Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

"Yes," Beuzekom said, "and I graduated in the shortest possible number of years. I was, the professors said, a remarkably intelligent student. But I never got a job. Well, I did get a sort of job, assistant to somebody's assistant, at about the same pay a bus driver gets. So I got myself fired. I hadn't studied to become a clerk."

"So you aren't working now," de Gier said.

"No," Beuzekom said, "I don't work. I get unemployment pay, eighty percent of my last wage."

"Nonsense," de Gier said, "this is an expensive house and you are living in style."

"Part of a house," Beuzekom corrected.

"An expensive part of a house," de Gier repeated. "Sorry. But it is expensive. High rent. And you must have things in it worth at least fifty thousand."

"Where?" Ringma asked. He jumped off his settee and began to run around the room. "Where? Where? Fifty red backs. You see fifty red backs anywhere Beuz?"

"Easy now," Beuzekom said. "We don't have fifty thousand worth of things in the house. Our guest is dreaming aloud."

"Balls," de Gier said. "Color TV, three thousand at least, antique furniture, restored, worth twenty thousand, carpets worth eight, old paintings worth fifteen. Clothes, at least five. I am over fifty thousand already, do you want me to go on?"

"You can go on forever," Beuzekom said, "but you talk rubbish. Ten thousand would just about cover the lot. The TV was bought new but I got a nice discount. The other stuff was all bought at auctions, or at factory prices, or in some other intelligent way. You don't think I am the type who allows himself to be robbed by shopkeepers do you? You can save about seventy percent markup if you know how to go about it."

"Maybe you can save thirty percent," de Gier said, "and then I can still count up to fifty thousand in this house."

"I inherited some money from my father," Beuzekom said.

"Are you working, Ringma?" de Gier asked.

Beuzekom had gone to the bar to fill his glass again and turned around halfway.

"I am a pimp, sir," he said, "but don't tell anyone. My little mate earns a lot of money. But not illegally, he even declares his income. We occasionally have a sugar uncle who visits our little mate. How much did you write in your taxform last year, Ringma?"

"Twenty," Ringma said.

"So you see?" Beuzekom asked. "My nice little self-employed charmer. Twenty red backs he earned, all with his little bottom. And some of it we spent on furniture and what have you, and it's all around you. We don't deal in drugs. Drugs are dangerous. You people caught me once. I don't like being caught. I am still a dealer, but not in drugs."

"Aren't you driving around in a little Mercedes bus?" de Gier asked. "Those buses aren't cheap, you know."

"Don't be an utter bore," Beuzekom said. "Your lot never know where to stop. On and on and on and on. That Mercedes camper is in my brother's name. He bought the bus for his holidays but his garage is full, you can't put three cars into one garage. So I have the bus when he doesn't need her for his holidays. I have a garage and I look after the car. I am his only brother and he likes me. Do you want to see the car's registration?"

"Please," de Gier said.

Beuzekom lost his temper.

"All right, I'll show it to you. But after that you can clear out. I haven't done anything, I won't do anything and I'll never do anything that would land me in jail again. I didn't get my brains for nothing. I deal in antique furniture, in Persian rugs, in odd lots, in anything that'll give me a good profit. Within a year I'll register my business. I have been at it for more than a year now and I am a hardworking and patient man. The turnover is growing. I thought you were a pleasant fellow when you came in and you have your job to do but you shouldn't make an ass of yourself."

"You can give me another drink," de Gier said and held up his glass.

"I'd like to shuffle around for a bit," Ringma said. "You like music, filthy fuzz?"

"Yes," de Gier said.

"Well, if you do, you can select your own tune," Ringma said and pointed at the lowest shelf of the bookcase that contained several feet of stacked records.

De Gier took his glass to the bookcase, sat down, and looked through the records. He took his time and Beuzekom filled his glass again. De Gier selected a Japanese record, showing a picture of a fluteplayer on its cover.

The flute was a bamboo flute and the music very delicate. It seemed as if its notes were altogether different from the notes de Gier could abstract from his own metal flute. De Gier remembered that he had read about bamboo flutes. Their insides cannot be calculated and each flute has its individual sound, depending on the uneven parts inside the naturally formed bamboo, even depending on the thin hairs and splinters waving about with each breath of air.

De Gier stretched out on the thick carpet and listened to the flute. He was drunk. He hadn't had much to eat that day, sandwiches at the police canteen and a bowl of hot noodles at a Chinese restaurant. The seven glasses of whisky had changed his perception. The flute made him tremble a little. He saw a temple and a whisp of a girl, dancing on a balcony, the night was very black behind her but some mysterious light showed up her movements. And the flute went on. The vision became so real that he surrendered completely to it, leaving the world of crime and misery in which he had plodded all day, all year, all his life it seemed. His thoughts were very quick it seemed, clicking through his brain. He switched off his thoughts and returned to the vision. A temple, a dancing girl on its balcony and he, the observer. He had to bundle what little force he could muster to return to the room of the house in Amsterdam. He was a detective again, investigating a crime, questioning two suspects in their own surroundings, only interested in information and prepared to perform a little act to get close to the source of the required information. He opened his eyes and sat up.

He saw Ringma dance. Beuzekom had switched off the lights of the room and only the light of the streetlamps filtering through the curtains lit the frail little body. Of Ringma's ratface and balding head nothing could be seen. Ringma danced, using small steps, hardly lifting his feet. Suddenly he crouched, making himself very small, and jumped. He jumped high, nearly touching the ceiling and landed elasticly. He stood still and started a movement of his arms and hands, silhouetting against the white curtains. Ringma was a doll, a bewitched doll moving mechanically, drawing life from someone else. De Gier looked around and saw Beuzekom, still standing behind the bar, staring fixedly at his little friend.

The flute broke halfway through a note, there was the metal sound of a gong suddenly struck, the record stopped and Ringma collapsed.

Beuzekom walked over to his friend and patted him softly on the head. "My little mate used to be a ballet dancer once," he said to de Gier.

"Let's have a drink," Ringma said hoarsely, "a tiny little drink, Beuz."

Beuzekom poured him a small whisky.

"That was very good," de Gier said.

After a few minutes the conversation started again.

Beuzekom had lit a thick church candle and was observing his visitor.

"How much do you make in the police?" he asked.

"Not much," de Gier answered.

"What's your rank?"

"Sergeant," de Gier said.

"So you'll be earning about fifteen hundred or two thousand a month, I expect."

"That's about right."

"You could get that anywhere," Beuzekom said. "I think an inspector of the city's cleaners gets more."

"And what do you earn?" de Gier asked.

"A lot," Beuzekom said. "More than you'll ever earn if you stay with the same boss. Why don't you work for me? I do all right but there are a lot of things I could do if I had someone working with me, someone like you. I wouldn't pay you a wage but a percentage. You could make more on one deal, a deal taking a few weeks, than you are now making in a year. Do you speak any languages?"