Janwillem De Wetering - Hard Rain

"The junkie," the commissaris said, "who is no junkie and whom you failed to kill. A most courageous and talented artist. Carl."

Fernandus studied the swirling contents of his cup. "The unbalanced boy who stutters?"

"Yes."

Fernandus drank. "Yes, I didn't figure that out very well, you can't blame me for that. You always had the power of the state behind you, and I could only rely on my own weak crew. I was handicapped. Even so, I did pretty well."

"You didn't get my secretary," the commissaris said. "She was my spy. You never knew that."

Fernandus held up his cup again. "But I did, I saw through your gambit at once. I never trusted Toine." He grinned. "But what a chance! She had to play along a bit and I stretched that out as far as her imagination would go. I reconstructed Miss Bakker… heh heh."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "You sure you can drink this much? The alcohol might conk you out."

"I'll be all right."

"Sure," the commissaris said. "You'll be fine. Tomorrow you die and nobody cares. Your wife has become a fat slobbering sow. Your son waits for you in hell. The baron, your trusted right hand, will turn into a festering demon who'll spread himself all over your ghost. Heul and the junkies you overdosed in that garbage boat changed into cancerous cells that are now sucking your marrow."

"Whoa," Fernandus shouted. "Save your poetry, Jan. What brings on this petty rage? Getting sozzled already?"

"A bit." The commissaris nodded. "Just a bit. I'd better not get drunk. If I do, Katrien will be furious."

Fernandus imitated the commissaris's voice. " 'Katrien will be furious.' Here you are, sixty years old, head of the municipal police, a knight in the Order of the Queen, and you live in peril of your dragon lady."

The commissaris frowned. "Katrien wanted to come too. Be grateful she didn't."

"I would have told her about Miss Bakker," Fernandus said, slurring the edges of his words. "That's where it all started. It's so simple, looking back. That's what's nice about approaching death. Suddenly the worn-out memory becomes quite clear. Listen"- he gestured, careful not to spill his whiskey-"listen, Jan. You and I were both born of middle-aged, flat-chested mothers, that's the key to our desire. Absence of good breasts. We both tried to make Miss Bakker our mother. You succeeded because you were good at being cute. I got you off her lap. I deprived you of motherly love, of big breasts to lean your cute little head against, and to feel a bit, I saw you do that."

"No," the commissaris said. "Right. Let's assume you're right. It would have made no difference if I had stayed on Miss Bakker's lap or not. Now listen to this. I agree, we keep going back to that basic supposition, I agree that there's nothing at all. No morals. No good or evil. We made it up ourselves. We, humanity." He waved his cup wildly.

"Careful," Fernandus said.

"So there's this big empty universe," the commissaris said. "With some minute specks of matter floating around, and we're on a speck. But the speck is nothing, either. So we can do as we like. We can be friendly or unfriendly. Maybe we're clever, you and I…"

"Very clever," Fernandus said. "But what's the good of intelligence if it isn't used? You never used yours. You toed all these lines. On the tips of your toes, tongue hanging out, conforming, pleasing essentially powerless authorities like the Queen. Bah! Never daring to do anything at all on your own, refusing the good gifts. You never even had a proper car.

"I have a very nice car," the commissaris said, "serves me well, thank you, and a comfortable house, and a turtle, and a coffee pot, I've got everything. Now hold off for a minute. So maybe I'm clever. I can manipulate the others, make them do what I like. Abuse them. What good does that do?"

"There's no good," Fernandus said. "There's only our own selection of self-made values."

"Please," the commissaris said. "Don't interrupt all the time. I have manipulated people, I still do, but for their own…"He hesitated.

"Good," Fernandus finished. "There you go again. There is no good. There's pleasure and there's non-pleasure. There's tension and a nice free feeling. There's frustration and indulgence. I always went for pleasure. Whose pleasure, eh?"

"Your own," the commissaris said. "Look where you are now."

Fernandus patted his cushion. "I'm comfortable. I arranged for my own painless death tomorrow. I don't want well-wishers around when I die. Just a scientist in a nice clean coat, holding a clean needle with fast poison. I won't even feel death, for I'll be put to sleep first. Nice sleep, Jan. You're an old man too. You know how good it is to nap." He smiled. "Drift away slowly, the bright colors around you fading into all sorts of subtle soft shades. The sounds dying out, and suddenly you drift free, that's what it will be like."

"And then?"

Fernandus shook his head. "Then nothing. I'm looking forward to that. My body is old now, I'm getting rid of a faulty instrument, and my mind can go too. I had fun with it, but it's getting slow. It didn't get me out of the damned airport. The hell with my mind." He pounded the mattress. "And the hell with you."

"No," the commissaris said. "I'll go to heaven." He sighed. "Maybe you did right after all, Willem. Hell could be exciting. Heaven will be dull. Hell is probably like your club and I'd be forever looking at half-naked women and eating caviar on toast."

"You're serious?" Fernandus asked. "I also think hell will be like the Society's club, or like the motel at the lakeside. I wouldn't mind that. Being young again. I'll swim. I used to enjoy that."

"In boiling tar," the commissaris said. "And I'll be on an aromatic cloud. You hurt and I float in boredom." He emptied the bottle into the cup. "I hope the angels will send me down to relieve your pain."

"I'd pull you into the tar too," Fernandus said. "You'd be very welcome."

The commissaris got up. "You did that during our final adventure. I lost a lot of face. My men thought I was this detached eternal father who could be shaken by nothing earthly at all. Now they're bad-mouthing what's left of my image. De Gier broke away. Grijpstra gets cleverer by the day. Cardozo sees through my veils. Katrien.. ." The commissaris groaned.

"I'm sorry," Fernandus whispered.

The commissaris didn't hear.

Fernandus whispered louder.

"You're sorry?" the commissaris asked. "You?"

"I'm human," Fernandus said. "You're right. I lose. I see that now. You'd better go."

The commissaris got up.

Fernandus stirred weakly. "Help me up again, Jan, the pillows keep slipping down."

"You should rest," the commissaris said.

"I'll sit up," Fernandus said, glancing at the phone. "I'd better receive death properly."

"That'll be tomorrow," the commissaris said. " 'Bye."

The commissaris walked slowly to the elevator. He wasn't too drunk. The bottle had only been half full, and Fernandus had drunk half of that. But he wasn't sober, either. My judgment is impaired, the commissaris thought, remembering a lecture on alcoholism. Drunks have impaired judgment. Should I forgive Willem? the commissaris thought. Do I accept his humanity after all? Or am I too mellow now?

He crossed the hospital's parking lot, on his way to his car. Why had Fernandus wanted to sit up? Why had he glanced at the phone? Whom did he want to contact so urgently?

No, the commissaris thought, taking time to admire an ominous dark gray cloud filling in a piece of blue sky. Sure, policemen habitually go for the lowest motive when they analyze a suspect's activity, but Fernandus was no longer a suspect. And, under present circumstances, he himself should no longer act as a cop. Cops are human too, they forgive and forget. Hadn't Fernandus admitted to his humanity after all? Even said he was sorry?