Headquarters could then call us at our homes, and if there was some urgency, let's say, we would probably be able to go see what might be going on.'
'As long as it doesn't happen too often,' the subordinate officer said. 'Listen, we've got some forty square miles here, and there are only seven of us. There's a lot of overtime already. All sorts of things to do.'
'I hear you allow nudism on the beaches,' de Gier said.
'Yes,' said the officer in charge. 'We used to look at them a lot when nudism was still new-some nice ladies around-but you get used to what they have on show. I prefer birdwatching now. More variety. I check them in my birdbook, and as soon as I identify them I cross them off.'
The harbormaster excused himself. A boat approached the jetty.
'Shall we go?' the officer in charge asked.
The trip didn't take long, although there were two interruptions. A cyclist had strayed from the path reserved for cyclists and had to be spoken to, and a man who was cleaning his ashtray above a garbage can provided by the authorities, but who had dropped two butts on the way, was criticized politely. Both lawbreakers apologized profusely.
'Got to pay attention to everything here,' the subordinate officer said, once they had reached their station. 'Coffee, Sergeant?'
'No thanks,' de Gier said. 'I'm suffering from a little stress. Coffee makes it worse.'
'Should try some fishing,' the officer in charge said. 'We have been told to fish in lieu of expensive therapy. Fishing for eel is most recommended. We put out our trap and pull it in after six hours. Meanwhile we wait.' De Gier was shown the eel traps that were drying on lines in the yard. A motorcycle leaned against a wall. 'Dirt bike,' the subordinate officer said. 'I enjoyed it for a while, but it's for sale now. Good rough tires. Will take you across any dune, but the movement is too hectic, gives you a pain in the kidneys.'
'The sergeant used to serve with die Amsterdam motorcycle brigade,' Private Sudema said.
'Be my guest,' the officer said. 'Take her out, once you've made your arrest. The deserter is home, I caught a glimpse of him this morning.'
'Couldn't you have grabbed him?' de Gier asked.
'I?' the officer asked. 'A State Police official? Bother a military subject?'
Private Sudema coughed behind his hand.
'I'm sorry,' de Gier said.
'We do try to help our colleagues at times,' the officer said, 'but we don't mind their business, that's something else again.'
The house that Sudema pointed out was surrounded by rosebushes. 'I'll ring the bell,' Sudema said. 'He might not want to come out, in which case he'll probably leave by the door in the rear.'
'Should I hang around in the back?' de Gier asked.
'Why not?' Sudema said. 'Wish him the time of day. He's supposed to be a pleasant fellow. Easy to talk to, I'm told.'
De Gier squatted behind the fence and peered through the roses. In the garden, a cat had stretched itself out to enjoy the sun. Crows conversed slowly on the roof. A peewit tumbled about in the sky. Ducks flapped their wings on their way to the sea. A young man came out of the kitchen door and picked up a rake. He raked the path to the barn, left the rake against a doorpost, and went inside. In the barn a motorcycle started up. De Gier jumped up and waved. 'Hello?'
The young man on the motorcycle raced through the open gate.
Sudema strolled around the house. 'That was our friend.'
'Too fast for me,' de Gier said.
'Gone now,' Sudema said. 'Pity, in a way. Well, there's always another time.'
'Got to talk to the subject,' de Gier said. He ran back to the station. The officer couldn't immediately find the key to the motorcycle. De Gier jogged around the yard. 'Here,' the officer said. 'In the tray for pencils and ballpoints. We're too disorganized. It's driving me bonkers.'
De Gier kicked the starter and manipulated the gears with his foot. The bike climbed a dune with ease, jumped, bounced down, and was off again. De Gier increased speed on the beach. The wheels hissed across the moist sand left by the ebbing tide. De Gier switched the engine off and applied the brake. He listened.
A growl, far away, ahead.
He kicked the engine back to life. The speedometer heeled over. An island, de Gier thought, has an end.
The dot ahead had reached the end and would have to come back. De Gier maneuvered. The motorcycles turned around each other, in decreasing circles.
Cat and mouse.
If you like, Mouse, de Gier thought. Tell you what. I'll give you a break. Go on, escape.
The mouse sped away, but the cat cut him off, speeding through a mean short curve. The mouse fell over and no longer moved.
'Hurt yourself?' de Gier asked.
'Pulled a muscle,' the deserter said. He jumped to his feet. The deserter was a slender boy with whitish- blond hair, muscled legs, and long, mobile arms. He hopped up and down, waving his fists. 'Are you ready?'
De Gier brushed sand from his mustache. 'Not really. I'd rather have a cool drink. Hot day today. You know the way around here, don't you? A good cafe' with a view?'
'You a military cop?'
'De Gier, Municipal Police, Amsterdam. I'm not after you. I only have a few questions.'
'The officer who rang the bell was a military cop.'
'I won't tell him,' de Gier said, and smiled.
The young man kept hopping up and down. 'Can't trust policemen.'
De Gier raised a hand. He pressed it to his chest. 'You can trust me. I'm a tourist, a foreigner, visiting your lovely land.'
'You're putting me on,' the deserter said.
'May I never eat fried sole again,' de Gier said, 'if my word can't be trusted.'
The young man righted his motorcycle. 'Follow me.'
On the cafe's terrace, peacefully staring at the barely moving sea, across sand castles built by German tourists, disturbed only by children grabbing french fries from each other's paper bags, distracted only by a fairly young mother and her almost-full grown daughter who had taken off their blouses to rub suntan oil on their breasts, the deserter complained. Life in the Air Force did not agree with him. He explained the routine: getting up before sunrise to start another day, during which there would be little to do except pull an airplane to a specified spot. Once there, it had to be taken elsewhere. Back again, maybe a couple of times. The airplane never flew; it was parked. Malfunctioning, perhaps? Could be, nobody knew. Maybe the airplane didn't work. Let's pull it back. The plane is in the way. You, would you mind placing it over there? Who put this plane here? Please, private, take it away. This is the wrong plane. It should take off from the other strip. The pilot is waiting. There's no pilot waiting? Let's find a pilot. No, not you, you're the one who pulls the plane.
'Please,' de Gier said.
'That's the way it goes,' the deserter said. 'I've got a lot to do, but they drafted me anyway. I have to finish my new boat so that I can rent it out and make some cash to fix up my other boat. I've got to go to Fiji.'
'Why Fiji?'
The deserter had read about Fiji. His father had been away too, but not that far away. 'They got bones through their noses out there, and when the ladies want you to love them, they take off their blouses. Got to be careful, though. Sometimes they take off their blouses because they want to dive for crayfish. But they take off their blouses in a different way then. You got to study their ways and then you'll be all right.'
'They take off their blouses here too,' de Gier said.
The deserter looked at the fairly young mother and her almost-full-grown daughter. Mother and daughter smiled at him.
'They don't have bones through their noses,' the deserter said. 'And they don't do any diving. I really have to go to Fiji.'
The deserter put his glass down. De Gier ordered refills. 'Your solution is simple.'
'Not now. I'm about to be arrested. So far I've outrun them, but they keep coming back.'
