again to look for the dictionary. She brushed her tosksl Is that what they call teeth? And mt amp;e would be 'mouth.' What a primitive way to describe a woman's intimate bathroom occupation. He tried to lose the image of a ghoulish shape poking between her fangs. It would be better to read on, and try to fit what he would later understand into the material he was now digesting. He plodded on, guessing, gleaning meaning from words that looked like Dutch or English or German, and gradually obtained glimpses of the heroine's insights and beliefs, her hatred of men and her attraction to those very same men; some of them seemed handsome to her, and she minded them less than others, but she still abhorred their presence until one of them, a laborer working with a dragline, picked her up, first with his machine, by accident, then in his arms on purpose. Close to his chest, she gave in, but he didn't notice her orgasm, he was only carrying her to a safe place.
Tragic, de Gier thought, and read on, slipping more easily into the next tale. Martha was married now, for some twenty years, to the same fathead, every new day another gray space. Fathead wanted nothing of her, right through the twenty years. Martha could do anything she liked, there was plenty of money, as long as Fathead didn't have to join in whatever activity she chose for herself. So now what does she do? She goes to Belgium, where firearms can be bought fairly easily, comes back with a pistol, blows a hole in Fathead, and devours him slowly.
De Gier frowned. He remembered struggling with the same tale earlier that day, when the words were still unclear. Now he grasped all the horror without having to grope for dubious meaning. The lady ate her murdered spouse because she didn't know what to do with the one hundred and seventyfive pounds he had left. Frisian women are practical; for ages they have lived off the land. They haven't forgotten tricks picked up in the past. Martha had bought just the right size freezer to fit Fathead's bulk. And she boiled him in her pressure cooker, in cuts of Twae pun-two pounds, of course-enough to serve breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Fathead weighed heavy in her stomach. The last sentence of the tale.
De Gier niminated. Mem Scherjoen? Gyske Sudema? Two intimate friends, two Frisian ladies, tough, practical, and frustrated. On the phone, Grupstra had been explaining the suspects' presence just now, not so much as a detective informing his colleague of developments in his quest, but rather in his role of complaining friend-how everything, once again, had turned for the worst and how he could in no way be blamed for any mishaps. First, he'd lost his way; second, he'd got stuck in marital problems; third, he'd slipped off a dike. Grupstra, through no fault of his own, caught in a web spun by fateful circumstances. Does nothing ever go right?
Think a little, de Gier thought, catch the hidden thread. And make use of helpful hints supplied by literature manufactured in this very country, showing images in a foreign language that, with a little trouble can be grasped. Literature exaggerates. Mem never ate Douwe. Reality exaggerates too, but with less use of symbolism.
De Gier, barely awake on the couch, surrendered to hellish scenes. He saw local witches, degenerated from abuse and neglect, feeding ferocious flames of revenge emerging from the darkness of each other's souls. Their fury takes on different forms: one changes her home into a trap and lures a hapless male into her cupboard, where she humiliates her prey on a shelf; the other ventures out into the damnation of die Amsterdam night, and Douwe crumbles and floats away in a burning dory.
Both scenes were equally terrifying. De Gier preferred to wake up, to drag his body off the soft couch to a hard chair at the table, where he returned to the study of literature. What conclusions could the female author offer? A sentence stuck out. The male can never be a true source of pleasure.
Well now, that would hardly be a good reason to dust off an antique German pistol left over from the war. Just because there was no pleasure in the beast? He read on. A dialogue emerged between two women-between Mem and Gyske?
Gyske: 'Tell me, why did you get married?'
Mem: 'It was just a vague hopeful feeling.'
Vague. Too vague. So Mem had married because she thought there was some slight hope in Douwe's company. Hope for the better, of course. And the opposite came up. Even the Amsterdam dentist had seen the devil in Douwe. How devilish had the poor bugger been? Had Douwe, evilly and by premeditation, sucked Mem of her strength? Had he bedeviled her daily? Had she slowly begun to believe in a possible revolt? Had she used the courage that had served her so well in her struggle with the German army? Was her motivation clear now? Had opportunity been available? Mem knew Amsterdam, where she often stayed with her sister.
How would Grijpstra plan his attack? By himself, he wouldn't have a chance, of course, but the commissaris was sly, subtle, a more dangerous sleuth than even the sergeant himself. Once the commissaris got hold of this case…
De Gier turned pages, eager to discover another phrase that might fill a gap. What else was the literary woman think- ing? In no way will I ever be satisfied… here I am, left to my own resources… How boring… I could climb the walls… alone…
Clear enough. Mem, unsatisfied, hollow in her soul, locked in a solitude created by her willful and often absent husband, was ready to jump through her restraining walls. Egged on by the equally unhappy Gyske to find a solution, no matter how painful. But was Mem wrong?
Where did the finger of justice point? de Gier thought theoretically, for he himself couldn't care less. If order had been disturbed, it wasn't his order. He was quite content to heat pea soup from cans and bathe a rat.
He strolled through the room, circled the Louis XVI chair, and counted a row of roses on the wallpaper.
Was order disturbed? Shouldn't someone like Douwe be deftly removed? Hadn't Mem been kind enough to do society a favor? The commissaris, once on her trail, would corner her and interrogate the woman politely. Then what? Lead her on to an institute for the elderly insane? Mem wasn't quite that old.
De Gier picked up a scrap of paper left by Grypstra on the other side of the table. He read the names of the sheep exporters who had been stripped of their profits by Douwe. He read the names of the men and their towns:
Pry Wydema, Mummerwoods
Tyark Tamminga, Blya
Yelte Pryk, Acklum
Weird names-he wondered if there was a proper pronunciation. So far the names meant little. What if the unused Mauser had been used after all, and later cleaned and reloaded, slipped back into the door pocket of Douwe's Citroen? Too much effort in too little time? The shot might have attracted attention. The caliber was wrong too. A ninemillimeter bullet might have smashed Douwe's skull. Could Mem, like the freedom fighter in the book, have risked a trip to Belgium to buy a more suitable weapon that would make less noise?
He could leave it at that for now. Since when had minding someone else's job been profitable to him?
The doorbell rang. The sergeant, deep in thought, opened the door. 'Yes? Good evening, miss.'
'Hi,' Miss said brightly.
'Hi,' de Gier said. He checked his watch. Eleven, a little late for a visit. 'Miss,' the sergeant said, 'Adjutant and Mrs. Oppenhuyzen are on holiday in their summer house in Engwierum, at the coast I believe. I'm looking after the house in their absence. De Gier is my name.'
'Hi.'
De Gier scratched his buttocks, first the left, then the right. 'You don't understand? You speak only Frisian?' He paused. 'I can read some now, but I don't speak it yet. Can you read Dutch? Shall I write it down for you? Wait, I'll speak slowly. Listen, miss. The adjutant, right? Adjutant Oppenhuyzen? With his, uh, wyfe? Gone away?' He waved widely.
'It's me,' the young woman said. 'Hylkje. Hylkje Hilarius? Corporal? Motorcycle brigade? Now dressed in civilian clothes? Come to fetch you for a beer? You're still following so far?'
'Right,' de Gier said gratefully. 'Skinned. Stripped out of your leather. You're even more attractive than I had dared hope. How delightful life can be if, for once, disappointment is taken away for a moment. Do come in.'
'Five minutes,' Hylkje said. She curled up in the Louis XVI chair, her long denim-clad legs twined loosely, her breasts tightly outlined in a velvet T-shirt, her perfect teeth displayed in a warm smile between stiff blond ponytails, innocently standing away from her cheekbones daubed with rouge, her sparkling blue eyes shadowed cleverly to maximum provocative effect.
'Where is that rat?' Hylkje asked.
De Gier ran upstairs and came back with Eddy. 'You can hold on to him. I'll fetch his cheese.'
Hylkje withdrew into the embrace of the chair, but Eddy stood against her shirt, his pointed pink nose trembling between her breasts.
