Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

Grijpstra laughed.

"You are in Holland, van Meteren. Cheese, butter and eggs. Tulips. Windmills keeping the swamp dry. Nice crumbly potatoes and thick gravy. Gray porridge, so thick that you can hardly stir it. But all right, if you like we will be sorcerers and witches. We'll catch the murderer by creating a vibration."

"Yes," de Gier said, "and the vibration will rush off, and suddenly, hats, it will catch him and bring him to us. And when he is close enough we'll hand him the ballpoint and he'll sign his confession."

"In his own words," Grijpstra added, "and clearly enumerating all the elements of the crime as it is listed in the law."

Van Meteren relaxed.

"But the music was O.K., wasn't it?" he asked.

"Yes," de Gier said, "rock group The Bopcops," and he looked at his watch. "Six o'clock. I'll have to go home. To feed the cat."

"You'll have to take the bus," Grijpstra said. "We have no car."

"Bah," de Gier said. "It's rush hour. The buses will be full. Bodies sweating all over you."

"Where do you live?" van Meteren asked.

"In Buitenveldert. Why? Do you have a car?"

"No," van Meteren said, "the parking police pay modest wages. But I do have a motorcycle."

De Gier wasn't enthusiastic. He detested the motorized bicycles cluttering the capital's streets by the thousands but he didn't want to offend his incongruous colleague.

"That'll be very nice," he said, "if you can spare the time."

"As long as you'll be back soon," Grijpstra said. "I am going to have dinner at the Chinese restaurant on the Nieuwedijk, next to the bare-bottom cinema. I'd like you to be there at seven-thirty. Can you make that?"

De Gier nodded and followed van Meteren.

They crossed the busy thoroughfare and van Meteren led the way into the large court of the monstrous Land Registry Office opposite the Haarlemmer Houttuinen.

"They let me park her here," he said. 'They wouldn't have anything to do with me when I asked them but it was all right when I showed them my police card."

"Must be a new bicycle," de Gier thought, "a Kreidler, I suppose, with a fifty cc engine. Half a dozen of them are stolen every night."

They found the Harley-Davidson under a corrugated iron roof.

De Gier stopped. He recognized the model, a 1943 Harley of the Liberator type, which he had seen for the first time when the Allied armies rushed into Holland. He had been a twelve-year-old boy, waving at the side of the road, and a large American military policeman had waved back at him, firmly in the saddle of the gorgeous monster guiding a dozen halftracks loaded with cheering troops. The motorbike seemed to be in prime condition, spotless, white, its chromium plated exhaust gleaming in the sparse light of the large dark court.

"You like her?" van Meteren asked.

"Beautiful," de Gier said, and meant it. "Where did you get her?"

"From a junkyard, for a couple of hundred guilders," van Meteren said.

"We used them in the New Guinea police and I was trained on a similar machine, many years ago now. When I bought the wreck she was in very sad shape and it took me almost two years to strip and rebuild her again. The spare parts are very expensive so I tried to use all the old parts, but it was a lot of work. The gearbox was the worst part of the job, I had to replace it in the end, after having wasted a month on the bastard. And the leather sidebags are new, of course, or rather, unused. I bought them from an army dump and the leather had dried out and begun to crack. I must have used kilos of fat to restore them."

He kicked the Harley off her standard and began to push her out of the courtyard. The machine was so heavy that it was quite an effort to push her up the slight elevation toward the street.

"A little patience now," van Meteren said. "I'll start her up."

De Gier followed the process with interest. The clutch had to be kicked down. There was no spring to the clutch so that it couldn't resume a neutral position but would have to be adjusted continuously. On the tank an air-stopper had to be unscrewed and pulled up. Choke. Regulation of the ignition by turning the left handlebar. Gas pushed back by turning the right handlebar. Kick the starter four times, giving a little gas each time, to suck petrol into the two cylinders. Turn the key on the tank. Push the choke back but not quite back.

"Now," said van Meteren.

He kicked the starter again and the engine came to life, with a soft but powerful gurgle.

"Do you have to do all that?" de Gier asked surprised.

"Yes," van Meteren said. "If you forget any of the movements you can kick the starter till your sweat fills your shoes. I can do it a lot more quickly but I saw you watching me so I went slowly. It can be done in a few seconds, and even a few seconds is a long time in New Guinea, especially when someone is firing at you with a bren gun."

He made an inviting gesture and de Gier climbed on the back part of the double saddle, van Meteren slid onto the front part and the machine took off at once. De Gier looked at the old-fashioned gear lever attached to the tank and thought of the BMW he once used to ride himself and the easy footgear that he could move with a flick of the toe. But van Meteren handled the cumbersome gear with the same ease.

De Gier was frightened. A motorcycle gives no protection. Only the skin envelops your life, the merest touch of a car or a lamppost and your leg is gone, your shoulder crushed or your skull split.

But his fear went when he realized that this was the best trip he had ever made through the city of Amsterdam. Van Meteren chose the grachts and sidegrachts and rode, without the slightest shock, through the narrow streets. He took no risks and the machine slithered through the rush-hour traffic. At every traffic light they were the first to take off and the Papuan never seemed to use his brakes, approaching the stoplights in gear and guessing the exact moment when the lights changed. A car that ignored their right of way was avoided in a supple curve and de Gier, pressed against the small body of his host, felt no irritation with the thoughtless or offensive driver who had endangered their lives. An obstacle, skillfully passed, no more.

When, at the end of the Beethovenstreet, the heavy traffic thinned out, van Meteren allowed the Harley to pick up speed and de Gier saw, when he looked over the Papuan's shoulder, that they were doing almost a hundred, but there was no danger, there were no sidestreets and de Gier watched the fat reed-plums, bordering the canal, flashing past him as a solid curtain and felt free.

The Harley slowed down and de Gier pointed at the large block of flats that contained his small apartment. Van Meteren changed into neutral and turned the key. The motorcycle approached the front door in silence. The Harley was in very good repair indeed, de Gier thought. He couldn't detect the slightest rattle or squeak anywhere in its complicated engine.

"Very nice," de Gier said. "Thanks a lot. Only the motorcops ride like that but they use BMW's and Guzzi's. I wonder if they could duplicate your performance on a Harley."

"Of course they can do that," said van Meteren. "I have ridden other makes when I was with the New Guinea police. Each brand has its secret, but you can solve them within a week and if there are any faults you can make use of them. The Harley is a little slow but makes up for it by its reliability. You can risk all sorts of maneuvers on the Harley that you shouldn't even think about on another cycle.

"Come in a moment," de Gier said. "I have some beer in the fridge and you can drink it while I feed Oliver, but be careful with the cat. He isn't to be trusted and if he can't attack you straight away he'U wait for an opportunity and while he waits he looks very innocent, as if a mouse wouldn't melt in his mouth."