“Then you are a barbarian. What’s the Vanderdecker policy? Go on, it’s your turn.”
“Your life insurance policy,” said Jane. “With the House of Fugger.”
Vanderdecker was just about to object when two tiny leads connected in his memory. “My life insurance policy?” he repeated.
“That’s right.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “That’s all?”
“Yes.”
Vanderdecker put down his glass. “After four hundred and fifty years,” he said, “you want to sell me life insurance. Don’t you people ever give up?”
But Jane was shaking her head. “We don’t want to sell you any life insurance,” she said, “we want to buy it.”
As she stared at him, a tiny germen of a thought thrust a green blade through its shell in the back paddock of her mind. It was an extraordinary thought, but it was there.
“Why?” Vanderdecker said.
Jane said, “Surely that’s obvious,” but her heart wasn’t in it. She could feel an enormous, colossal wave of laughter welling up inside her. Her entire body wasn’t big enough to contain it. Meanwhile, Vanderdecker was talking.
“Are we talking about the same thing?” he was saying. “I remember taking out a policy with the Fuggers, sure, but that was years ago. Hundreds of years ago, come to that. I haven’t paid a premium for centuries; I mean, what was the point?”
“But you’ve still got the policy?” Jane could feel the laughter crashing against her teeth like the Severn Bore, but she kept it back.
“I don’t know,” Vanderdecker said. “I’m hopeless with things like that. Hang on, though.” He paused, and felt in the pocket of his overcoat. “I usually put important documents in here,” he said, and he pulled out a big sealskin envelope. “Not that I have all that many important documents, after all this time. Let’s see.” He lifted the flap and started to rummage about. “What’s this? Alchemical notes, that’s not it. Birth certificate, passport, the receipt for my electric razor, book of matches from Maxim’s, what’s this?” He peered at a curled yellow scrap of paper. “No, that’s not it. Ah, we’re in luck. Is this it?” He fished out a folded sheet of vellum with the remains of a crumbled seal attached to it.
“I don’t know,” Jane said. “I can’t read it.”
“Can’t you?” Vanderdecker glanced at the tiny, illegible sixteenth-century script. “I suppose you can’t,” he said, “it’s in Latin. Yes, this is it. Is it important?”
“Have you ever read it?” Jane said. Of course, she realised, she shouldn’t be doing this. She should have got hold of it and destroyed it, and so saved the world. But the pressure of the laughter against the sides of her skull was too much for her; she had to let him in on the joke.
“To be honest with you,” Vanderdecker said, “no, I haven’t. I can’t be doing with all that legal-financial mumbo-jumbo.”
“You should,” Jane said.
Vanderdecker looked at her. His face had a tired, harassed look, as if this was starting to turn into a problem. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re after me for four hundred and fifty years unpaid premiums. Well, you can forget that, because I just don’t have that sort of money.”
That was too much for Jane; she started to laugh. She laughed so much that the afternoon barmaid of the Rockcliffe Inn withdrew her attention from the Australian soap opera she was watching on the bar top portable and stared at her for at least three seconds. She laughed so much that her body ached with the strain, and her lungs nearly collapsed. Vanderdecker raised an eyebrow.
“What’s so funny?” he said.
With a Herculean effort Jane stopped laughing, just for a moment. “Read it,” she said. “Read it now.”
“If it’ll stop you making that extraordinary noise,” said the Flying Dutchman, and started to read. When he had finished, he looked up and said, “I still don’t get it.” Fortunately, Jane was incapable of further laughter.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“So you should be,” Vanderdecker said, “it’s very embarrassing. You’ve no idea how conspicuous it makes me feel. Do please try and keep a hold of yourself.” He folded the policy up and put it away again, along with the birth certificate and the receipt for his electric razor.
“Are you from the insurance company?” he asked.
“Yes,” Jane said. “It’s a bank now, of course, as well as an insurance company. And I’m not actually with them; I’m an accountant.”
“So you said.”
“So I did.” Jane wiped the tears from her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief.
“Do you know,” Vanderdecker said, “you remind me of someone.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” Vanderdecker looked faintly embarrassed, as if he didn’t want to say what he was saying. “Someone I used to know, years back. In fact,” he mumbled, “that was her address on the piece of paper you saw just now. She must have been dead for three hundred years now.”
“Go on,” Jane said.
“Greta,” said the Flying Dutchman, “from Schiedam. There’s nothing to tell, actually. We met at a dance and just seemed to hit it off. I told her a joke, I remember—actually, it wasn’t a joke as such, just something that had happened to me that she thought was funny—and she laughed so much she spilt wine all down my trouser leg. Anyway, it turned out that she was leaving for Bruges the next day, and it was the last day of my shore leave. She gave me her address. I wrote to her, seven years later, and seven years after that I picked up her reply from the poste restante in Nijmegen. Apparently she’d met this man, and perhaps he wasn’t the most wonderfully exciting human being there had ever been but by all accounts he was going to be very big in worsteds one day, and of course she would always think of me as a very dear friend. Undoubtedly for the best,” he went on, “things being as they are. Still.”
“And I remind you of her?” Jane asked.
“Only because you laugh so damned much,” replied Vanderdecker austerely.
“I see,” Jane replied. “Can I get you another drink?”
Vanderdecker swirled the white specks round in the bottom of his glass. “Yes,” he said. “Only this time I’ll try the mild.”
“Is that good?”
“No,” he said.
Shortly afterwards, Jane came back with the drinks. “If it’s nasty,” she said, “why do you drink it?”
“Because it’s there,” Vanderdecker replied. “What’s so special about my life policy, then? Do try not to laugh when you tell me.”
Jane took a deep breath. She was, she realised, gambling with the financial stability of the entire free world. On the other hand, it didn’t seem like that, and the strange man had turned out not to be all that strange after all. “Before I tell you,” she said, “do you mind if I ask you something?”
“Be my guest,” Vanderdecker replied.
“Mr Vanderdecker,” she asked, “what exactly do you want out of life?”
Vanderdecker smiled; that is, there was an initial movement at the corners of his mouth that developed into a ripple just under his nose and ended up with a full display of straight, white teeth. “What a peculiar question!” he said.
“Yes,” Jane admitted, “and as a rule I’m not into this soul-searching stuff. But you see, it is quite important.”
Vanderdecker was surprised. “Is it?”
“Yes, actually,” Jane said, “it is.”
“Well then,” Vanderdecker said, composing himself and looking grave, “The way I see it is this. After all this time, and bearing in mind the things I’ve told you about, I would have thought it was more a question of what the hell it is life wants out of me. Blood?”
