Janwillem De Wetering: The Japanese Corpse

"Good," the daimyo's voice said into his ear.

The commissaris turned his head slowly. "Good?" he asked.

"Yes. Your work?"

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Some of it."

The daimyo thought of words. "Secret Service?" he asked.

"Yes. Japanese Secret Service."

"Good," the daimyo said again. "And you?"

"Police. Amsterdam."

The daimyo was nodding to himself. The hall was very quiet. The three bartenders were still behind the trestle table. Commandos were roaming about, holding their machine pistols. Through an open side door a few girls could be seen, milling about in the yard, like moths attracted by the lights. The black dancer was still in the hall, motionless on a chair, her legs crossed, her head leaning on her arm.

De Gier had found a post to lean against, but he was ready to leave it, wondering whether he could make it to the bar. His legs were giving way, but he wanted to drink; there seemed nothing else to do. Dorin, carrying a gun which he had taken from a commando, came to help him, and together they swayed to the orange dragon, mumbling and leaning against each other.

"A drink," the sergeant said. "Two small drinks."

The bartenders didn't move, and de Gier reached over, trying to grab a bottle. Dorin put the machine pistol on the floor and attempted to help him.

"Drunk," de Gier said, as he sipped from the small glass. "Very. Well done, Dorin. No killing. Well done." He was nodding solemnly.

Dorin's bloodshot eyes tried to focus on the sergeant's face. "Not well done," he said loudly. "Badly done. Telephone call this morning. From Tokyo. General shays, No Killing. Shtupid general, shilly general." He breathed deeply and threw the glass against the bar. "Idiot general!"

"Why?" de Gier asked, letting go of the support of the bar, but quickly grabbing hold of the rail again.

"They'll get free," Dorin said, pointing his index finger at de Gier's nose. "No death penalty here. One day they get free. My general shays, Never mind. I shay, Mind, but he shays, Orders from the minister. Had to change all plans. Shnow Monkeys upshet. Orders changed."

De Gier grinned.

"No killing," Dorin said sadly. "Only in self-defenshe, general says. No self-defenshe. All drunk. Your chief's idea."

He pointed at the stage, where the commissaris and the daimyo were still sitting next to each other, their legs dangling. "Your chief spoke to your ambashador. Your ambashador spoke to minister. Minister spoke to general." He shook his head violently. "Idiot general," he said again, shrieking the words.

"Now," the daimyo said softly to the commissaris. He pushed himself off the stage, fell and crawled to the bar. The commissaris watched his progress. The commissaris' glasses had slipped off and he was trying to replace them as the daimyo reached the weapon. Three commandos were watching the daimyo too. The barrels of their weapons came up as he grabbed Dorin's machine pistol. They shouted, but the daimyo's hands moved on. He raised himself slowly, waving the short stubby gun in an almost ritual gesture, and collapsed. The commissaris saw the heavy bullets break the daimyo's head. The skull had burst before the body touched the floor.

"No," the commissaris shouted. De Gier and Dorin looked up. The commissaris had fallen off the stage. They got to him, holding on to each other.

"Sir?" de Gier asked, kneeling down.

"He is asleep," Dorin said.

"Hello!" said Grijpstra.

"Yes?" De Gier asked.

"It's me," Grijpstra said patiently, "on the telephone. What's the matter with you? Are you drunk? Or do you only speak Japanese now?"

"I was drunk," de Gier said, "last night, but that's some time ago now. I have slept all day, I haven't shaved yet. It's evening now."

"It's early morning here," Grijpstra said cheerfully. "Well, how are you? Are you coming back at all? How is the commissaris?"

"Asleep too. The job is done. He was crying last night; his friend got himself shot."

"Friend?"

"Yes. The boss of the yakusa. I suppose he will be home soon, but maybe I won't come."

"No?" Grijpstra asked. "Why not?"

"What for?" de Gier asked, tearing his lips apart. He was sure that there was a dead fish in his mouth.

"To look at your balcony," Grijpstra said. "What else? I went to your flat last night. I have been going there every other day. Those yellow flowers you had have died, but I planted a fuchsia, part of the fuchsia I have at home. It's doing well. The flowers are hanging down on each side of your railing, and I have been weeding the lobelias."

"Weeds?" de Gier asked. "I didn't know there were weeds in the lobelia pots. There weren't any when I left."

"Lamb's-quarters," Grijpstra said. "I boiled them up quickly and put them in a plastic bag in your freezer. They taste very good, you know."

"Well, well," de Gier said.

"And I found you another cat," Grypstra said heavily. "Now don't tell me you don't want another cat. This one is probably crazy too, but it is still very small. It tried to get into my house last week and I took it to your flat. It isn't a Siamese."

"What is it?" de Gier asked, mouthing the words slowly.

"It's ugly and it has a lot of colors. It looks like a small piece of a badly designed Persian carpet."

"Hmm," de Gier said.

"So when will you be back?" Grijpstra asked.

"Soon," de Gier said, and hung up.