'It's all right,' she said kindly. 'When was the last time you saw that angel driver? In reality, I mean.'
It was the day he had received the auxiliary policeman. 'They don't issue miniskirts to tram drivers,' Katrien said. 'That beauty you and I saw had the garment cut short herself.'
'Yes, Katrien.'
'Bah.' She glared at him. 'I used to have nice legs too, but you never noticed.'
'I did, Katrien.' He smiled. 'They still are very nice.'
'You're not going to be a dirty old man, are you?'
He said he didn't think so.
She laughed. 'You look worried.'
He thought he looked more frightened than worried. He had just remembered that the dream driver had no eyes.
'A hollow gaze, Katrien.'
Katrien liked to understand dreams. She tried to analyze his. Did he feel encouraged by the seductive angel? Was she urging him to cross the Atlantic? Was there any connection between the mystical presence and his future retirement? Very often male retired high officials couldn't bear to lose their sense of importance, respect, their self-esteem. They withered away or met with accidents or took heroic risks while they still could. Like the commissaris, at the end of his career, reaching out into a region where he would have no protection.
He didn't know what to answer.
'You're really going on this wild goose chase, aren't you?' Katrien asked.
The commissaris nodded.
She shook her head. 'You'll get bashed yourself. Parks in big cities aren't the safest of places. You'll be another corpse in the azalea bushes.'
Later that day she waved a travel guide, borrowed from a neighbor, at him. 'It says right here: Central Park should be avoided after dark. Even during daylight solitary hiking is not encouraged on paths that seem deserted.' She banged the book on his desk. 'Isn't that terrible? Guidebooks are supposed to promote travel and even so they warn you off.'
He said he'd be all right.
She showed him a folder advertising the Cavendish Hotel. 'Nouvelle cuisine, Jan, you might like that. Here, look at this spread.' He admired the displays of mini-helpings on maxi-plates. The plates were surrounded by dishes filled with gleaming fruit, jars of shiny candied foodstuffs, flasks filled with glowing wines or juices. There were elaborate flower arrangements too. He also studied a photograph of a Cavendish suite: a complete apartment- air- conditioning, every luxury provided. 'You can watch nice movies.'
Australian movies, the commissaris thought. He had read de Gier's report, specifying what Jo Termeer liked. The commissaris didn't care for action movies himself but liked simple drama. He remembered an Aussie film featuring a drunken party. Each guest had to bring his own pornographic object. One guest brought an attractive woman, who set out to seduce the host. The party didn't end well. There were arguments and disappointments. Sunrise found the host watching his car being driven into a tree by guests.
She pointed out furniture to him: a four-poster bed, Chippendale couches. Yes, he would be able to lie down there.
'And a view of Central Park. You'll be looking down on all your suspects.'
He looked at the rates. 'But so much money, Katrien.'
'Aunt Koba's present.'
The inheritance, of course, he thought.
'And you won't stay long, will you?'
Not at those prices.
'Kiss me,' she said.
They embraced.
Later that Sunday the commissaris walked in the rear garden of his house at Queens Avenue, between three-foot-tall weeds. His pet turtle, waiting for lettuce leaves, made swaying movements on his private rock.
'Let's hope we face no evil out there,' the commis-saris told Turtle. 'Katrien is probably right. A showdown in Central Park could be bloody. Hooliganism, gang-t related. And I would be alone. This Detective Hurrell doesn't appear very alert.'
Turtle chewed more lettuce.
'Never mind?' the commissaris asked. 'Jo Termeer insists that God is Good and Justice will be Achieved and who am I to argue with Positive Thinking?'
Turtle, sarcastically, closed one eye.
'I'm doing this because I am getting very feeble now?' the commissaris asked. 'My last chance to win medals?'
Turtle started one of his slow dances.
'Katrien is right?' the commissaris asked. 'Realizing I am entering my Final Agony now I plan a last fling? I will be all set to lose my life there spectacularly after setting things right?'
Turtle gummed more lettuce.
'I don't have any teeth either,' the commissaris said, baring his long dentures, fair enough copies of what had once been real, craftily shaded a pale ivory hue. 'Pure plastic, my dear.'
Turtle swallowed, looked up expectantly.
'Or is this one of these instances that calls for detachment?' The commissaris winked. 'We do this for Nothing? We don't walk the way that can be called a way? No, Turtle, we surrender.' The commissaris smiled down on the reptile. 'We are merely aware, we meditate, we gain ultimate insight.'
Turtle heightened the rhythm of his dancing feet and shaking shield.
'Too Zen for me perhaps,' the commissaris said. 'Even now, when my working life is almost over. Who am I fooling? Career does matter to me. I'm in this to win. I insist on being admired.' He bent down to the dancing reptile. 'We're Dutch, my dear. The Dutch are basic traders. Nothing is for free. And there has to be some profit.'
Turtle slipped down his rock and waddled underneath a thorn bush.
'Not that I would mind being free of all that,' the commissaris told the moving bush.
'And what was the oracle's advice today?' Katrien asked when the commissaris limped back into her kitchen.
The commissaris grinned. 'I think he's holding out for more lettuce.'
Chapter 4
New York received the commissaris pleasantly enough, after a first-class ride on the roomy top deck of a large airplane. He had eaten, dozed and dreamed about the hollow-eyed tram driver/angel. The dream was probably caused by the stewardess who served him, a tall woman with blond hair. There were many of these in Holland now: a new archetype.
Immigration and Customs waved him through. He didn't have to join the long line for cabs; a large burly man in a red waistcoat guided the commissaris to a brand-new minivan. It was illegal, of course. No husding for rides at Kennedy Airport. He had seen posters in the airport's waiting areas, warning passengers.
'Isn't this illegal?' the commissaris asked the man shooing him along.
'Been doing it for years now,' the soft-spoken driver said pleasantly enough. 'Mind if I rustle up a few other passengers? It'll make the ride worthwhile. Some music while you wait? I'll give you the seat of honor.'
The driver switched on his radio, tuning to a classical music station, determining his choice after a glance at the little old gentleman sitting quietly in the high passenger seat. A well-modulated male voice announced a piano concerto by Albeniz, after suggesting that listeners avail themselves of the services of an investment broker. The commissaris didn't catch the sponsor's name. The announcer interrupted after the first movement. 'By the way, Gillette is a good buy today. A free tip from your favorite station. Gillette. A debt-free company about to launch an important new product. When the product sells, shares will go up.' Music again, remarkably clear, piping in through
