Hard Rain (33 page)

"Wow!" Cardozo shouted. "Look. Who is who? Two of them!"

"What?" the colonel asked.

"Where?" the customs officer shouted.

"Here," Grijpstra said, tapping his screen. "Two of them. One of them just came out of the toilet. I spotted him."

"Where?"

"What?"

"Two commissarises," Cardozo said.

"Goddamn," the colonel muttered. "And there are my men, all confused, of course. Why wasn't I told they were twins? What
is
this nonsense?"

"They are both approaching the gate," Grijpstra said.

"Goddamn twins," the colonel said. "Where are these silvery curls? The dark suit? The sideburns? They're both about bald, both in shantung suits."

Grijpstra and Cardozo rushed off. One of the two look-alikes grabbed Sayukta's bag and was immediately lost in the crowd. The commissaris was seen to pursue Fernandus, not too successfully; people kept getting in his way, Cardozo and Grijpstra appeared on the screens, running toward the hall's exits.

"We'd better go down too," the colonel said.

They found the commissaris standing in the hall, deep in thought.

"Suspect got away?" the colonel asked. "Why didn't you tell me you and suspect are twins?"

"Cousins," the commissaris said. "Twice removed."

"Very smart," the customs officer said. "Suspect dressed up like you. But he still carries the bag." The colonel called over his plain-clothes assistants. "A maroon bag, damn it. Man carrying a maroon bag. Looks like the commissaris here. Go on. Off with you." He spoke into his portophone. "Suspect in shantung suit, sparse gray hair, small build, carrying a maroon bag, probably has left the building by now. On his way to the parking lot."

"No," the commissaris said. "No, I don't think Fernandus has a car. Probably wants a taxi now. Let's go outside. There will be a line."

They walked outside. An orderly line of passengers had formed near the taxi stand. "Indian," the commissaris said. "Maybe he is that Indian. I lost Willem near the toilets. He could be an Indian now. An Indian with a large suitcase, big enough to hold the bag. That man over there, maybe. Apprehend him."

"Now really, sir," the colonel said. "The man in the black coat, with the long dark hair?"

The commissaris went back into the hall and reappeared, accompanied by Grijpstra and Cardozo.

"But that's an Indian," the colonel said. "Suspect isn't a magician, is he? Where did he get the wig and the coat?"

"And the large suitcase?" the customs officer asked.

"In the toilets somewhere," the commissaris muttered. "Grijpstra, grab him from the left. Cardozo, take him from the right. That's Fernandus. Quickly now, he's getting to the front of the line."

"Impossible," the colonel said.

The Indian gentleman glanced over his shoulder. The commissaris waved. "Willem, hello." The Indian stepped out of the line, ran to the front, pushed an old lady aside, and tried to scramble into a cab. Grijpstra and Cardozo ran after him and pulled him back, pointed guns at his head, yanked at his wrists. The suitcase fell. Handcuffs clicked shut.

"This way," the colonel shouted, sprinting toward the struggling suspect, who was protesting his rough treatment in singsong English.

"That's an Indian," the customs officer said. "I know Indians, I see them all the time. We've made a dreadful mistake."

The commissaris lifted off the Indian's hair. "Nice try, Willem."

Bystanders gaped. "On your way," the colonel shouted. "On your way. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along, your taxis are waiting." The customs officer picked up Fernandus's suitcase. "The bag is in there," the commissaris said. The colonel bent over and lifted packages wrapped in transparent plastic from the bag inside the suitcase.

The commissaris prodded Fernandus's stomach. "You lost weight. You look better now. Trying to imitate me, Willem. Too late for that now."

"The hell," Fernandus hissed. "The hell."

"Shall we go?" the commissaris asked. "You've lost, Willem, can't think of all the reasons now. We'll do that later."

\\\\\ 34 /////

H
ARD RAIN HIT THE CITY AGAIN ON THE DAY MISS Antoinette and Carl got married, beating down on the shiny tarmac of the long narrow Overtoom, splashing up against buildings and cars, trying to drench the commissaris's wife and Mrs. Jongs, who shared the same umbrella. Cardozo pushed the commissaris up the long steep stairs. "That's all right, Sergeant," the commissaris kept saying. "I'm not totally decrepit yet." "Easy now, sir," Cardozo kept saying. Grijpstra walked behind them, holding a large parcel. Ketchup and Karate carried clinking bottles in brown paper bags.

"Very nice," everyone said when they finally reached the top floor. The front part of Carl's loft had been changed into a semblance of a normal apartment, but behind a row of man-sized rubber trees, Carl's wonderland started, and the commissaris wandered about, studying the profusion of Carl's thoughts, realized in different materials in a number of odd styles. Carl's father still read the
Financial Times
and his mother swooped down from the ceiling, pointing her long beak filled with double rows of fanglike teeth. "I didn't invihite them," Carl said. "They're tohoo buhusy." He served as a guide, explaining the various objects.

"You'll have your exhibition soon," the commissaris said. "You may sell a lot of these. Don't you mind?"

"We'll have some room," Antoinette said. "And you'll make more, won't you, Carl? Will you make me too?"

"Another bihird of preyhey," Carl said, putting his arm around his wife, "that gohobbles me up."

"Presents," said the commissaris's wife. The presents were practical, in accordance with a list of useful household items provided by the bride. "Ah, a parsley mill," Antoinette said, clapping her hands. "Just what we need Carl, for your salads. Ah, freezer trays, look Carl, for your soup. You know," she said to Mrs. Jongs, "Carl lives on soup. He used to make a bucket of soup a week, he'd throw in anything that he found on sale. Dreadful taste."

"Alwahays different," Carl said.

"I'm making gourmet soups now," Antoinette said.

"Bob eats soup too," Mrs. Jongs said. "But then the lizards gets into the pot and he chokes." She had brought an electric coffee grinder. Ketchup and Karate opened bottles.

They all drank to the happy couple and then to Grijpstra's painting. "What a striking green background," the commissaris said. "Makes your ducks come out very well. Just like they're swimming out of the weeds. Are those real weeds?"

"Dried," Grijpstra said. "I fished them out of the canal at Prince's Island. Took forever to steam the smell out."

Carl hung the painting, helped by Grijpstra. Meanwhile they discussed art, agreeing that anything can be done, in all dimensions, combining incompatibles, and that colors should never match. "And music," Grijpstra said. "I think music should fit in, but I don't dare to do that yet. Like these ducks here. Next time I make ducks I'll use real bones, glue them on the canvas and make them movable maybe, you pull something and they scratch against each other."

Carl agreed that scratching was the ultimate sound. "You plahay druhums, I heahear?"

"Yeh, drums," Grijpstra said. They walked back together to the kitchen part of the loft and Grijpstra scratched pots with a wooden spoon. "Hear? But that isn't the sound of skeleton ducks. I can find it if I try. It was easier when de Gier was still around. He played a good flute, and I'd scratch around his notes."

"There was a postcard from de Gier," the commissaris said to his wife. "From the eastern part of New Guinea. He must be moving around."

"Never mind de Gier," his wife said, "I don't want you to go there too."

"De Gier sent me a picture of a Papuan drum," Grijpstra told Cardozo. "Huge. A hollowed-out tree. I'd like to play that."

"From Port Moresby?" Cardozo asked. "I had a postcard too."

"No, inland. There's a river, he said he went up by boat."

"Don't worry, Katrien," the commissaris said. "Grijpstra wants to go as well. Bit of a holiday, maybe. Maybe later."

"Your vermouth, ma'am," Karate said.

Mrs. Jongs drank sherry. Grijpstra tapped Carl's father's wooden head with his spoon. "That's a good sound."

"Becauhause there's nobody hohome," Carl said. "When he's hohome it souhounds bad."

"We're home," Antoinette said. "Isn't it nice to be home together, Carl?"

"Greahate change," Carl said. He explained to Karate that he drove a car now, Antoinette's car, nothing to it. He had learned to drive and gotten his license. They went to a party and Antoinette drank too much, so he had to drive them home. As he walked to the car, a patrol car came by. The cops jumped out. They'd seen him swaying across the pavement. "So I saihaid, 'I'm spahastic' And the cops apologized. They were very sorry. Never mind. It hadn't happened. A mistake. Go ahead. Good night, sir. 'Bye now."

"You weren't drunk," Karate said.

"Vehery druhunk," Carl said.

The telephone rang. Antoinette picked it up. "One moment, please, he's here." She gave the phone to the commissaris.

"Are you on call?" his wife asked.

"Yes, Katrien. Hello?"

He listened. "Yes, all right."

"You have to go?" his wife asked.

"Yes, dear, I'll see you at home."

"I'll take you," Cardozo said.

"No, thank you, Sergeant, I'd better go alone." He turned to his wife. "It's Willem."

"No." She held his hand. "No. Willem is in jail. That's over, don't go to see him."

"He's in the hospital," the commissaris said. "I've known about Willem's illness since last week."

"Under guard?" Grijpstra asked. "They shouldn't let him out of jail. He'll escape, sir. Think of something, impersonate a doctor, we'll have to go after him again."

"Leukemia," the commissaris said. "He wouldn't go far. I spoke to Dr. Peters in the hospital. He said Fernandus wasn't doing very well."

"Fernandus will fake anything," Grijpstra said. "Let me go with you. We can take care of this."

"We'll take Fernandus for a walk?" the commissaris asked. "Please, Adjutant. The baron didn't survive his walk. Let's leave this to nature."

"Shall I go with you?" Antoinette said. "I rather like Mr. Fernandus."

"Noho," Carl said.

"Sometimes," Mrs. Jongs said, "it's better they dies, but they don't dies easy."

"You're only going to gloat," said the commissaris's wife. "Don't do that, Jan. Leave Willem be. It's a happy ending for you, I don't want you to be happy that way."

"Nothing ever ends," the commissaris muttered. "What do you know? You can be pretty silly, Katrien."

"I'm sorry," she said. "But you were after him so much. You never really go after anyone, but this time ... sitting in the garden talking to yourself... up at all hours . . . cursing and swearing in your bath ... I don't want to see you like that, please."

"Maybe you should go, then, sir," Grijpstra said. "You hunted him and now you've got to be in at the kill. It's only fair. He sees that too. That's why he's asking you to come over."

"The cancer is killing him," the commissaris said. "Leukemia is blood cancer."

"No," Karate said, "that's only afterward. You got to die of something. It's like my father—he died of cancer too, but that wasn't it really. He was an engine driver and he made some mistake and he got fired. Couldn't drive his engine no more. Nothing to do. People ask him, 'What are you?' and he says he is nothing. Once you're nothing you got to go, so you got to get sick."

"My father's done nothing all his life," Ketchup said.

"Sure," Karate said. "But now take that away. Tell him he's got to work. He's got to give up doing nothing, right? And doing nothing is all of his life? So he'll break his back or catch his death of cold." The commissaris drove himself over. He waited at the hospital's reception counter until a nurse came to take him up. The nurse smiled sadly at the forlorn little figure waiting in the hall. "You must be his brother," she said. "Please follow me, sir. What a remarkable likeness."

\\\\\ 35 /////

"B
UT I'M DYING," FERNANDUS SAID, SITTING UP against his clean, fluffy cushions. "Don't look so nervous, Jan. There's no gun under the sheets. You won. You said you were going to destroy me, and by Jove, you did."

"You believe in Jove now?" the commissaris asked, wondering who would have sent Fernandus the red roses on his night table.

"The nurse brought them in," Fernandus said. "They have lots of flowers here. Nobody would send me flowers."

The commissaris acknowledged the information with a careful smile. Fernandus nodded too. "I could always read your thoughts. Conforming thoughts. The obvious again. You think like the majority. Not amazing at all, the way our lives turned out."

"Can I smoke here?" the commissaris asked.

"Sure. Got a cigar for me?"

The commissaris brought out his tin, holding it close to his chest.

"No," Fernandus said. "I don't believe this. Go on, give me a cigar. You're still punishing me? Thanks. A light too, if you please."

The commissaris looked about the bright room. "No guard?"

"No." Fernandus held the tip of his cigar under his nose and sniffed. "You could buy a better brand. Leave the tin anyway, I'll be gone tomorrow afternoon. At four sharp, they say, got the word today, that's why I called you."

"Back to jail?" The commissaris felt his leg. "If you're dying, they might let you do it here."

"They'll kill me here." Fernandus grinned. "Pain in your legs? Good. Is your trouble getting worse?"

The commissaris got up. "You enervate me, Willem. Mind if I cut this short? Is there anything in particular you want to say?"

Fernandus struggled weakly into a more upright position. "Sit down, Jan, I've got pains too, the pleasure is mutual, you can laugh at me. I've got leukemia, did they tell you that?" He held up a finger. "Listen. I looked it up. Acute forms are fatal within weeks or months. Symptoms include weakness, fatigue, anemia, and hemorrhaging. Leukemia is invariably fatal. This is goodbye. Say goodbye in style."