“I think so. The first time, I put the phone down after only a few seconds. Like I said.”
“Don't worry about it. It's bound to be just a mistake.”
“A mistake? How could that be a mistake?”
Hold your tongue, he thought. Stop nagging, or I'll throw this glass of wine in your face!
“I don't know,” he said. “Let's drop the subject. I had a little accident today.”
“An accident?”
“Nothing serious. Somebody skidded into me from behind.”
“Good Lord! Why didn't you say something?”
“It was a minor thing. Nothing to speak of.”
“Nothing to speak of? You always say that. What shall we speak about then? You tell me. We receive some mysterious telephone calls, but we should just ignore them. You have a car accident, and you don't think it's even worth mentioning to your wife. That's so typical. What you mean, of course, is that we should just sit here every evening without saying a word. That's the way you want it. Quiet and peaceful. I'm not even worth talking to anymore.”
“Rubbish. Don't be silly.”
“Maybe there's a connection.”
“Connection? What the hell do you mean?”
“The telephone calls and the car crash, of course. I hope you took his number?”
My God, Malik thought, and gulped down the rest of the wine. There's something wrong with her. Pure paranoia. No wonder the hotel wanted to sack her.
“Have you heard anything from Jacob?” He tried to change the subject, but realized his error the moment the words left his mouth.
“Not for two weeks. He's too much like you, it would never occur to him to phone us. Unless he needed some money, of course.”
The hell he would, Malik thought, and hoped that his grim inner smile wouldn't shine through to the outside. He had spoken to their son a couple of times in the last few days, without having to shell out a single guilder. And although he would never admit it, he regarded his son's passive distancing of himself from his mother as a healthy development, and a perfectly natural one.
“Ah well,” he said, wiping his lips with a napkin. “That's the way young people are nowadays. Is there anything worth watching on the box tonight?”
When the fifth call came, he was lucky enough to be able to answer it himself. Ilse was still watching the Hungarian feature movie on Channel 4, and when he answered it on the bedroom extension he was able to tell the anonymous disturber of the peace to go to hell in no uncertain terms, without a risk of her hearing him and guessing what it was about. First he established that it really was “The Rise and Fall of Flingel Bunt;” then he listened to it for half a minute before delivering a series of threats that could hardly be misunderstood before replacing the receiver.
However, he had no way of knowing if there really was somebody listening at the other end.
Maybe there was somebody there. Maybe there wasn't.
But that tune? he thought. Was there something?… But it was just a faint shadow of a suspicion, and no clear memories at all cropped up in his somewhat overexcited brain.
“Who was that?” asked his wife as he settled down again on the sofa in the television room.
“Jacob,” he lied. “He said to say hello to you, and didn't want to borrow a single nickel.”
5
On Friday he made a detour past Willie's garage to discuss repairs to his car. Having been guaranteed absolutely that it would be ready for collection by that evening, he left it there and went the rest of the way to his office on foot. He arrived fifteen minutes late, and Wolff had already gone out-to negotiate a contract with a newly opened hamburger restaurant, he gathered. He sat down at his desk and began to work his way through the day's mail, which had just been brought in by Miss deWiijs. As usual, most of it was complaints about one thing or another, and confirmation of contracts and agreements that had already been fixed on the telephone or by fax, and after ten minutes he realized that he was sitting there humming that confounded tune.
He broke off in annoyance. Went out to fetch some coffee from Miss deWiijs's office instead, and became involved in a conversation about the weather, which soon came around to focus on four-footed friends. Cats in general, and Miss deWiijs's Siamese, Melisande de laCroix, in particular. Despite the regular ingestion of contraceptive pills and despite the fact that the frail creature hardly ever dared to stick her nose outside the door, for the last couple of weeks she had been displaying more and more obvious signs of being pregnant.
There was only one other cat in the whole of the block where Miss deWiijs lived-a thin, arthritic old tom that as far as she knew was being taken care of by a family of Kurdish immigrants, although he preferred to spend the waking hours of day and night outdoors. At least when the weather was decent. How he had managed to get wind of the shy little Madame Melisande de laCroix was a mystery, to say the least.
A mystery and an absurdity. To be sure, Miss deWiijs had not yet been to the vet's and had the pregnancy confirmed. But all the signs pointed very clearly in that direction. As already indicated, and unfortunately.
Malik liked cats. Once upon a time they had owned two, but Ilse hadn't really been able to put up with them, especially the female, and when they discovered that Jacob was apparently allergic to furry animals, they had disposed of them by means of two rational and guaranteed painless injections.
He liked Miss deWiijs as well. She radiated a sort of languid feminine warmth that he had learned to prize highly over the years. The only thing that never ceased to surprise him was that men had left her unmarried and untouched. Or rather, there was nothing to suggest that this was not the case; and the indications were that she would stay that way. She would be celebrating her fortieth birthday next May, and Malik and Wolff had already begun discussing how best that occasion should be celebrated. Needless to say, it was not a day that could be allowed to pass unnoticed. Miss deWiijs had been working for them for more than ten years, and both Malik and Wolff knew that she was probably more vital to the survival of the firm than they were.
“What are you thinking of doing if you're right about the state of your cat?” he asked.
Miss deWiijs shrugged, setting her heavy breasts a-bobbing under her sweater.
“Doing?” she said. “There's not much else one can do but let nature take its course. And hope there won't be too many of them. Besides, Siamese cats are easy to find homes for, even if they are only half-breeds.”
Malik nodded and finished off his cup of coffee. Clasped his hands behind his neck and thought about what else needed to be done today.
“I'll drive out to Schaaltze,” he decided. “Tell Wolff I'll be back after lunch.”
It was only when he was in the elevator on his way down that he remembered he didn't have a car. He recited an elaborate curse under his breath, wondering how he could be so absentminded, and considered briefly going back up. Then he recalled that it was possible to get there by bus. It was unusual for him to travel by public transportation nowadays, but he knew that Nielsen and Vermeer sometimes used to travel in on the Number 23 from Schaaltze, and if the bus goes one way, surely it must go the other way as well?
The bus stop was on the other side of the shopping center and post office, and he was about halfway there when he had the feeling that somebody was following him.
Or observing him, at the very least. He stopped dead and looked around. The sidewalk wasn't exactly teeming with pedestrians, but nevertheless, there were enough of them to prevent him from detecting anybody behaving oddly. He thought for a second or two, then continued toward the bus stop. Perhaps he was just imagining things, and in any case, it was probably best not to make it too obvious that he suspected something. He quickly convinced himself of this, lengthening his stride and trying to keep all his senses on the alert.
He was amazed by his reaction, and how quickly and almost naturally he'd accepted the feeling and the suspicion. As if it were an everyday occurrence, almost.
Why on earth should anybody be following him? Ryszard Malik! Who the hell could be interested in such an everyday and insignificant person?
He shook his head and thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets.
