Janwillem De Wetering - Hard Rain

A thunderclap preceded sudden hard-driving rain, blotting out the shots, two insignificant little bangs compared to the divine anger bursting forth, booming in splendor. When the rain fell, IJsbreker fell too. The rain splashed on the windowsill, into the open window on the body and the floor. Outside it lashed at the tarmac, houseboats, and parked cars, whipped trembling leaves on gigantic elms, cut into the quiet water of the canal, split myriad tiny waves that the sudden storm brushed up.

The corpse lay quietly, after a spasm that made its long legs kick and its balding head shudder. The sprawling body was lit up by lightning flashes. The city of Amsterdam, surprised by the sudden change in heavenly temper-for it had been a pristine day in spring, windless under a protective dome of clear sky -waited quietly for the rain to subside. The Godfearing citizenry of the Binnenkant, meaning "Inner Side," where bank director Martin IJsbreker resided in a luxurious, fully restored, medieval gable house, were safely home, most likely in bed, for the tiny shots cracked at 11:00 P.M. The rain was so hard that it even blocked traffic. Both quays of the Binnenkant, lit by rustic streetlights, were devoid of movement. Nothing stirred, except the elm's branches, begging forgiveness of the rain, as they tried to spring up and were cruelly pushed down again, until four dim shapes darted up the stone steps leading to the banker's freshly painted front door. They slipped through the door, which gave way willingly enough, and three of them ran up the dark stairs. The fourth followed awkwardly, waving both arms, dragging one leg. Because of the rolling thunder outside, exploding every few seconds into sharp, jagged reports, accompanied by flashes of brittle bright light, the forms could have been demons, flushed from the inner city's drains, eager to take over while normally forbidden territory was stunned, and no longer aware. But demons jabber, and the shadowy figures spoke, in a mixture of Dutch and English. Two were looking down at the body.

"Dead?" the third asked.

The fourth stumbled into the room, lurched forward, and held on to a leather couch. "Don't touch," the third shadow hissed. "Fingerprints, you know."

"Yes," a female voice whispered. "Give me the gun." The barrel trembled near the corpse's face while she waited for the thunder to rumble again. When it came, the room shook and lightning flashed instantaneously, adding revealing details to what had been mere forms. No one heard the shot, not even the girl who fired it, but there was the acrid smell of gunpowder. Her haggard face twisted. Blond hair peeped from her hooded jacket.

"Put it in his hand."

She didn't respond to the hissed order, so her companion, a black young man, tsk'd impatiently and knelt down too, taking the gun from her hand and wiping it with his handkerchief, before arranging the pistol carefully in the dead man's hand.

His mate, a curly-headed man in his late twenties, was staring at the corpse. "Hurry," he said shrilly. "This is bad shit. Let's get out of here. Grab the loot." The fourth intruder had sat down on the couch, half turned, wiping the leather upholstery with his arm.

"Right," the black man said in English, rolling his r, "we know what to take, the paintings, right? And the vases? We leave the cabinet here? The cabinet is too much bother."

"The cabinet goes," the girl said. "It's a rosewood antique. The man wants it, too. He'll be outside any minute now."

"There's more junk downstairs," the curly-haired man said, "More paintings and the Peruvian stuff. We're lifting a fortune for the man."

"The pay better be good," the black man said.

"No pay. Junk for junk."

"Then the junk better be good."

"Best Nepalese," the girl whispered, "That's what he said."

"I heard that before," the black man snarled. "They'll cut the shit out of it with crap."

"Maybe we're short on choices." The curly-haired man whirled around. "What are we waiting for? Let's grab treasure."

The girl got up. "You okay, Carl? You don't have to be here. You shouldn't have come."

The young man on the couch managed, with some trouble, to stand on wobbly legs. "Yehess." He was dressed better than the others, in a clean striped shirt and spotless pressed jeans. His face, when not contorted because of the necessity to speak, was quite handsome. His recently cut hair had been combed neatly. His arms were waving wildly as he steered his body to a wall. "I'll get this puh-painting."

"Oh," the girl wailed. "The letter, I left it in the boat." She almost cried. "I'm always so disorganized.'"'

"Get it," the curly-haired man snapped. "If we don't do everything just right, we'll lose out altogether."

"I feel sick, Jimmy."

He pushed her to the door. "Go. Go! We'll pile up the stuff, take it downstairs."

The black man stared at the rain running down the windowsill, making a puddle on the floor. "Keep cool, man, the weather is helping out."

"Go!" the curly-haired man screamed. "You too. The man'll be in the street with his truck. We'll be exposed, carrying this shit."

"Yes, white man boss." The black man was lifting paintings off the wall.

The girl came running back, out of breath. "Here's the letter."

The curly-haired man put the paper on a low table, placing a vase on the letter so that it wouldn't blow away. Gusts of wet wind made the letter flap. The neatly dressed young man carried a painting into the corridor. The girl followed, a vase in each hand. "Go away, Carl, you really shouldn't be here."

"The muh-man asked me too."

"That's all right," the curly-haired man said, switching to Dutch with an American accent. "Go down. Go home. We'll tell him you were in on it. You'll get your share."

"Kuh-keep it."

The girl kissed his cheek.

"I can do sun-something." He staggered back into the room.

"No," the girl said. "Go. We don't want you in jail."

The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but thunder still rolled over the city. The young man carried paintings as the others lugged the rosewood cabinet down the stairs. A truck engine rumbled outside. The driver stayed in the truck cab while the four robbers loaded paintings and vases in a frantic hurry. They banged the vehicle's side when they were done. The girl and the curly-haired man ran off. The black man looked around.

"Coming to the boat? The man'll be there later."

"Noho. Tuh-tomorrow." The young man stumbled away, trying to stay on the narrow sidewalk.

"Shame," a neatly dressed middle-aged woman said, safe behind her folded umbrella, warding him off with its sharp point. "A nice young man like you."

"Sssshame, ma'am?"

"Yes, you're dead drunk."

"Just sssspahastic."

"I'm sorry," the woman said, dropping her umbrella, staring into his face, "I am sorry."

The young man shuffled on, jerking his shoulders, twisting his head, throwing out his arms.

"Don't take a Dutch paper," the Commissaris's wife said as the stewardess came by. "When you do, we're back. Now we're still in Vienna."

"For the cartoons?" the commissaris said. He took the paper.

"Since when do you read cartoons?" his wife asked. "Oh, didn't we have a lovely holiday? Don't you feel rested?"

The commissaris grunted as he scanned the headlines.

"Do you, Jan?"

"I feel dehydrated," the commissaris said. "All those medicinal steam baths dried out my legs. And I'm overstuffed. The cooking was too rich."

"You drank too much," his wife said. "Your brother and you are a bad combination. He brings out the worst in you."

"I bring out the best in him," the commissaris said. "But even his best is a bit boring."