Janwillem De Wetering: Outsider in Amsterdam

Grijpstra scratched the stubbles of his beard. De Gier was still wandering through the restaurant.

"I didn't notice any smell of liquor," Grijpstra said, "perhaps a whiff. A glass of sherry maybe. But I don't think he was drunk. I didn't even find a glass in the room. I looked out the window but I didn't notice any splinters in the street. I'll check when we go home. He may have thrown the bottle out the window. Drunks often do. But I don't think Piet would have thrown a bottle out the window. I think we agree on his neatness. Somehow I can't believe that a neat man, living in a clean room in a well organized house, and dressed nicely, with combed hair and a beautiful mustache, will commit suicide."

De Gier looked at the statue of the dancing Indian Goddess. "Yes," he said. "Suicidal people lose their self- discipline. They don't shave anymore and have meals at odd times. They have accidents, they drop things. They don't make their beds. I remember the psychologist told us about it at the police school. Could be. But I could imagine a neat man hanging himself using a good piece of rope knotted into a perfect noose, and hung from a strong hook, screwed tightly into a solid beam. Why not? Perhaps there are neat suicides, we'll have to look it up in the library and we can ask the chief. Psychology is his hobby, they say."

Grijpstra went on scratching.

"Yes. And you may still be right. Perhaps he didn't drink anything but used a drug. A drugged person can fall too. There were no marks on his arms and legs but he may have sniffed cocaine or taken a pill. He hadn't smoked, there was no ashtray and no ash in the wastebasket. I asked the girls; he didn't smoke at all, they said. Funny, I had the impression they were lying. Why lie about smoking?"

"Hash," de Gier said. "He probably smoked hash and they did too, and they didn't want us to know."

"Hash doesn't make you fall over and bump your head," Grijpstra said.

De Gier shrugged. "I'm tired. Let's find out tomorrow. I want to go home but we still have to talk to van Meteren, he is waiting for us in his room upstairs. I sent the girls to bed; if they have been lying we can grill them tomorrow. We have to find out about that money as well. Perhaps there is a connection." * Dutch municipal police ranks are constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissairs. An adjutant is a noncommissioned officer.

" Would you like some tea?" asked Van Meteren.

"Coffee," said de Gier and Grijpstra in one voice. They were facing him, sitting on a low bed, with their heads leaning against the wall. It was close to midnight now and de Gier was exhausted; he had visions of his small but comfortable bachelor's flat in the south of the city. He felt the hot water of his shower streaming down his back and the foaming soap on his shoulders. The old gable house with its endless corridors and nooks and crannies began to get on his nerves and the imitation Eastern atmosphere stifled him, although he had to agree that van Meteren's room exhaled a pleasant influence. It was a fairly large room, with whitewashed walls and the floor was covered with a worn but lovely Persian rug. On a shelf along the width of one entire wall van Meteren had displayed a number of objects that interested de Gier. He studied them quickly, one by one, the strangely shaped stones, the shells, the dried flowers and the skull of a large animal, a wild boar perhaps. Van Meteren sat on the floor, on a thick cushion, cross-legged, relaxed and patient, the black hard curls framing his flat skull silhouetted against the white wall, lit up by a light placed on the floor opposite him.

Van Meteren pursed his lips.

"I have no coffee here. The bar will be closed now. The bar is the only place where coffee is served. To drink coffee is really against the rules of the society. Piet always said that coffee excites."

He poured tea from a large thermos flask, decorated with Chinese characters. Grijpstra and de Gier were given a small cup each. They sipped and pulled faces. Van Meteren laughed. "It's an acquired taste. This is very good tea, perhaps the best we can buy in Amsterdam. It's a green tea, very refined, first choice. Tea activates but relaxes at the same time. To drink tea is an art."

"Art?" Grijpstra asked.

"Art. A man who know how to drink tea is a detached man, a free man."

"Detached from what?" asked de Gier.

"Detached from himself, from his greed, his hurry, his own importance. His own suffering."

"That's nice," Grijpstra said. "Did you hear that, de Gier?"

Van Meteren waved a small black hand. "Your colleague heard. He is an intelligent man."

"Thank you," said de Gier. "Could I have another cup of your delicious tea?"

Van Meteren poured another cup, showing his teeth in a wide smile.

"And now tell us," Grijpstra said. "What exactly are you doing in this house? Who are you? What does this Society represent? Who was Piet?"

"Yes," de Gier said, "and do you like coffee? Or are you only refusing to drink it because it is against Piet's rules?"

Van Meteren gazed at them. "You are asking a lot of questions at the same time. Where shall I start?"

"Wherever you like," Grijpstra said. De Gier nodded contentedly. Grijpstra was using their usual tactics. De Gier usually asked the unpleasant questions and Grijpstra acted "father," the kind force in the background. Sometimes they changed roles. Sometimes they left the room and only one of them would return, to be replaced by the other. They would do anything to make the suspect talk. The suspect had to talk, that was the main thing, and they could sort out the information as it came. And their tactics usually worked. The suspects talked, far more than they intended to. And very often they confessed, or served as witnesses. And then they would sign their statements and the officers could go home, tired and content.

But de Gier's contentment was shortlived. Van Meteren wasn't the usual suspect. And he didn't say anything. De Gier observed his opponent. A weird figure, even in the inner city of Amsterdam. Small, dark and pleasant. Dark blue trousers and a clean close-fitting shirt with vertical stripes so that van Meteren looked a little taller than he was. Self-possessed. Conscious even. Do conscious people exist, de Gier asked himself. People who know what they are doing and who are aware of the situation they are in?

Grijpstra observed too. He saw a man of some forty years old, small and graceful. He had also classified the suspect as a Papuan. Grijpstra had fought in the former Dutch Indies and remembered the faces of a couple of professional soldiers who had joined his unit for an attack in difficult mountainous terrain. Papuans, very unusual types, contrasting with the much lighter-skinned soldiers from Ambon who had made up the bulk of Grijpstra's men. The Papuans revered a colored photograph of the queen, pinned up in their tent. Very courageous they were, but he never got to know them well. They were dead within a few days. They had volunteered for a sniping patrol and the Javanese got them after a fight of a few hours. Two Papuans who had killed nearly fifty enemies with their tommy guns. The Javanese had caught one Papuan alive, they had "tjingtjanged" him, cut him up with their razorsharp "krisses," starting at the feet.

"Your father came from Holland?" Grijpstra asked.

"My grandfather," van Meteren said. "My grandmother was a Papuan, a chief's daughter. My grandfather worked for the government, he was only a petty official, but a petty official is very powerful in New Guinea. My mother is also a pure Papuan, she is still alive and lives in Hollandia. I arrived here eight years ago. I had to choose in nineteen hundred and sixty-five whether I wanted to be an Indonesian or Dutch. I chose to be Dutch and had to run for my life."