after my mother. The house was enormous. Corridors everywhere, and doors, lots of doors. She kept closing them in my face, and I could hardly reach the handle.'
'I really don't see much difference here in Friesland,' Cardozo said. 'Looks like the rest of the country. The language is funny, maybe. Samuel and I used to play 'funny language' when we were small. We would change all the words a bit and then pretend we understood each other. I think they do the same here. I don't think there's anybody home.'
They walked around the stately mansion, admired the large bunches of grapes growing under the eaves, and sidestepped the attack of a multicolored rooster. Blue herons looked down from their nests in the poplars. The commis-saris found an herb garden dominated by rocks overgrown with silver thyme. They heard tires grinding the gravel of the driveway. Cardozo ran off and came back with a bald fat man. The man's cheeks trembled while he bowed to the commissaris. His gaze, through thick glasses rimmed by tortoiseshell, looked forbidding.
'This gentleman works for the Tax Department,' Cardozo said.
'Verhulst,' the man boomed. 'I'm after the same suspect. Are you the chief of detectives?'
The commissaris showed his card. 'Shall we sit down?' Verhulst asked. There were some garden chairs. Verhulst cleaned them by flapping his handkerchief over them. Car-dozo walked under the poplars.
'You'll be after money, mostly,' the commissaris said.
'A hard task, sir.' Verhulst folded his red hands on his waistcoat. 'We're not as powerful as the police. The public detests us. You hunt, we patiently fish, but I do think I have a bite.'
'You do?' the commissaris asked politely.
Verhulst pointed at the mansion. 'Behold. Where did the money come from that bought this costly property?'
'Surely Scherjoen disclosed his income?'
Verhulst laughed loudly.
'He didn't?' the commissaris said. 'It seems your job is easy. Confiscate the house and lands. Scherjoen's new car is at present parked in our lot. You can take his vehicle too.'
Verhulst admired his well-polished boots. 'Mortgage on the property and the car is leased.'
The commissaris smiled.
'You're amused?' Verhulst asked. 'The State is embezzled, sir. Scherjoen earned a daily fortune, by illegal means, in cash transactions. He collected exorbitant interest on unregistered loans. He fenced stolen goods. But on his tax forms, income was balanced by write-offs. Here'-Verhulst waved his hands-'at least two million was embezzled. Where did it go?'
'He hid it?' the commissaris asked.
'I count on your cooperation,' Verhulst said heavily. 'I suggest that you order a search of the house. I can do that too, but the locals are reputedly fierce, and I don't want to be attacked with pitchforks and scythes. Mrs. Scherjoen is a widow, always a delicate situation. If you step in, the Frisian attitude will be more accepting.'
'You know,' the commissaris said, 'I detest being overtaxed.'
'Who doesn't, sir?'
'The system your department is using these days,' the commissaris said, 'is no good. It provokes unrest. Take this Douwe Scherjoen, for instance. Would he ever have become quite that mean and irresponsible if he had been allowed to keep a reasonable share of his profits? And could he have practiced usury if you fellows hadn't squeezed the citizens to the point where they had to borrow at such ridiculous rates?'
'Well now,' Verhulst said, 'if you take that angle…'
'We're filling in time here anyway,' the commissaris said. 'We might have a little discussion. Do you ever think about your work, or do you merely do as you're told?'
'You wouldn't be Frisian?' Verhulst asked. 'I've heard talk like this in these out-of-the-way regions before.'
'I was born in Joure,' the commissaris said.
'And you left,' Verhulst said. 'Very clever of you. The colonial life didn't suit you?'
'You're joking, aren't you?'
'Do you see any difference? We used to have our colonies in the Far East and exploit our plantations. Now we still have Friesland, same thing again. Reclaimed wastelands that supply us with crops. The backward tribes supply us with labor. I'm from The Hague, myself.'
'Have you been suffering from mental troubles for a while now?' the commissaris asked.
Cardozo charged out of the poplar grove. 'Now what?' the commissaris asked. 'What's that mess on your head? Don't rub it, it's dripping into your eyes already.'
Cardozo stamped his foot. 'Heron shit.'
'I did have a problem,' Verhulst said. 'Aboriginal-related. It comes back to me when the government sends me here. I've always served the State. I majored in colonial law, but when I was given my papers, our only foreign colony was New Guinea, populated by wild men. I became a district officer out there, and as soon as I arrived the villagers wanted to hunt some heads. Their grinning top pieces flew all around me. My pith helmet got smudged by their blood. I needed intensive treatment for some years, but eventually I was cured.'
Fluid heron droppings had reached Cardozo's delicately shaped nose.
Verhulst jumped up and covered his mouth with his handkerchief. He ran away. His car was heard to start up. 'Good,' the commissaris said. 'That was one way to get rid of the boorish lout. Nice job, Cardozo.'
Cardozo was tearing at his hair. 'Help. This shit burns.'
The commissaris dragged him to a pump and energetically worked the handle. Cardozo kept his head in the spouting water. Mem Scherjoen put her bicycle against a fence. 'What happened to the poor lad?' She came closer. 'Oh, I see. Douwe once had that trouble too. He immediately wanted to shoot the herons, but I wouldn't let him. Come along, dear, there's a shower inside.'
Cardozo disappeared into the bathroom. The commissaris was given tea in the kitchen. Mem Scherjoen fetched a suit that had belonged to her husband. Cardozo showed up again, in a black corduroy outfit with silver buttons and a collarless striped shirt. The commissaris applauded. 'A living portrait by Rembrandt, Cardozo. Very striking. 'The Jewish Poet.' It's in the Rijksmuseum. He's pictured standing on red tiles, with the light coming in from behind, just like you now. Oh, perfect.'
'You look great,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'And don't you have nice hair!'
'I used all your shampoo,' Cardozo said.
'Splendid.' Mrs. Scherjoen buttered slices of spiced cake. She poured more tea. Cardozo sat on a stool.
'About your husband,' the commissaris said. 'We're police officers. We're very sorry about what happened, but please excuse us, we do have to ask questions.'
'Douwe,' Mem Scherjoen said, 'was not a good man.'
Hie commissaris waited.
'But I will miss him,' she said.
'You married early?'
'Oh, yes,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'We were together for ever and ever. When I dream about Douwe now, he's my child or my friend, and I'm his, and not always his girlfriend either. Such strange dreams, but they're all real, and Douwe always makes trouble. I take the good side and he tries to keep us down, but we're always connected, that part does not change.'
'Do your dreams end well?' the commissaris asked.
'Not what I saw last night,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'I was his mother again, but I got sick and died and he tried to crawl after me, but I couldn't take him with me.'
'And in the other dreams?'
'We're walking somewhere, holding hands, or we're yelling at each other in some kitchen.'
'Not this kitchen?'
'No, in a log cabin it seemed, on a hilltop. We were poor at that time.'
'Who started the trouble?'
'Douwe,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'He broke my last plate.'
'You were yelling too?'
'Not so much,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'I always loved him and he always wanted to make sure I did.'
'He made you sad?'
