Janwillem De Wetering - The Rattle-Rat

The commissaris let that go for the moment. He meant no harm, as his servile attitude showed. His wife had dressed him extra carefully that morning, because she was sorry. She knew that her worrying did not ease his life. "I do have to work," the commissaris had said that night, in his sleep. "What else can I do?" he had asked while asleep. She had kissed him, for of course there was enough else for him to do. Couldn't he play with his turtle in the garden? Or pick up garbage in the park? Or go on a journey with her? Did he have to protect society against itself? Miss Terpstra was softening too, for she hadn't had a male visitor in several months, and this one looked exceptionally neat, in his tasteful light gray summer suit, with the antique watch chain spanning the slight bulge of his stomach, and die well-arranged hair, the neat, sensitive hands folded in his narrow lap, and the cultured way in which he expressed himself. Could she possibly like this man? Miss Terpstra asked herself.

"Tea?" Miss Terpstra asked the commissaris.

He was given a cup. "What is the connection," the com-missaris asked, "between porcelain dogs and whores?"

"They were captains in the whaling fleet," Miss Terpstra said, "those grandfathers and great-grandfathers of mine, and they had the best houses on the island, with specially designed gables made of imported bricks, so that everybody could see how important and wealthy they were."

"On Ameland," the commissaris said.

Miss Terpstra nodded. "And they all abused their wives. Women accepted that in those days. They don't now, as you must know."

"Yes," the commissaris said softly.

Miss Terpstra slapped the TV next to her. "I see it in there. Last night again. Did you watch the program? The lesbian communist and her forward ideas?"

"What?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes," Miss Terpstra said happily. "We women are taking over. They can't bed us anymore, those men, they've lost our greatest gift." She spoke faster. "You know what my forefathers used to do?"

"They visited whores in those long-gone days?"

Miss Terpstra's face hardened. "The habit still goes on."

"No," the commissaris said. "Maybe a long time ago. I never planned it, but it was made so easy."

"Bah," Miss Terpstra said. "To make use of the weakness of a humble minority."

"And the dogs?" the commissaris asked.

"A despicable minor habit of the time," Miss Terpstra said. "The whalers used to visit London, before returning to our island. And afterwards the whores would give them those dogs."

"Ha," the commissaris said. He slapped his hand over his mouth. "I beg your pardon, Miss Terpstra; as a sentimental reminder, you mean?"

"Yes, so that they would come again and fetch the dog's twin. You had that type"-she pointed at the larger variety, with a golden neckband-"and there was one size smaller, the one over*there, and the tiny little ones, in case my forefathers insisted on discounts. And then they would bring the miserable little beasts home and give them as presents to their wives. Well? What do you think of that?"

"Disgusting," the commissaris said.

"Men," Miss Terpstra snarled. "Douwe was no exception- poor Mem-but now we're nicely rid of him."

"And Mem spent the evening with you? The night as well?"

Miss Terpstra understood. Her voice cut through the small room. "You're thinking…?"

The commissaris retreated into an expressive silence.

"You're really thinking…?"

The commissaris smiled.

"Do you think"-Miss Terpstra's sharp icy voice became a dagger that penetrated between the commissaris's eyes- "that I-I-would tell on my own dear sister, even if she had happened to leave my apartment for a single second? That I, the doormat on which uncouth types like you have been rubbing their soiled boots for generations-that I, the abandoned, uncared-for, ignored, insulted…"

She rose slowly. One of her hands held on to her Adam's apple, the other stretched toward the door. "Leave!" Miss Terpstra shouted.

"Good-bye, Miss Terpstra," the commissaris said.

" How did it go with my sister?" Mem Scherioen asked.

The commissaris mentioned the porcelain dogs. "Yes," Mem said, "I inherited half of those mongrels, but I didn't like them much." She giggled. "Poor Jenny. Do you know that she's always cutting Playgirl pictures?"

"What does she cut?" Cardozo asked.

'There are photographs of gentlemen," Mem said. "Jenny likes to remove their equipment."

Cardozo's eyes grew, and his mouth shrank.

"She doesn't mean badly," Mem said. "She only thinks she does. Jenny hasn't developed much in her relationships with men. Men are just a little different-the same in a way, but turned around, I think." She led her visitors to the sitting room downstairs. "Are we going to have our search now, at last? I'm so glad you want to help me. I kept planning to look around myself, but it seemed like such an effort."

Cardozo apologized for not having returned Douwe's corduroy suit yet, but he told her he had dirtied it a bit and it was now at the cleaner's. Never mind, Mem said, he could keep it if he liked-although maybe not, for later, when the retarded men would appear, one of them might need it "Some small-sized fellow," Mem said kindly.

Cardozo wandered about the large room. Above a window filled with flowering vines, leatherbound books were arranged on a shelf.

"Antiques," Mem said. "Religious works. My forefathers used to read from them on Sundays. Douwe wanted to sell them. He didn't like God, because God kept loving him, but I said the books were increasing in value, so he let me keep them."

Mem fetched a small stepladder from a cupboard, and Cardozo climbed it. He picked up a book and read the title. Divine Quarterly, Part III. He turned leaves and read, Release us, dear Lord, from the slavery of adoring images ofheathen. Save us from the foreign tyranny, let peace and unity amongst us last forever.

Cardozo put the book back and took another. "Aha."

"Aha," the commissaris said.

"Aha?" asked Mem.

"We're always finding things in books," the commissaris said. "They're fashionable hiding places today. Widely advertised so that all burglars may know. They're hollowed out and made to contain jewelry, money, small firearms, dirty pictures."

"And slabs of gold," Cardozo said.

"Pass me all the heavier books," the commissaris said. Mem opened the books. "Really," Mem said. "That Douwe. Cut holes in the pages. And these books were supposed to be mine."

"But you knew, didn't you?" the commissaris said, watching Mem take the gold out and stack it neatly.

"In a way," Mem said. "I heard him doing things here at night, when he thought I was asleep. He'd take out the stepladder and hit chairs with it. I get dizzy when I stand on heights."

"So you asked us to climb the stepladder."

"I thought you wanted to do that," Mem said.

"Here," Cardozo said. "The administration of his money-lending business, on loose sheets stuck between the pages of this picture Bible. All the amounts are ticked off, so they must have been paid."

"Yes," Mem said, "I put a stop to that. I couldn't stand it, bothering poor people like that."

"And Douwe obeyed you?" the commissaris asked.

"I would have left him," Mem said firmly. "It was the only time I said I would. Douwe would have had to hire a housekeeper, and they're expensive these days."

The commissaris read the title page of a picture Bible aloud. " 'The wicked will be carried off by death, but he who loves his neighbor continues to live, even in death.'"

"Douwe never read," Mem said. She sighed. "It's so clear, why didn't he ever understand?"

"I'm not religious, Mem," the commissaris said. "I can never follow spiritual literature. What do you think the text means?"