink, or a yellow, or a palish-green gable house before. "Lovely town," he said, and obviously meant the compliment and Silva smiled and touched the commissaris' forearm again. "Good thing de Gier isn't here," the commissaris thought. "Just the sort of thing he would immediately try to imitate," but he didn't mind. He still felt friendly.

"I am taking you to a hotel close to my office, in Punda, on the other side of the harbor. You can have a bath and rest a little, and have a meal perhaps, and I'll meet you later this evening or tomorrow morning, if you like."

The commissaris closed the door behind the fat smiling black man who had taken his suitcase up and brought a tray with a large glass of orange juice and a pot of coffee. He had the world to himself now, until the next morning, when he would see Silva at the police station. There was no need to do anything about the case tonight. He was planning to stay several days anyway, on this mysterious island which would have to be the culmination of all his imaginary travels through books. He was, he thought-as he looked out of the window at the lamplit quay where, through the passing cars, he could see the silhouettes of schooners moored in an orderly row-very far from his ordinary routine. He had, wondering whether the thought was too far-fetched, died and he was born again. This island, this naked rock as Silva had said, this rock surrounded by a tropical sea could in no way be compared to the moist fertile bog covered and protected by low gray clouds which had frustrated, but also sheltered, his mind for more than sixty years. He felt, as he drank his orange juice, close to the origin of all that had mystified his wish to know, close to the terrible secret. He smiled, and rubbed his legs, which still didn't hurt. Terrible, no doubt. The secret of life, which he had never solved, and probably never would solve, would have to be terrible. But he didn't feel frightened.

The hum of the powerful air conditioner controlling the room's temperature began to irritate him and he switched it off and opened the windows. There weren't as many cars on the quay now, and he could hear die voices of the men on the schooners. High voices, speaking Spanish. The voices were quarreling. "La vaina! No joda, hombre! Santa Purfsima!" Swear words no doubt, but he liked the sound. The last two words, shouted by a high-pitched breaking voice, would mean "pure saint." A man, befuddled by rum and die fatigue mat comes from a day spent on a tough sea, calling the mother. The mother of all of us, the commissaris agreed, my mother as well, mother of the swamp, mother of the rock. Holy mother, who cares for the sailor and for me, an old weasel sworn to catch the murdering rabbit. For the murderer would be caught, there was no doubt in his mind. Marie van Buren, the fashionable whore in Amsterdam, the dead woman whose death was to be revenged. Order had been disturbed, order would be restored. We cannot allow a man to throw a knife into the living back of a fellow-citizen. He sighed, and stirred his coffee, mechanically patting his pocket to find his tin of cigars. Did he really care? Perhaps he did, perhaps part of his mind cared.

The voices petered out and he heard the sound of little waves which died against the timber of the schooners. The sea lapping gently, eating the island's foundation. At home the sea was lapping at the dikes, waiting patiently for the day that it could flood the swamp and squeeze the life out of its inhabitants, creating new living space for its own denizens, for the sharks, and the turtles, and the dolphins and the myriads of little creatures who would become the new citizens of Amsterdam, covering its streets and buildings and bridges with their shells and waving leaves and creepers and flitting in and out through broken windows.

He closed the windows again, switched on the air conditioner, and ran his bath. A little later he was comfortably soaking, sucking contentedly on his cigar. And when the bath ceremony was over and he had stubbed out the cigar he slipped between the sheets and switched off the light and sighed, and before the sigh had come to its end he had sunk away into nothing, dropping through a hole in his consciousness, and stopped existing.

He seemed to wake up in the same moment, but it was eight hours later and he shaved and dressed and walked down the stairs in a new shantung suit which his wife had bought with him and which was meant for their next holiday in France, a holiday which they had postponed many times because of his faltering health.

He breakfasted by himself, a huge meal consisting of fried eggs and tomatoes and sausages and bacon, and looked at his watch. He had several hours to himself before Silva would be expecting him in the police station. In the hotel's courtyard the fat happy room-waiter was playing with a small dog, talking to the animal in Papiamiento. The walls of the courtyard were covered with creeping plants, carrying a heavy load of many-colored flowers, of which he recognized the bougainvillaea contrasting its subtle violet petals with the loud yellows and reds and sparkling blues of its mates. He crossed the quay and saw the schooners and stopped to look at their loads of vegetables, attractively displayed under awnings of striped sailcloth. An Indian shouted at him, recommending the quality of his cabbages.

"No, thank you," the commissaris said in English. "I live in the hotel you see. Where do you come from?"

The Indian pointed at the sea. "Colombia."

"I see," the commissaris said, and nodded at the man who returned his smile. "You have a beautiful boat."

"Wait," the Indian said suddenly, and ran into the cabin of his boat. He came back with a pack of cigarettes which he gave to the commissaris.

"Cigarettes from my country. Very good. Black tobacco with sugar. You like."

The commissaris took the packet and turned it around in his hands. It showed the crudely drawn head of a red Indian and he read the brand name "Pielroja."

"How much?"

"No. Present. For you."

The commissaris pocketed the cigarettes, shook the Indian's hand, and walked away slowly. Santa Purfsima, the commissaris was thinking, holy mother. Two of your children have met. He crossed the bridge connecting the two parts of Willemstad and, to his right, saw the harbor where white cruise ships and the refineries' tankers and dirty tramp steamers were moored, as safely as on an inland lake. At the other side he looked at shop windows. It was early, not yet nine o'clock, but the Jewish store owners had opened up already and were waiting for their customers, sweating behind the counters with moist armpits or hovering in the street, close to their doors. He studied a display of canned foods. Everything seemed to come from the United States.

"Morning," the merchant said. "What can I do for you today? I have some nice strawberries, in their own juice, and cans of Dutch cream. Your wife will be pleased if you take them home."

"My wife is in Holland," the commissaris said. "I am only here for a few days."

"Holland," the merchant said, "in Holland you can have fresh strawberries. I suggested the wrong thing. What size does your wife wear? I have some batik dresses from Singapore."

The commissaris bought a batik dress. It was expensive and the merchant took ten percent off although the commissaris hadn't said anything.

"Where are you from?" he asked the merchant.

"From Poland. I arrived during the war."

"Before the war," the commissaris said. "You mean before the war."

"No," the merchant said, "during the war. In 1941. I came on a ship which had to sail around for a very long time because nobody wanted us. We were all Jews. took us in the end. We had no more fuel and no more money and there was nowhere left to go."

The commissaris shook his head. "You are happy here?"

The merchant took his time parceling up the dress. "Yes. I am happy. I am alive. I earn a living."

"And you?" the merchant asked. "What do you do?"

"I work for the government," the commissaris said.

"Good," the merchant said. "It's always good to work for the government. And Holland has a good government, I hear. That's doubly good. You are lucky."

"Yes," the commissaris said, and put the parcel under his arm. "Thank you. Have a good day."

"Shalom," the merchant said.

"Shalom means 'peace,' doesn't it?" the commissaris asked.

"Peace," the merchant said, "peace on your way."

"Holy Mother," the commissaris said to himself, "don't overdo it. If I meet any more of your children today I will cry."

He passed a church and went in. A black priest was doing something at the altar. A sugary statue of Maria dominated the small ornate space, her plaster-of-Paris dress, pink and light blue and purple, set off a silly inane face.

That's the way we see you, Holy Mother," the commissaris said, and left the church but he had spent a full five minutes in contemplation and the priest had turned around and seen the old man in the shantung suit with the brown paper parcel under his arm staring at the statue and had crossed himself because he had recognized a faith which he, himself, had often felt and he was a good priest although he had been drunk the night before and lost part of his small wage in a poker game.

A fat woman accosted the commissaris in the street.

"Numbers?" she asked, waving a little book at him.

"No, thank you, madam," the commissaris said.

"You don't play the numbers?" the woman asked. "Macamba, you will have no luck. The numbers are good today, you will win money and you can go to Campo and find yourself a beautiful woman like me."

"Campo?" the commissaris asked

The woman laughed a loud belly laugh. "You don't know Campo Alegre, the camp of the putas,

's heaven? How long have you been here?"

"I arrived yesterday."

"You still have time," the fat woman said.

He gave her two guilders and they thought of a number together and she scribbled it in her book with a pencil stub. He lifted his hat and she squeezed his forearm. The fat woman's hand was strong and he was rubbing his arm. "They all do it," he thought. "I'll be black and blue soon."

He wandered back, slowly, holding on to his brown parcel and stopping for coffee and orange juice. He smoked a cigar sitting on a cane chair on the sidewalk, rubbing his legs which didn't hurt, wondering what his wife would say if he told her that they would go and live here, and eventually he found himself back at the hotel where he stripped and took a shower and dressed again.

"Morning," Silva said, touching his forearm with gentle fingers and patting him softly on the shoulder. "Did you sleep well? This is the first time you have been in the tropics I believe."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "I slept very well. I even went for a walk this morning."

"It must be very interesting to see the island for the first time. What did you do?"

The commissaris described some of his adventures and Silva listened, smiling and urging him on.

"You did very well," Silva said, "and the Indian gave you a pack of cigarettes. Amazing. They only come here to cheat us with their vegetables, asking outrageous prices because we can't buy them anywhere else anyway and then they sail home again, laughing at us. But one of them gave you a present. Let me see the pack, please."

The commissaris gave him the cigarettes and Silva held them on the palm of his hand.

"Pielroja," he said, "excellent cigarettes. I have often told the merchants to stock them but they prefer the American brands which all taste the same."

"Keep it. I only smoke cigars."

"No," Silva said, returning the pack, "you must take it home to show it to your friends. I sometimes go to Colombia and I buy them over there. But it's very kind of you all the same. Thank you."

"Now," Silva said, "you want to know about Maria van Buren, who was once called Maria de Sousa and who is now dead."

"Yes."

"I am glad you came," Silva said "it's hard to talk to somebody on the telephone, especially if you don't know who you are talking to. This island of ours is a maze and how can I explain a maze talking into a piece of plastic?"

"It's difficult," the commissaris agreed.

"But you are here now and I can see your face. So now it's easier."

"Please tell me about her," the commissaris said.