Janwillem De Wetering - The Rattle-Rat

"I'll wake you up in time for the market," Hylkje said. "Coffee and a croissant."

Grijpstra lumbered off. De Gier stood there thinking. Hylkje rose up on her toes and put her arms around his neck. "You heard what the commissaris said. If I keep repressing my evil longings, something horrible might happen."

"I'm not a Frisian," de Gier said. "You'll be disappointed."

Hylkje smiled softly. "I do like the commissaris. I just read a novel about an old gentleman who was picked up in a bar by a starving young woman. He took her home and kept being polite and he never hurt her and took care of all her needs."

"The commissaris is happily married," de Gier said. "When that sort of thing comes up, I usually replace him."

"That girl was rather forward," Hylkje whispered. "Do you think I am too?"

"You?" de Gier asked. "I've approached you in every way I know of, and you still haven't given in."

"Enough stalling," Hylkje said, and pulled him to the door. "You come with me."

Corporal H. Hilarius cried that night, and not because Sergeant R. De Gier hadn't performed as well as could be expected. Hylkje, after pushing Durk the rabbit off the bed, wept-de Gier thought he could describe the steady flow of tears as weeping-because she didn't have to pretend that she was tough. She said so herself.

Durk bounced about the floor, dropping neat round turds, while de Gier watched.

"And you're so well-mannered." Hylkje said that, too.

"Me?" de Gier asked. "Have you gone out of your mind? Wasn't I manly, dominating, hard as steel?"

"You were," Hylkje sobbed, "but that's something else, you did a good job, and at your age."

"You wouldn't mind if I slept a little now?" de Gier asked. "I'm just a trifle tired."

"And you're a good cook," Hylkje sobbed. "And you don't have a temper and there's nothing about you that puts me off. I like you better than Durk. Can't we stay together forever?"

De Gier slipped away and woke up in the office of a bank. He was signing mortgage papers, at interest that would absorb half his wages. "Sign here," the bank director said. "We'll insure your life, too. Nothing can happen to you now. You'll be happy, sir, forever."

De Gier groaned.

"Say something," Hylkje sobbed.

De Gier was awake. "I have commitments. I have to follow the commissaris around and catch him when his legs give way. I keep Grijpstra out of trouble. I feed Tabriz and rub medicine into her fur. Tabriz is going bald on the belly."

"You're living with her?" Hylkje sobbed. "What is she? An ape?"

"And I grow weeds on my balcony," de Gier said, "that I have to watch, and there's the flute to be played and books in French to be misunderstood." His voice ebbed away.

Hylkje rubbed his back. "You're such a darling."

The darling slept. He snored and was shaken by the shoulders, for Hylkje had no need to listen to his bubbly snoring. She left the bed and tripped across the room on high-heeled slippers. She poured boiling water on a coffee filter. The steady dripping was putting de Gier back to sleep. He lived in a big house now. Hylkje watered roses in the garden, but there was a big bald man in the kitchen hitting a drum, with powerful swings that made muscles bulge on his bare arms. The house changed into a slave ship. De Gier was rowing. The bald man had a whip that lashed out.

"Sit up," Hylkje said. "I have cognac too. Drink your coffee, dear."

"Isn't it cozy here?" Hylkje asked when she sat next to him again, with Durk cradled in her arms.

"Fortunately not," de Gier said. "At home it used to be cozy, on Sunday afternoons. Dad made us listen to radio concerts or we were taken to the zoo, to watch sick animals staring at us from cages. I used to throw rocks at the attendants. They would beat me up when Dad wasn't looking."

Corporal Hilarius pushed out her lower Up. Her eyes were asking. "Nice lip," de Gier said.

"Shall we kiss again?" She caressed his hair. "Maybe I don't understand men. Don't you want to be cozy?"

"I never understand women," de Gier said. "Good for me, maybe. Understanding may leave big holes."

The room had a slanting roof, with a skylight showing a slow-moving sickle moon. Hylkje's body took on a creamy white tinge. De Gier nudged Durk away and drew a triangle, beginning between her breasts and ending under her navel.

"What are you doing?"

"If I blow on your bellybutton now," de Gier whispered* "you'll be mine forever."

"Don't. Please. I don't want to be possessed."

"I must," de Gier said sternly. He blew, but first wiped the triangle away. "A black witch doctor taught me the spell. A dark secret obtained during the course of my duty."

"Why did you wipe out the triangle before you blew?"

'To make sure the spell won't work."

"You don't want me to be yours forever?"

"What do I want?" de Gier asked loudly, "with a female warrior who fights for liberty on the good side of the line? I'm too one-sided already. You'll limit my inquiry."

"I put men off," Hylkje said, "because I dress in leather and ride a motorcycle. I can get you one too. We'll race down the dike forever, for the true dike never ends, and we'll go faster and faster."

"To where?"

"We'll never get to 'where.'"

"You're sure now?" An odd thought started up in a corner of de Gier's mind. A thought to do with nowhere. He tried to catch the thought, but it was riding a motorcycle down a moonlit dike. He kept missing it, which was a pity, for he wanted to crash with the thought, evaporate, share its disappearance. Durk knocked the coffee out of his hand, but he didn't notice.

The alarm clock tore at the silence in the room. Hylkje's hand aimed for it, but smacked de Gier's cheek instead. He fell off the bed, rolled on the floor, pushed himself up, tripped over Durk, jumped up again, and assumed a proper defensive position.

"Hoo," Hylkje said. "That's nice. I like the way you dangle. Don't move now. You must be good at judo."

"Not too good," de Gier said. "Some must be better. I'd like to meet them sometime." He wandered about the room, looking for his clothes. A thrush began its early-morning cantata above the skylight. Hylkje put the coffee on, singing softly.

"Ubele Bubele Bive

Ubele Bubele Bix

Stay home, dear wife,

It's only a quarter to six."

"That late?" de Gier asked.

"It's a quarter to five," Hylkje said, "but it's later in the song. It's a Frisian song. The man sends his wife to work, but he also wants her to stay home to fix breakfast. If you stay with me, you can stay in bed all day. I'll do all the work."

"Good," de Gier said. "But I sometimes have ideas. Like now. I have the idea to go to the cattle market. They're bad ideas, but I can't get rid of them."

"You're so talented," Hylkje said, bringing him his coffee. "You're good with women. Why don't you start a brothel? Exploit silly women?"

"Brothels have regular hours," de Gier said. "I'd feel tied down."

"I'll help you get women," Hylkje said. "You can have my three sisters. They watch TV in stained housecoats now, and have curlers in their hair. With some discipline they would be quite attractive."

"Maybe the commissaris was right," de Gier said. "Once evil is released here, it's ready to take on anything. Let me consider your proposal, but first you can take me home."

De Gier sneaked through the corridor of the house in Spanish Lane. Griijpstra sneaked through the corridor too. Grijps- tra's pistol protruded from the pocket of his pajama jacket. "It's you," Grijpstra said. "I've been threatened all night, and then I heard a creepy noise. Did you have a pleasant night?"

De Gier shaved and showered. Grijpstra brought coffee.

"Who was threatening you?"

"Women," Grijpstra said. "All Frisian women were after me. Wanted to punish me for what I did to my wife. Hylkje was in charge, assisted by Gyske, and that Mem Scherjoen wanted me too."