Right, the commissaris thought, for now he did remember. A limping SS man at large. In 1945, that was a long time back now. Troelstra had fought on the Eastern Front, had been released from duty because of serious wounds, had returned to Friesland just before the liberation, and was wanted afterward by the Dutch police on charges of treason. Traitor Troelstra. The suspect didn't want to be shot, so he hid with relatives, and was seen by neighbors. The neighbors alerted the local police, and Troelstra fled to Amsterdam, where he hid again, this time in a girlfriend's house, at the Old Side Alley. Tired of being hunted, Troelstra asked the girlfriend to phone the police to tell them that he would be ending his life, but would like to talk to someone first, a qualified authority preferably. The commissaris was an assistant inspector at the time and answered the call in person. He took a streetcar. The girlfriend opened the door. Jelle was in bed, with a German pistol in his hand. Jelle Troelstra, ex-hero. The commissaris nodded. Not a bad chap at all, rather an idealist, but on the wrong side, of course. Misdirected loyalty. Hitler, a devil masquerading as an angel, Troelstra saw that now. And subject hadn't committed atrocities, because he was a decent fellow, quite incapable of evil deed.
He listened to Troelstra in those late days of 1945, and encouraged him somewhat, telling him he wouldn't be shot, that he might still live a useful life and that the punishment would be bearable, since subject was turning himself in. Self-confessed traitors were sent to the colonies then, to New Guinea, the enormous island in Indonesia's utmost East, a Dutch possession still, and much in need of roads. Subject would have served there and been returned in due course.
The commissaris picked up his phone again. 'Dear?'
'Sir?'
'Please, Jelle Troelstra in… Anjum. Try to locate the man. If he isn't listed, try any other Troelstra in Anjum and ask where we can find Jelle. Is that understood? If you please?'
'You said it at the beginning, sir. One 'please' will suffice.'
'At your service,' the commissaris said. 'You're welcome.'
The phone rang. 'Yes?'
'Mr. Troelstra lives in Amsterdam, sir. He's on the line now.'
'Mr. Troelstra?'
'Yes,' a gravelly voice said.
'You'realive,' the commissaris said. 'I'm pleased to hear that. It's me, the policeman who fetched you in '45. Your girlfriend called and we had a talk. Do you remember?'
'And you're a commissaris now?'
'And I would like to talk to you.'
'I've got a cafe' Troelstra said. 'In my girlfriend's house. She left last year, for good, because of cancer. I'm still around for a little bit.'
'May I visit? Will that be all right?'
The two men observed each other attentively, in the dark narrow barroom. 'Jenever?' Troelstra asked.
'If you please,' the commissaris said, 'and one for you too.'
Their glasses touched and tipped. The jar tipped for the second time, but this time the commissaris merely sipped and Troelstra followed his example. The commissaris liked the cafe; all of its contents dated back many years, to a tangible past. He caressed the stem of his tulip-shaped glass.
'You were polite to me,' Troelstra said. 'I remember that. A little human decency and understanding, there wasn't much of that around then, but with you it stuck. It kept me going in New Guinea, if I wasn't down. I got pretty ill there.'
'Were you sent home ahead of time?'
'Malaria,' Troelstra said. 'It gets you by spells. We all had it, and when the fever went down we were back at work.'
'Bad, was it?'
'Not too bad,' Troelstra said. 'Have you come to fetch me again? War crimes are never forgiven, but I didn't commit any crimes. I fought the Soviet Bolsheviks. It would be okay now, but in those days it wasn't done yet.'
'I came for some information,' the commissaris said, 'about a Douwe Scherjoen.'
'He doesn't come to this bar.'
'The name is known to you?'
'I've heard of Scherjoen,' Troelstra said. 'This place isn't set up for Frisians only, but they all know who I am, and when they come I speak our language, not that I talk a great deal; they prefer me to listen.'
'I was born out there, in Joure,' the commissaris said.
Troelstra nodded. 'You said that last time, so I could trust you some. You told me I should stay alive. Tell me again, why did I have to stay alive?'
'Because there's a point to living.'
'You still think so?'
'I was young,' the commissaris said. 'I put it a little simply. You were young too. I got through to you, didn't I?'
Troelstra's hands pushed his sunken cheeks further inward. His calm eyes stared at the visitor. 'This Scherjoen, was he the corpse in the paper this morning?'
'Yes,' the commissaris said. 'He was shot in this neighborhood and burned afterward, in a dory, or so we think; there wasn't much left of him.'
'Sometimes,' Troelstra said, 'it doesn't pay to try and outthink the others.' He grinned. 'There are too many of them. What rule did he break?'
'We don't know much yet.' The commissaris put his glass down after a carefully measured sip. 'We do know that the deceased lived in Dingjum, could spend money, that's about it. What do you know?'
'He sold sheep,' Troelstra said, 'to Morocco, Turkey, Algeria. Frisian sheep. More than are ever officially counted in all of Friesland. Sheep look a lot alike. There's too much administration these days, but maybe the sheep still slip through.'
'But he never came here?'
'Other sheep dealers come here, and they talked about him. The dealers like to visit the Red Quarter. Leeuwarden, our capital, used to have a nice quarter of its own, but now they have to slide down the Great Dike, all the way down to Gomorrah here. Here we can satisfy most any desire.'
'In our lower regions?' the commissaris asked. 'And what did Douwe's colleagues have to say about him?'
'They didn't like Douwe.'
'Jealousy?'
'Of course,' Troelstra said. 'But maybe more than just jealousy. Douwe wasn't too straight. Broke his agreements, or changed them later on, not quite what Frisians expect of each other.'
'Would any of your clients be a shooting man?'
'I am a traitor,' Troelstra said, 'but I don't really like squealing too much.'
'Scherjoen was shot from the rear.'
Troelstra lifted the jenever jar. The commissaris nodded. He had lunched lightly and the strong gin made his body tingle. His leg no longer hurt; on the contrary, the usually sensitive nerves seemed to be alive with calm energy. How enjoyable it would be to be just a little drunk forever. Doesn't alcohol addiction exclude all other desires? The thought wasn't new to him. To simplify life's motivation should be an excellent short-term goal. Whoever is interested in alcohol can afford to forget about everything else. Any new day begins with the necessity to drown the hangover, and once that's done time flows on joyfully again. It wouldn't work out in the end, he knew that too, but the idea was still exciting. To realize the wish would be easy enough. He could retire and get up late and go to bed early and be smashed in between. With a bit of discipline, the change shouldn't be hard.
'One more?' Troelstra asked.
'No, thanks.'
'Coffee, freshly made?'
'If you please.'
Troelstra handled his coffee machine with the slow, exact movements that are the result of long practice.
