'You can give me another drink,' de Gier said and held up his glass.
'I'd like to shuffle around for a bit,' Ringma said. 'You like music, filthy fuzz?'
'Yes,' de Gier said.
'Well, if you do, you can select your own tune,' Ringma said and pointed at the lowest shelf of the bookcase that contained several feet of stacked records.
De Gier took his glass to the bookcase, sat down, and looked through the records. He took his time and Beuzekom filled his glass again. De Gier selected a Japanese record, showing a picture of a fluteplayer on its cover.
The flute was a bamboo flute and the music very delicate. It seemed as if its notes were altogether different from the notes de Gier could abstract from his own metal flute. De Gier remembered that he had read about bamboo flutes. Their insides cannot be calculated and each flute has its individual sound, depending on the uneven parts inside the naturally formed bamboo, even depending on the thin hairs and splinters waving about with each breath of air.
De Gier stretched out on the thick carpet and listened to the flute. He was drunk. He hadn't had much to eat that day, sandwiches at the police canteen and a bowl of hot noodles at a Chinese restaurant. The seven glasses of whisky had changed his perception. The flute made him tremble a little. He saw a temple and a whisp of a girl, dancing on a balcony, the night was very black behind her but some mysterious light showed up her movements. And the flute went on. The vision became so real that he surrendered completely to it, leaving the world of crime and misery in which he had plodded all day, all year, all his life it seemed. His thoughts were very quick it seemed, clicking through his brain. He switched off his thoughts and returned to the vision. A temple, a dancing girl on its balcony and he, the observer. He had to bundle what little force he could muster to return to the room of the house in Amsterdam. He was a detective again, investigating a crime, questioning two suspects in their own surroundings, only interested in information and prepared to perform a little act to get close to the source of the required information. He opened his eyes and sat up.
He saw Ringma dance. Beuzekom had switched off the lights of the room and only the light of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains lit the frail little body. Of Ringma's ratface and balding head nothing could be seen. Ringma danced, using small steps, hardly lifting his feet. Suddenly he crouched, making himself very small, and jumped. He jumped high, nearly touching the ceiling and landed elasticly. He stood still and started a movement of his arms and hands, silhouetting against the white curtains. Ringma was a doll, a bewitched doll moving mechanically, drawing life from someone else. De Gier looked around and saw Beuzekom, still standing behind the bar, staring fixedly at his little friend.
The flute broke halfway through a note, there was the metal sound of a gong suddenly struck, the record stopped and Ringma collapsed.
Beuzekom walked over to his friend and patted him softly on the head. 'My little mate used to be a ballet dancer once,' he said to de Gier.
'Let's have a drink,' Ringma said hoarsely, 'a tiny little drink, Beuz.'
Beuzekom poured him a small whisky.
'That was very good,' de Gier said.
After a few minutes the conversation started again.
Beuzekom had lit a thick church candle and was observing his visitor.
'How much do you make in the police?' he asked.
'Not much,' de Gier answered.
'What's your rank?'
'Sergeant,' de Gier said.
'So you'll be earning about fifteen hundred or two thousand a month, I expect.'
'That's about right.'
'You could get that anywhere,' Beuzekom said. 'I think an inspector of the city's cleaners gets more.'
'And what do you earn?' de Gier asked.
'A lot,' Beuzekom said. 'More than you'll ever earn if you stay with the same boss. Why don't you work for me? I do all right but there are a lot of things I could do if I had someone working with me, someone like you. I wouldn't pay you a wage but a percentage. You could make more on one deal, a deal taking a few weeks, than you are now making in a year. Do you speak any languages?'
'English,' de Gier said.
'Fluently?'
'No, but I know a lot of words. I read it well and I have taken a course. My grammar is all right.'
'How long have you been with the C.I.D.?'
'Six years.'
'And before that?'
'Five years on the street as a constable.'
'You should have enough experience. I am quite serious, you know. I can really use you.'
'And what can you use me for?' de Gier asked.
'Not drugs,' Beuzekom said, 'antique furniture. Paintings. Good stuff that we can sell to the American dealers. And some black-market buying and selling. Odd lots that are sold for cash to the street markets and the shops. I'll have a proper office soon, complete with a beautiful secretary.'
'What do we want a beautiful secretary for?' Ringma asked petulantly. 'She would be frustrated, poor thing.'
'Think of others,' Beuzekom said. 'Our friend may like her, and our clients may like her.'
De Gier got up, swaying slightly. He walked over to the window and looked at the quiet water of the canal where some ducks were floating about, fast asleep.
'The real money is in drugs,' he said. 'There may be money in the sort of trade you mentioned but there won't be a fortune in it.'
'That's true,' Beuzekom said.
'And drugs mean the end of everything,' de Gier continued. 'It was the end of China before the communists solved the problem. Drugs mean dry earth, dust storms, famine, slaves, bandit wars.'
'Yes,' Beuzekom said, 'that'll be the future.'
'And you want to be part of it?' de Gier asked.
'Don't be ridiculous,' Beuzekom said. 'You know what's coming. You can read statistics, just like I can. We can waste our time being idealists, or refuse to stare facts in the face, but it's coming all the same. It's probably a cosmic apparition, part of the destruction of this planet. But meanwhile we can make a profit out of it and live well, if we live with our circumstances, not against them. If you want to fight the general trend I would suggest that you buy an antique helmet, find yourself an old horse, and attack the windmills with a lance. There are enough windmills around, you'll be busy for the rest of your life.'
'I saw the dead body of a girl today,' de Gier said, 'some nineteen or twenty years old perhaps. She had sticks instead of arms and legs and her face was a skull.'
'Heroin?' Beuzekom asked.
De Gier didn't answer.
'O.K.,' Beuzekom said, 'heroin. Heroin is bad for the health. So is quicksilver poisoning. Atom bombs are even worse. And machine guns, and tanks, and guided rockets. Very unhealthy. So do you want me to cry? The world is the way it is. And we are on it. We can fly to the moon but we can't stay there.'
'I hope your business is profitable,' de Gier said, and closed the door behind him.
\\ 11 /////
Grijpstra left the house of the drug dealers thoughtfully. On the gracht he paused and blew his whistle. The sound wasn't very loud, but loud enough for the two detectives to hear, and they joined him within a few minutes.
'Nothing doing, hey?' one of them asked.
