treatment in singsong English.
'That's an Indian,' the customs officer said. 'I know Indians, I see them all the time. We've made a dreadful mistake.'
The commissaris lifted off the Indian's hair. 'Nice try, Willem.'
Bystanders gaped. 'On your way,' the colonel shouted. 'On your way. Nothing to see here. Move along, move along, your taxis are waiting.' The customs officer picked up Fernandus's suitcase. 'The bag is in there,' the commissaris said. The colonel bent over and lifted packages wrapped in transparent plastic from the bag inside the suitcase.
The commissaris prodded Fernandus's stomach. 'You lost weight. You look better now. Trying to imitate me, Willem. Too late for that now.'
'The hell,' Fernandus hissed. 'The hell.'
'Shall we go?' the commissaris asked. 'You've lost, Willem, can't think of all the reasons now. We'll do that later.'
\\ 34 /////
Hard rain hit the city again on the day miss Antoinette and Carl got married, beating down on the shiny tarmac of the long narrow Overtoom, splashing up against buildings and cars, trying to drench the commissaris's wife and Mrs. Jongs, who shared the same umbrella. Cardozo pushed the commissaris up the long steep stairs. 'That's all right, Sergeant,' the commissaris kept saying. 'I'm not totally decrepit yet.' 'Easy now, sir,' Cardozo kept saying. Grijpstra walked behind them, holding a large parcel. Ketchup and Karate carried clinking bottles in brown paper bags.
'Very nice,' everyone said when they finally reached the top floor. The front part of Carl's loft had been changed into a semblance of a normal apartment, but behind a row of man-sized rubber trees, Carl's wonderland started, and the commissaris wandered about, studying the profusion of Carl's thoughts, realized in different materials in a number of odd styles. Carl's father still read the Financial Times and his mother swooped down from the ceiling, pointing her long beak filled with double rows of fanglike teeth. 'I didn't invihite them,' Carl said. 'They're tohoo buhusy.' He served as a guide, explaining the various objects.
'You'll have your exhibition soon,' the commissaris said. 'You may sell a lot of these. Don't you mind?'
'We'll have some room,' Antoinette said. 'And you'll make more, won't you, Carl? Will you make me too?'
'Another bihird of preyhey,' Carl said, putting his arm around his wife, 'that gohobbles me up.'
'Presents,' said the commissaris's wife. The presents were practical, in accordance with a list of useful household items provided by the bride. 'Ah, a parsley mill,' Antoinette said, clapping her hands. 'Just what we need Carl, for your salads. Ah, freezer trays, look Carl, for your soup. You know,' she said to Mrs. Jongs, 'Carl lives on soup. He used to make a bucket of soup a week, he'd throw in anything that he found on sale. Dreadful taste.'
'Alwahays different,' Carl said.
'I'm making gourmet soups now,' Antoinette said.
'Bob eats soup too,' Mrs. Jongs said. 'But then the lizards gets into the pot and he chokes.' She had brought an electric coffee grinder. Ketchup and Karate opened bottles.
They all drank to the happy couple and then to Grijpstra's painting. 'What a striking green background,' the commissaris said. 'Makes your ducks come out very well. Just like they're swimming out of the weeds. Are those real weeds?'
'Dried,' Grijpstra said. 'I fished them out of the canal at Prince's Island. Took forever to steam the smell out.'
Carl hung the painting, helped by Grijpstra. Meanwhile they discussed art, agreeing that anything can be done, in all dimensions, combining incompatibles, and that colors should never match. 'And music,' Grijpstra said. 'I think music should fit in, but I don't dare to do that yet. Like these ducks here. Next time I make ducks I'll use real bones, glue them on the canvas and make them movable maybe, you pull something and they scratch against each other.'
Carl agreed that scratching was the ultimate sound. 'You plahay druhums, I heahear?'
'Yeh, drums,' Grijpstra said. They walked back together to the kitchen part of the loft and Grijpstra scratched pots with a wooden spoon. 'Hear? But that isn't the sound of skeleton ducks. I can find it if I try. It was easier when de Gier was still around. He played a good flute, and I'd scratch around his notes.'
'There was a postcard from de Gier,' the commissaris said to his wife. 'From the eastern part of New Guinea. He must be moving around.'
'Never mind de Gier,' his wife said, 'I don't want you to go there too.'
'De Gier sent me a picture of a Papuan drum,' Grijpstra told Cardozo. 'Huge. A hollowed-out tree. I'd like to play that.'
'From Port Moresby?' Cardozo asked. 'I had a postcard too.'
'No, inland. There's a river, he said he went up by boat.'
'Don't worry, Katrien,' the commissaris said. 'Grijpstra wants to go as well. Bit of a holiday, maybe. Maybe later.'
'Your vermouth, ma'am,' Karate said.
Mrs. Jongs drank sherry. Grijpstra tapped Carl's father's wooden head with his spoon. 'That's a good sound.'
'Becauhause there's nobody hohome,' Carl said. 'When he's hohome it souhounds bad.'
'We're home,' Antoinette said. 'Isn't it nice to be home together, Carl?'
'Greahate change,' Carl said. He explained to Karate that he drove a car now, Antoinette's car, nothing to it. He had learned to drive and gotten his license. They went to a party and Antoinette drank too much, so he had to drive them home. As he walked to the car, a patrol car came by. The cops jumped out. They'd seen him swaying across the pavement. 'So I saihaid, 'I'm spahastic' And the cops apologized. They were very sorry. Never mind. It hadn't happened. A mistake. Go ahead. Good night, sir. 'Bye now.'
'You weren't drunk,' Karate said.
'Vehery druhunk,' Carl said.
The telephone rang. Antoinette picked it up. 'One moment, please, he's here.' She gave the phone to the commissaris.
'Are you on call?' his wife asked.
'Yes, Katrien. Hello?'
He listened. 'Yes, all right.'
'You have to go?' his wife asked.
'Yes, dear, I'll see you at home.'
'I'll take you,' Cardozo said.
'No, thank you, Sergeant, I'd better go alone.' He turned to his wife. 'It's Willem.'
'No.' She held his hand. 'No. Willem is in jail. That's over, don't go to see him.'
'He's in the hospital,' the commissaris said. 'I've known about Willem's illness since last week.'
'Under guard?' Grijpstra asked. 'They shouldn't let him out of jail. He'll escape, sir. Think of something, impersonate a doctor, we'll have to go after him again.'
'Leukemia,' the commissaris said. 'He wouldn't go far. I spoke to Dr. Peters in the hospital. He said Fernandus wasn't doing very well.'
'Fernandus will fake anything,' Grijpstra said. 'Let me go with you. We can take care of this.'
'We'll take Fernandus for a walk?' the commissaris asked. 'Please, Adjutant. The baron didn't survive his walk. Let's leave this to nature.'
'Shall I go with you?' Antoinette said. 'I rather like Mr. Fernandus.'
'Noho,' Carl said.
'Sometimes,' Mrs. Jongs said, 'it's better they dies, but they don't dies easy.'
