What I'm trying to tell you is that I was still thinking then that I did right and that you should have accepted the exception, but I changed my mind yesterday.
Slanozzel was inspecting here. He's the owner of this tannery and many others, the Mr. Slanozzel who may be known to you and who's worth more than I expected when I knew him in Amsterdam, and even in those days he impressed me considerably.
No, Slanozzel is no wisiman, obeahman, incarnate winti, as Varé explained to us so well. I'm not his disciple and don't want to be either. I work for the man, because I have to earn my keep, and because he was kind enough to provide me with the permits that got me into Colombia. I signed a contract—/ had to, in order to get the visa—but Slanozzel says he won't keep me to the three-year period. I want to stay, however, to repay the favor, and perhaps also the fine, for the fluttering of a thousand vultures' wings can be unnerving and Colombia is no heaven by any means. Even so Slanozzel has a lot of money invested here, and some exceptionally untrustworthy employees, and when I keep an eye out his profits increase. That I speak Spanish helps. I'll tell Karate and Ketchup to spend their next holiday here. They learned a bit of the language when they came to my class and should practice their knowledge. Your Cardozo would have a good time as well. I taught him too for a while. That boy is an excellent parrot and can repeat even the most complicated constructions.
Slanozzel is a sly fellow, in the best meaning of the word. As sly as the crafty fox from the fable, whom he resembles by the way. Although he must be unimaginably rich, I haven't been able to find fault with his dealings, and I'm familiar with his administration, but he does seem rather opinionated at times, even though he never airs his views, but one can infer his judgments from his behavior.
"So what would you have done?" I asked, referring to my attack on Obrian, and he shook his head.
"Would you have lived in Obrian's shadow?" I asked. He asked if that had been necessary, implying that it hadn't.
That was the end of that conversation. We talked about tanneries and he said that if I had learned all about his leather, a change would be in order and that he intended to transfer me to his scrap-metal business on the Antilles. That division is bigger than what we do here, and the volume here is enormous. Shiploads of skins, all pecked clean by the Opetes. Unbelievable.
Last night I thought, next to the humming air conditioner and a sleeping girl. I'd rather look at her than embrace her beautiful body, for when she makes love she gets too active.
You, commissaris, wouldn't have shot Obrian, because you manipulate the wintis and keep yourself free. The gods are in us. I believe that's what Slanozzel meant by not approving my misdeed, like you did before him. Every magic has its antimagic, and a sly man uses the antimagic, but within reason and in modesty, while he steps aside himself, for our deeper being is free, I really begin to believe that. Adjutant Adèle wasn't as strong as I. I could have restrained her. What seduced me to use the Schmeisser-wisi on Obrian was rage, the so-called legal anger, my frustrated irritation at Obrian's endless teasing. I showed my weakness, which was a pity. The Dutch laws are good enough and our station disposed of sufficient manpower to grab Luku Obrian, on petty charges that, if we had followed up on every one of them (for even Luku made mistakes), could have grown into sizable crimes. I was too busy playing king, so that the prince could push me aside.
Slanozzel doesn't play king. Yesterday the employees complained that a new chemical that is used on some of the expensive skins hurts their hands. Slanozzel happened to be in my mezzanine and I wanted to tell him to leave me alone, when he asked if he could borrow my overalls. He undressed, got into my work clothes (that are several sizes too big for him), and slaved for hours. I worked with him, so as not to lose face. The acid was indeed something terrible and Slanozzel has discarded the method and is figuring out another, losing money meanwhile, since we can't fill some profitable orders. "What you don't want to be done to yourself do not do to another." I always thought the slogan moralistically childish, but once it's applied, its wisdom becomes apparent.
Not that I want to uphold Slanozzel as the great example. The fellow has taken so much money to the quarter that he could have financed a complete orphans' home and it's a miracle that he isn't diseased to the bone (maybe I should pay some more attention too, the little darlings who share my bed are probably carriers of all the venereal microbes, although they keep saying that they pay regular visits to the hospital). Slanozzel is no socialist and I've always been a supporter of that party. Slanozzel is a capitalist, concerned about profits only. Heaven be thanked, where would I be if he hadn't provided me with work? Still at the station, tortured by a bad conscience? Holding out my hand? (I think welfare is dirty).
As you see, I'm still a long way from answering my questions. What I thought last night is only the beginning, but I know that I should have let Obrian live, and that you were right in not patting my shoulder. Who knows what would have happened then? Karate and Ketchup are ready to roll all pimps and dealers into a mass grave. Those little fellows are in need of a right-minded example. You certainly fill that part, and Grijpstra and our movie hero, if they don't ossify (easy enough in the police) and keep using the wintis proportionally and in simplicity, are your suitable projections. It's good to know that when the vultures squeak around me. They can screech like chalk breaking on a blackboard, but I don't want to complain.
This letter is about ten times as long as I had planned it to be, and some homesickness may have added a sentence here and there. I hear you're having a freezing winter. Here the sun burns into our souls, and when it rains, the streets change into rivers and the street urchins make bridges out of boards and charge a peso before they let you pass. I salute you, commissaris, and the ex-colleagues.
The commissaris folded the sheets covered with cramped handwriting and replaced them in the envelope.
"You're answering?" Grijpstra asked.
"There's no address."
"I can find out," de Gier said. "The Curacao police can trace him."
"No, sergeant. Jurriaans doesn't expect an answer. But it's good that he spoke up, for him, for you, for me. He who wants to manipulate the wintis consciously should respect them, and any mistake, deliberate or not, should be analyzed and avoided in the future. I suspected as much, and Jurriaans was good enough to confirm my suspicion." The commissaris fetched a watering can from his cupboard and busied himself with his plants.
"How's your rheumatism?" de Gier asked. "I haven't seen you use your cane lately."
"Better," the commissaris said. "Uncle Wisi's obeah works well. He made another supply for me, but it seems the herbs are hard to get. He imported them from Surinam, but there has been some political trouble out there and his shipments get lost or are delayed."
"Maybe they can be obtained elsewhere."
"They can," the commissaris said. "He gave me their Latin names. I also have a recipe for the ointment."
"Won't it be rather troublesome to search for exotic plants?"
The commissaris put his watering can down. "Haven't I been trained to track the elusive?"
De Gier stared dreamily at the overcast sky. "The South American jungle. Tapirs splashing through steaming mud. Colorful birds skimming over the palm trees. Monkeys screeching." He looked at the commissaris. "I would like to join you when you go."
"I have enough for a year."
"I can wait a year," de Gier said.
The commissaris frowned irritably. "No, Rinus. Look for your own herbs. And do some work now. Isn't there anything going on?"
"Our patriarch," de Gier said in the canteen, "our admired archetype. And the coffee is terrible again today."
"What's wrong with the coffee?" Grijpstra asked. "Strong and tasty, I would say. I do believe that you shouldn't be following enlightened teachers anymore. Maybe you should look for your own salvation, all by your miserable self."
"And you, great spirit?"
Grijpstra thoughtfully put down his cup.
"Delicious coffee."
"Alone," de Gier said to Tabriz that night, who had clawed herself into his lap. "Not a bad word, really. Rather a good sound, don't you think?"
Tabriz wanted to purr but developed hiccups. She flopped on her back, rowed her short legs in the air, and said something.
De Gier suddenly spread his legs apart as that the cat fell heavily on her back. "You're supposed to turn over when you fall. Real cats do that. What exactly do you mean by 'yoho'?"
The phone rang.
"Marike," de Gier said. "How nice of you to want to visit me tonight, but it'll be impossible, unfortunately."
De Gier listened.
"You have iced champagne and want to share it with me? But I really can't make it."
He put the phone down, carried a chair to his balcony, plucked Tabriz from the carpet, and pulled the cat back on his lap.
"I've got to think," he said to the still-hiccuping cat. "The time has come."
The cat went limp under his stroking hand and fell asleep.
"Don't sleep," de Gier mumbled. "Think with me. About whether I'm going the right way or whether I should perhaps change my direction drastically."
Tabriz snored.
De Gier dreamed. He paddled a hollowed-out tree trunk across a wide river. Luku Obrian sat in the canoe's bow. Obrian steered the boat by shouting "Port" or "Starboard" so that de Gier might know where to plunge his paddle.
"We're going the right way?" de Gier asked.
Obrian turned around and grinned. De Gier saw the gold gleam in his mouth and the black eyes, flashing from under the brim of his tattered straw hat.
"Yes," de Gier said, "but last time you went completely wrong."
"You've got to do that every now and then," Obrian said, and put all his strength into a single pull. The canoe swished ahead.
"We're going the right way," Obrian shouted, "because that's the direction you chose."
A waterfall gurgled, and sharp rocks rose from the foaming water.
De Gier awoke with a yell. Tabriz leaped off his lap and started a fresh series of hiccups. She sat down and tried to purr again.
"It's complicated," de Gier said. "Whatever was I doing in that wicked fellow's company? And where could we have been going?"
Tabriz raised her upper lip desperately.
"You say something," de Gier said.
"Yoho," said Tabriz.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JANWILLEM VAN DE WETERING WAS BORN IN ROTTERDAM IN 1931, studied Zen in Daitoku-ji Monastery, Kyoto and philosophy in London, and has lived as well in Amsterdam, Cornwall, Capetown, Bogota, Lima, and Brisbane. In 1975 he settled in a small town on the coast of Maine where he still lives.
The Amsterdam Cops series that features Adjutant Grijpstra and Sergeant de Gier working as extensions of the commissaris, a wily and philosophical Amsterdam Chief of Detectives, was conceived when the author served with the Amsterdam Reserve Constabulary. To date over two million copies of his works are in print in fourteen languages.
His joys are an ongoing study of nihilism, keeping a wooden lobster boat afloat and getting older. His pain is an inability to play the jazz trumpet.
He has been married for a long time, no longer smokes or drinks, and has become allergic to the guru syndrome.
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