The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “Quite,” I said firmly. Maybe it was my turn to throw out a question. “Isn’t reality rather complicated at times? Look here, Monica is extraordinarily attractive. Hubert likes beauty—to ad­mire, so to speak. He collects works of art and some of them are allowed to be alive. But she should never touch him, if you know what I mean. He allows Monica to be his companion; if there’s anything more intimate she can offer, he doesn’t want to know.” I didn’t mention that Hubert is fond of boys. Like Dad, I can be discreet. That conclusion could be theirs.

  The detectives kept looking at me while they digested my information. What were they seeing? That I’m most intelligent? My IQ is high and I’m a sensitive person. If there are other assets to my character, I haven’t noticed. I’m short, bald (only thirty-two years old), somewhat bent over, shy to a fault, and seem rather slavish, but I only project that modesty. Under my ser­vility hides a dictator and I can, in a roundabout way, be fero­ciously aggressive. Know thyself, Socrates said. He also said that self-knowledge is almost impossible to achieve; but others, un­fortunately, can see my self most easily.

  I attempted to fathom what the gentlefolks of the Murder Brigade were thinking, while they tipped their small cigars and stirred their coffee. They theorized that if Monica loved my father with Hubert’s permission, Hubert was giving instead of taking, even if Dad’s passion did finally kill him. In my case there could be motivation. Wasn’t I Dad’s sole heir? All his possessions passed to me, to wit, one profitable publishing com­pany, one regal mansion just outside of the city, and one sixteenth-century restored gable house on the Emperor’s Canal, complete with a luxurious apartment on the upper story, where Dad took his naps and occasionally spent the nights. There was also cash, bonds, and shares. Hubert wasn’t getting any of the loot. Now why should Hubert, this collector of beautiful ob­jects, so far unknown to the detectives, instruct Monica in such a manner that she, by showing off her luscious lines of living flesh, might increase Dad’s blood pressure to the point where a vein would burst and stop his works?

  It’s pleasurable to try and analyze the others’ hidden thoughts, but only if the observer is a disinterested party, for if he’s part of what’s going on, he may be eliminated by the equa­tion, and knowing that, fear makes him sweat.

  Were Adjutant Grijpstra and Sergeant de Gier trying to prove intent on my part? Princes are forever trying to usurp the crown. I had read widely in the genre of crime literature and knew that heirs are the first to be suspected. But really, was I a British prince in a Shakespearean tale or some ungodly shadow figure in an early Greek play? Nothing exotic, if you please—weren’t we in the flat Netherlands, where nothing out of the way is ever imagined behind our all-protecting dikes? Were these solid policemen really prepared to soil their placid minds with foreign poetry?

  How much attention could they muster for that one single suspicious circumstance? Monica wasn’t present when the de­tectives answered the emergency call and entered the apartment furnished with antiques, but she did leave a trail. Her bag was found next to the bed. She was found that same night, in the bar at the Brewer’s Canal, where she had stupefied herself with alcohol and the weed of forgetfulness. Noteworthy: why hadn’t Monica called a doctor? Why did she run when Dad had trouble breathing, grasped his neck, groaned in agony? Yes, she said, she had been unnerved and had escaped to the trusted support of her favorite tavern.

  “But, miss! Mr. Habbema was obviously ill. Didn’t you think you’d better be of help?”

  “I thought he was angry with me.”

  Right. How clever to pretend to be drunk, stoned, and silly. But it could be genuine. Dad wasn’t altogether comatose, for he did manage to telephone his friend, the M.D. in his sub­urb. The doctor did show up, even if he had to leave a jolly party with friends.

  Can death from a heart attack be a murder? Isn’t the con­nection a little far-fetched? Not to me, for I read literature. Tanizaki, in his subtle novel The Key, makes a young wife excite her husband to the point of death. Was it accidental that the sergeant was playing with his key ring while he kept watching me, stealthily, through his long lashes? Hubert would have been excited if he had been the victim of such quiet, veiled interro­gation, but I’m sexually normal and felt severely harassed by the implications the sergeant’s mime provoked.

  So how about this Hubert, the sergeant wanted to know.

  The police like straight lines. What do we have here now? Girlfriend of third party, in bed with the victim. How does the accusing pencil connect the given points? How well did I know this Hubert?

  I replied in detail, for the line had missed the important point. Certainly, I had known Hubert for many years; we started school together and were joined right through university. To­gether we started our careers in publishing, but Hubert joined another firm, which didn’t compete with Habbema & Son In­corporated.

  Hubert’s company publishes scientific work, and we’re more in the popular sector, in herbs and health food and the mystical meadows. While I write this essay, our latest project is on the table, an inane survey of telepathy in animals: Do You Know That Puss Can Read Your Thoughts? That’s pure nonsense, because cats can’t read. They can’t even think; at the most, they can feel a little. Whoever owns an animal knows that human moods can be sensed by animals and that they will react to the impulses we emit. This silent communication is the subject of our book. The author, who, commissioned by my firm, fills two hundred pages on this simple subject, can’t do much more than repeat himself in vague terms and quote some examples that are “clarified” by unprovable imagination. That’s exactly what he did, and we took care of a striking jacket, illuminating illustra­tions, and some artful photography. The reader will see what he should have known for some time confirmed in clear print, and supplier and client can continue in peace. The book is meant to be a suitable Christmas present and can’t do much harm, but for me it’s depressing. Dad’s trusted pussycat is still alive and deter­mined on revenge. The pliable, animated plaything of the past is turning into a hellish tiger, and hisses and snarls even when I bring him his food.

  Hubert’s firm prints science for the universities and we en­tertain, but the positions that Hubert and I filled, before Dad’s death, were about equal. We both served the capitalists above. Routine tasks humiliated our brilliant minds. Two PhD’s checking spelling mistakes. We demurred volubly during the many drunken hours that we wasted in the bar at the Brewer’s Canal, and Monica pretended to listen to our variations on the theme of self-pity. Her only gift was her beauty, and we allowed her to fasten onto us so that we could have something to pride ourselves on. Her seductive presence confirmed our faith in our­selves and the possibility of eventually improving our positions. How? By increasing our status. And what would we eventually do? Publish books ourselves. Which firm would give us our chance? Habbema & Son. What was in the way? Dad’s ever­lasting presence.

  Hubert and I came up with the same idea simultaneously, after discussing Tanizaki a little. The sexual urge can destroy a man and make him a willing victim. Would my father be will­ing? Tanizaki evolved no new thought; the urge has been around since the Creation. There is no novelty in the basic themes, but variations and combinations are, fortunately, endless. The ge­netic codes are given and can, once they’re understood, be used. Our joke would be another way of manipulating what circum­stances offered so freely. Dad’s high blood pressure, Monica’s beauty. 1+1=0. We ordered fresh drinks and winked at each other, Hubert and I. The zero of Dad’s death amused us no end. While we were at it, we worked out the future.

  Hubert, who likes to reach out and knows how to ensnare potential clients, would be our commercial director, earning top wages and entitled to invest his savings on purchasing stock; I, with the majority of the shares, would stay in the background, control the final choice of work to be published, and be re­sponsible for artwork and the appearance of the product. Hubert would sell my creations. A
deal? Hubert was delighted. “And I?” Monica asked.

  “You want to work?” Hubert asked.

  “Well, work—”

  “You’ll be on the payroll,” I said at once, because we would need her and she had to stay around. “You’ll be our hostess,” Hubert said, “or something like it.” He underlined his statement with a lopsided grin. We raised our glasses. She’d be worth every penny we would send her way, with her long slen­der legs, tipped-up bosom, tight waist, ever slightly opened moist lips, and the eyes of an angel.

  That’s what Hubert was thinking; he’s the expert of good taste. I’m a little more gross. My line of thinking always ends in a climax.

  Dad’s climax this time. Dad was overweight, his hands trembled, and he walked with some trouble. He should not ex­cite himself; his doctor friend kept repeating the warning. I was forgetting at that time that Dad was also a kind old man, not just a fat fence that had to be kicked down to open our way.

  “But,” I said, “would a man of his age and condition still be capable of fullfilling his desire?”

  Hubert, slurring his words, held forth on the power of pos­itive thinking. Monica admired her delicate hands; so did I. I knew her hands quite well; they had been all over me often enough, with Hubert’s approval. Hubert, my good friend, al­ways willing to share. He only wanted Monica as a decoration, I needed her to play my sneaky little games. Waiter! More to drink. We did enjoy ourselves in our ghoulish way. I can see that now, a little late.

  Demons from the nether spheres: me, in a dirty sweater and frayed jeans with a zipper broken by belly pressure. Hubert, in his leather outfit set off with thin bright chains. Monica, the living mannequin, a painted pawn pushed around by our smudgy hands. How clever we thought we were.

  I’m writing all this down to analyze the goings-on and to formulate a clear confession; read on, Adjutant Grijpstra and Sergeant de Gier. As you see, I’m behaving properly in the end, for he who says good-bye should do everything in his power to cause the least trouble to those who remain on the human battlefield. I know the rules because I once heard two cops talking to each other, with me in the backseat of their patrol car, arrested for drunken driving. The officer at the wheel recalled that the previous night he had visited a home where a suicide had taken place. “Letter present?” the other cop asked. “Yes, he knew how to behave, the sucker.” A decent chap who hadn’t broken the last rule. Their man hung himself but pinned a note to his chest first: “Good-bye. Couldn’t take any more of this.” Signed and all. No blame cast on anyone else. That’s why I’m typing away tonight; I’m expressing my error. I’ve failed sufficiently; when this envelope with contents reaches you, you can close your file.

  Who is to blame? Monica had a bad youth. Abandoned as a child, she was raised in state homes, abused to a level where she could only withdraw into the remnants of her self, and even to us, her companions of a latter day, she could open up only a little. She selected Hubert, whose perversion created distance, and me, whose ugly exterior matched the sadness of her soul.

  I’m trembling now because I’m seeing more than I can stand and because the end is slipping into sight. The end of the torture, of my pain, but first I have to take proper care of the final formality. I’ll have to call you and press the trigger after­ward. I first intended the tiny projectile to enter my brain be­tween the eyes, but I read somewhere that a .22 bullet—the instrument that’s waiting so patiently next to my telephone—isn’t much more than an improved toy: could be too light and might get stuck in the bone of the forehead. It would be better to direct the shot through the mouth, with the barrel pointed slightly upward; then the mind can be reached easily from within. Oral and ultimate satisfaction. Not too tasty. I sucked the barrel just now—pistol grease is sickly sweet.

  Read on, upholders of the law. A son who murders his father is no good, I quite agree. We should be more careful, chipping away at our taboos, but people in your profession aren’t too easily shocked. You’ll take care of this, won’t you? You’ll write me off as a sinner who’ll have to put up with his just reward?

  Dad was a good guy who looked after me well, and after Mom, too, but Mom paid no attention to traffic that afternoon in the past; no, please, I had nothing to do with that, I was in summer camp, at a safe distance. Dad’s only weakness was his overeating. I inherited the trait and even the pets picked up the habit. Dad’s weakness mattered to us conspirators, it came up during that fateful conversation in the bar that I haven’t visited since then. “Where can your father be hit?” Hubert asked. “We’ve got to know, if we want to pull this off.”

  Dad fancied his snacks but he could manage the problem—during the day, that is—when he followed doctor’s instructions. At night he slipped into the kitchen—the dog would wake him. Together they sneaked about and emptied the refrigerator. Cheese, fat slices of ham, olives, pickles, buttered toast covered with sardines, creamy soups—the parties lasted for hours. To counter the results, Dad exercised a little and the dog climbed a stepladder. In the old days he could get off, but throughout the last year Dad would have to pick him up and put him carefully on the floor. Then they returned to bed, after a visit to the bathroom and some intake of medications. The dog got some, too.

  Hubert had seen the movie La Grande Bouffe, a melodrama in which elderly gents, suffering from incurable disease, ex­ploded themselves with previous intent. “Something like that,” Hubert said. “We arrange the final feast and he’ll pop.”

  “Too difficult,” I answered. “You underestimate Dad’s de­fenses. We have religious genes, so guilt slows us down. If we’re too coarse, he’ll smell the devil. Don’t forget that Albert Habbema, my grandfather, was able to start the publishing firm thanks to the sale of a collection of valuable antique Bibles that he inherited from his dad. A little subtlety, old pal.”

  “Sex is subtle,” Monica said, posturing gently.

  Hubert moved an inch away from her. “Your father fancies women?”

  “Sure,” I said brightly, paying no attention to his expression of disgust.

  Dad didn’t practice sex, of course. A proper widower, well in control of lower lust. “However . . .”

  “Yes?” Hubert asked eagerly, trying to dry his hands on the smooth leather of his jacket. “Let’s have it, comrade.”

  He knew that this approach always caught me off guard. To call me “comrade” meant a direct appeal to the core of our friendship. We had been comrades at kindergarten when we defended ourselves against the gang of bullies. We were both minorities; all the others were healthy and sane. Together we managed through the early and later formative years. Friendship? I’m not so sure anymore. Fear kept us together, and we became each other’s shadow, which darkened through the years, a com­position of black shades to which Monica joined hers later.

  I told Hubert what I knew about Dad’s sex secrets. There had been a family gathering and Dad, drunk, had beckoned me over and made me sit at his feet. We mellowly discussed erotic pleasures. The next day he avoided me, but by then I knew more. He always liked to squeeze tea bags, looking naughty. That evening he explained why. They reminded him of breasts, of course, which, when properly handled, emit the feeding fluid. “Nothing in this world,” Dad said dreamily, “excites me more than the female bosom.” He told me about his very early youth, when, as a caged baby, he rattled his fence when his nurse stripped slowly to titillate her captive audience. Toddler Dad would get so frantic that he was attacked by hiccups and had to be lifted out and fondled, and he would fondle in turn. “Amaz­ing,” Dad said, “such a strong memory, and the very first; I wasn’t two years old.”

  I thought that was it and wanted to rejoin the party, but Dad’s heavy hand restrained me. The nurse stayed with the fam­ily and later, when Dad was in puberty, lured him to her attic, for the game wasn’t over. The fondling continued but was never fullfilled, for she was religious, too, and believed that complete enjoy
ment had to be reserved for the heavenly spheres. A little of the way was perhaps all right, so here we see the ripe woman and the forming youth together between the sheets, feeling away but not quite . . . well, yes.

  Until the couple were caught, by furious Granddad, and Nurse was thrown out, sobbing, dragging her bursting cardboard suitcase.

  “I had to let her go,” Dad said, “but the desire clung.”

  And now the clash of cymbals, clanging into my ears, after Dad had tipped back his umpteenth glass of jenever. “Son, Nurse looked just like Monica.”

  “Right,” Hubert shouted. “Where’s there’s a will, there’s a way. Good luck is with the relentless pursuer. Right away the solution jumps out at us. Our adventure is blessed.”

  Dad knew Monica well; I often took her home, with Hub­ert, and the four of us would dine together. Dad was always most polite when addressing our companion. How could I ever have guessed that she resembled the lurid influence of his early days? If he hadn’t told me, he might still be alive. But did we have a choice? I often wonder.

  Hubert instructed Monica in the fine art of seduction. I assisted his efforts. I suggested to Dad that our garden needed a new design and that my friends would like nothing better than to join the project. While we dug—Hubert and I, for this was manly work, and Dad was too old and Monica too tender—and carried rocks, raked gravel, constructed a bamboo gate, Monica was left with Dad. On the back porch, well out of our sight, Monica displayed her curves, accentuated and not in any way hidden by the smallest of bikinis. She kept up the show, even when she dressed, and Dad wasn’t given a moment of respite. She did a good job, even if she couldn’t play with the pets, for neither dog nor cat wanted to join her when she enticed them to frolic with her on the Persian rugs, so that she could continue her act.