2
The plane's wheels seemed bound to touch the tops of the tall pines bordering the tiny airstrip and the commissaris had to force himself to keep his eyes open. His ideas about America had changed once the stewardess walked him across the vast hall of Boston's airport and pointed at a two-engined plane. The plane looked old, with bulging lines dating some thirty years back. A young man in a heavily padded jacket and an oil-stained cap with earmuffs was wheelbarrowing a suitcase through the snow.
'Is that my plane?'
'Yes, sir,' the stewardess said brightly. 'Prestige Airlines, a small private company. They fly to most of the small airports in Maine. They've been going for years. I'm sure they're very reliable.'
The young man had got the wheelbarrow stuck and was pushing it with all his might. He was shouting, but his words didn't penetrate through the plate-glass walls of the airport building. The stewardess giggled. 'That's your pilot, sir. He'll come back in a minute; he also takes care of the desk here.'
'Good God,' the commissaris muttered. The stewardess studied the tired, drawn face of the little old man leaning on his bamboo cane. 'Are you all right, sir?'
'Yes, miss, just tired. I couldn't sleep, they were showing a movie while we crossed the Atlantic.'
'Where are you going again, sir?'
'Jameson, Maine.'
'Jameson,' she said. 'That's a nice town, I spent a holiday there once. It's on the seashore, rather popular in summer but nobody would want to go there this time of the year. It'll be all snow and ice, I imagine.'
The pilot had come back and took the commissaris' ticket and suitcase. 'Jameson?' he asked. 'That'll be three, three and a half hours maybe, hard to say in this weather, and they may not have plowed the strip. They hadn't last time and I had to circle while they pushed the old plow around. I suppose they thought I wouldn't come in and their radio had broken down again.'
The commissaris' cane dug into the hall's wall-to-wall carpeting, its tip sinking away in the thick yellow strands.
Another young man, in overalls, gum boots and a peaked cap, had arrived. 'Is the old crate ready, Bob?'
'Sure,' the first pilot said. 'As ready as she'll ever be. She was hard to start and we should really get some new cables. Another storm like this and she'll blow right away -that left cable is badly chafed, did you notice?'
'Really?' the commissaris asked.
The man addressed as Bob laughed. 'Only the anchoring cable, sir. The plane itself is sound enough, old army stock and we've been looking after her. We'll be ready in a minute. Would you like to go to the bathroom before we take off? There's no toilet on the plane.'
But the trip hadn't been too bad. The other two passengers, stocky middle-aged men with brilliant red hats and shotguns in leather cases, had passed a bottle of strong, raw-tasting whiskey around and nobody had objected to the commissaris' small but smelly cigars. The plane flew low and the commissaris was impressed with the landscape, or seascape, for they followed a rugged coastline with many islands dotted in a cold and wild-looking sea. The pilots had pointed and shouted names, and he looked at a map he had been given as the hunters traced a course that ended in a small spot and the cursive letters
JAMESON.
'There!' the pilots shouted. The plane dived. It had taken the commissaris a few seconds to see the airstrip, a brown cross in the all-pervading whiteness.
'Anyone meeting you?' the hunters asked as they kicked their duffelbags out the small door. 'We have a truck here, can give you a ride.'
But the commissaris thanked them and refused. He waved at the huddled shape standing near the wooden shed -an old woman, bent, loaded down under a fur coat and a wooly hat and wrapped in mufflers. It could only be Suzanne, he decided when the shape began to shuffle toward him and a high voice mumbled words of welcome.
'Oh, Jan, did you have a bad trip?'
He had to look the other way, for the icy wind was cutting into his face. 'Yes,' he heard himself say, 'or no, it was a good trip. I saw the coast, very beautiful. How are you, dear?'
She cried. The pilot handed his suitcase down and his fingers hurt through the thin leather glove as he tried to grab its handle.
'Let me take that.' He looked up gratefully. He was rid of his suitcase, which was carried away by a wide- shouldered man in a long coat topped by a hood. He took his sister's arm and was led toward a long, gleaming car.
'So you could come after all?' he asked cheerfully. 'That's good. Is that Opdijk's car?'
'No, that's one of Janet's cars. She's my neighbor. I can't drive, Jan.'
'And the man, is he your neighbor too?'
'That's Reggie, he works for Janet. He's very nice, they're all very nice. Oh, Jan, are you really going to take me out of here? To Holland? Are we going to Holland, Jan?'
The path was iced over and he had trouble staying on his feet.
'Certainly.'
'I can't believe it, Jan. Opdijk always said we would stay here forever. It's so cold, Jan, and the summers… all the insects. We live behind double windows in winter and behind wire netting in summer. It's so cruel out here, Jan.'
'Cruel?' the word seemed wrong to him. He had been treated very well so far. By the plane's staff, by the personnel of the airport, by the pilots and the hunters. He almost slipped again and stopped. The white silence comforted his tired mind. Huge pines towered above him and two black birds fluttered down a branch and spread their wings and soared off. Crows-no, they couldn't be. Too large. Ravens! 'Ravens! 'He had shouted the word. A species long extinct in Holland but still alive in tales and legends. And here they flew around. Amazing. One of the birds seemed to answer his shout and croaked. He thought of the crows in his neglected back garden in Amsterdam. They woud crackle. This croak was very different, a powerful and majestic utterance, a promise. 'Those are ravens, Suzanne.' His sister turned and blinked.
'What was that, Jan?'
'Ravens, the birds!'
'Are they?'
'Don't you know? How long have you been here?'
She was pushing against his arm, leading him to the safety of the car. The man called Reggie was coming back.
'I never went out much, Jan. Opdijk liked to go out.'
Reggie had stripped off a mitten and was offering his hand. The commissaris shook it, a hard hand with dirt ingrained in the lines and with strong square nails. The man's hood had fallen back. The face didn't go with the hands. A sensitive face, the commissaris thought, but reserved. A man who has been hurt many times but who perseveres. A lonely man who has found a way to live with his loneliness. The commissaris was reminded of de Gier. De Geir was a hard man too, and sensitive. But this man's eyes lacked the gleam that made de Gier's face lively. The commissaris was aware of his own thoughts as he shook Reggie's hand and heard his full name. 'Reggie Tammart, at your service.' An old-fashioned way of greeting, a noble salute. Yes, nobility. He remembered American nobility, for he had met some of the officers of the liberation troops riding into Holland at the end of the war. The officers had told him that they were from the South-perhaps Reggie Tammart was a Southerner.
'Are you from the South, sir?'
'New Orleans, Louisiana, sir. Pleased to meet you.'
The commissaris tried to place the name on a map. A coastal place, a port. And in the South, he had been right. He marched on, pleased with himself. A new environment, but he had some knowledge to relate to-the new facts might drop into a pattern.
