The Mind-Murders

It was Friday night and the lush heat of summer hung under a clear and starry sky. An old model Volkswagen, dented and rusty on the edges, hesitated before entering the bridge crossing the Emperorscanal at the side of the Brewerscanal. An ordinary car, containing two ordinary men.

Perhaps not too ordinary; the driver had been called handsome, mostly by women, and some of that quality could be seen even through the dirty window that the sergeant was in the process of winding down, unveiling such currently acceptable features as a straight nose above a sweeping mustache, soft, expressive eyes, and thick, carefully combed curls.

"Doesn't work!" Rinus de Gier said. The sergeant, employed by the Amsterdam Municipal Police, criminal investigation department, and veteran of the murder brigade, turned to address his superior. "That window doesn't work. It worked yesterday. Since then you drove the car. You forced it again."

"Yes," Adjutant Grijpstra said, •'you're right. Whatever I touch malfunctions. Now drive on."

De Gier concentrated on Grijpstra's face, trying to determine the validity and seriousness of the order. He smiled. The adjutant looked peaceful and solid in the dignity of his crumpled pinstripe suit; a father figure, ten years older than the sergeant who, having passed forty, was aging himself. Grijpstra's body attitude showed what he was: a man of substance, substance of the spiritual variety, an experienced officer,
*
trustworthy, matured while grumpily serving the abstract state, committed to uphold order so that its millions of wayward citizens could carry on in their egocentric ways. Grijpstra's grizzled heavy head remained impassive under de Gier*s scrutiny, but his pale blue eyes reflected restrained impatience.

"Drive on," Grijpstra said, kindly but insistently.

De Gier observed the growing crowd milling about on the bridge. He appraised the crowd's nature and nodded approvingly. He subsequently studied the row of gabled houses displaying their seventeenth-century splendor through the branches of majestic elms lining both canals.

"A lovely spot, Grijpstra. This, I believe, is one of the better locations of the inner city. We are surrounded by decorative and beautiful architecture."

Grijpstra slipped his watch off his wrist and dangled it in front of de Gier's eyes. "It's past ten-thirty, sergeant. We are overdue at Headquarters. The job is done and we aren't working this weekend. The weekend has started."

De Gier didn't respond. Grijpstra sighed.

"We don't have to be here, Rinus, we have to be in a pub. We should be ordering our first drink. You could be telling me a story and I could be listening to you."

De Gier pointed at a cafe" ahead, a little to the right It occupied the lower story of a proud and delicate building, and its sign, the goal of the sergeant's long and straight index finger, proclaimed BEELEMA in elegant script; the word was surrounded by a garland of iron leaves.

"I haven't been to Beelema's for years, but I believe that it still attracts an intelligent clientele."

Grijpstra's calm persisted, but the wrinkles around his eyes moved.

"Beer!" he said slowly. "But I won't have it there, and you can't have any. It makes you linger near trees and I get tired of waiting for you. I'll buy you a jenever. Let's go."

De Gier's gaze slipped back to the crowd. The crowd had doubled in the last few moments and began to obstruct the quay.

"Go!" Grijpstra's elbow prodded de Gier's sensitive side. "This has nothing to do with us. Crowds are for the uniformed police. They're here. See? Their car is parked behind that truck, and there's a constable. He can take care of this. He's an excellent constable. His name is Ketchup. He's of the local station."

De Gier, after a swift glance at the adjutant's face, decided to play for time.

"Ketchup?" he asked politely.

Grijpstra tried to wave the question away.

"Yes. The constable has a somewhat violent reputation, he has been known to occasionally bloody a suspect. His mate is of the same caliber, fellow by the name of Karate. Rough maybe, but you can expect it in this area. Ketchup has been talking into his radio, he must have called for assistance. For the last time, sergeant, let's get away while we still can."

De Otter's even but slightly protruding teeth flashed. He parked the car and got out. "Half a minute, adjutant, 111 be right back."

"Evening," Ketchup said. "Did you hear my radio call for assistance? Quick service, sergeant. I know you. Do you remember that evening on the range the other night? When Karate won all the prizes? Pity that Headquarters couldn't win, but we get more practice, I suppose. You were on the team too, I believe."

"I was?"

"Oh yes. Karate is a real crack shot of course, a winner, but right now he's having a bit of trouble. He's in the canal. He's trying to save a drowning man who prefers to drown." Ketchup had to shout the last part of his sentence. The crowd's enthusiasm was increasing.

"Goal!" the crowd shouted. "Hurrah!"

De Gier shouldered his way to the bridge. The blue uniform of the swiniming policeman contrasted nicely with the deep green color of the slimy and fertile surface of the canal; then the courageous constable became invisible for a moment, as he dived to avoid the splashing attack of the drowning man's stick.

The stick was a crutch. The sergeant addressed Ketchup who had followed him to the railing.

"Is that civilian an invalid?"

"He is, sergeant."

Ketchup smiled eagerly. He was a small man, and de Gier bent down to address his subordinate.

"Explain!"

Ketchup obeyed, immediately and subserviently. Most of his report was lost in the assorted noise produced by the crowd. De Gier frowned.

"Tell me," the sergeant bellowed, "how did this start?"

Ketchup tried to step away, but the crowd pushed him back against the sergeant's chest. He repeated his narrative, shouting, abbreviating his sentences.

"Aha." De Gier had heard. He now fitted the facts together. Karate and Ketchup, driver and observer in a patrol car, were ordered to investigate a disturbance. A street seller, dispensing raw herring and onions from his stall, had telephoned his complaint to Headquarters. Hippies, so the herringman said, were interfering with his trade. The patrol car, delayed by heavy traffic and slowed by many neally fenced areas where streets were being repaired, arrived late. The herringstall was closed, and there were no hippies in sight. The constables, disappointed, did not return to their car. The evening, so far, was uneventful, and they would welcome some action. Insisting on locating disorder, they were attracted by sounds coming from café Beelema. The sounds were of breaking glass and raised voices. They charged the café. Karate, who led the charge, was hit by a crutch wielded by a drunk.

The sergeant cupped his hands and aimed his shout at Ketchup's forehead. "So you felt threatened?"

"Right, sergeant!"

"And you removed the threat by depositing your man in the Emperorscanal?"

"Right! So that we could create a temporary point of rest. There were other troublemakers: a fat man dressed in leather, a male model in his nighties, and a younger female who yelled. They supported the crutchclubber. They were ringleaders. There was a dog."

"It attacked you?"

"It growled."

De Gier observed the policeman in the canal, popping up in various places. He shrugged. "You didn't go for your guns?"

Ketchup smiled politely. "No."

The drowning man renewed his attack. His crutch hit the spot that had held Karate's head. The crowd approved. "016!"

"Please sergeant, assist Karate. I'll discipline the crowd." Ketchup had found a hole; he slipped away.

De Gier began to undress. He removed the silk scarf from his tapered shirt and looked around. Grijpstra approached and held up his arm. De Gier deposited the scarf. He took off his jacket. He slipped out of the straps that held the gun holstered under his armpit. He stepped out of his trousers. A girl pushed Grijpstra away and admired the stripping sergeant. The girl's girlfriend also pushed Grijpstra.

"Lovely," the first girl said.

"Ooh-ooh!" the second girl said and repeated her statement while de Gier displayed his wide shoulders, his long and muscled back, his narrow waist, and his straight legs.

"The legs are too thin," the first girl said, "not that I mind. Nice, eh?"

The second girl stuck to her original observation. The first girl nudged her.

"Yes," the second girl said, "I like his eyes too, and his curls. Let's wait for him afterward and ask if he is for hire."

De Gier stepped over the railing, hesitated, and jumped. While he jumped he thought it was a pity. The case was not out of the ordinary: a drunk in a canal, it might not happen every day but it certainly happened every week. He had, when he spotted the disturbance, hoped for a little more. He needed work to fill the emptiness of the coming weekend. He saw, while he fell (the mind is fast), an aphorism neatly lettered on the slow green swell of the canal's surface.
Emptiness is the deviYs headpillow.
Then a word changed. Emptiness is the
smoker's
headpillow. Not having anything to do for two empty days would sorely make him smoke again. He hadn't smoked for five days now. The threatening peace and horrifying quiet of the weekend ahead would break his effort. The weekend would destroy him unless
splash!
The splash exploded both aphorism and reflection. (The mind may be fast, but still moves within time.) De Gier, excused from the duty to think, experienced the sensations of becoming wet and dirty. A condom curled itself around his toe, a soggy newspaper brushed past his mouth, his wrists were linked by a pale green waterweed. He muttered and shook off the condom. The newspaper floated on. He broke the waterweed. He determined his position. His body had turned while it fell, and he no longer saw the constable and the civilian but a row of legs belonging to an orderly line of spectators settled on a tree, felled by age and lying across the canal. The eyes of the spectators were hostile. De Gier breathed out; the rippling water rose to his mouth.

"Watch out!" shouted Karate.

De Gier turned and saw a blond head and a pink hand. The enemy watched him from bloodshot eyes. His spluttering mouth blew a bubble, a balloon that had to be more than mere spittle-film, for it didn't burst, managed to detach itself from the man's extended lips, and wafted away. The crutch was raised, ready to come down, and de Gier spread his arms and propelled himself backward. The crutch came down and shot up again. De Gier's rowing arms provided more distance.

Grijpstra had seen enough. Hindered by jostling bodies and deafened by rough voices the adjutant struggled, liberated himself, and found an abandoned handcart chained to a tree well away from the disturbance. He climbed the cart, careful not to tip it, and admired the view—a perfect square bordered by bridge, quaysides, and the tumbled elm tree—the arena where the law fought its formidable opponent. He averted his eyes. The view might be interesting but he didn't enjoy its irregular motion. He preferred what lay beyond its limits and observed calm water supporting two black geese with fiery red and bulbous beaks, and glittering eyes. Grijpstra thought that he recognized the scene and searched his memory for associations. The requested information appeared promptly. He saw clearly remembered paintings, created by Melcbior Hondecoeter, a medieval artist inspired by birds. The adjutant saw pheasants in a snow-covered cemetery, a giant woodcock defending itself with swollen purple throat and half-raised wings against the attack of jealous peacocks, and sooty coots landing on a castle pond surrounded by crumbling moss-grown walls. He nodded, but Hondecoeter had forgotten to portray these exotic geese, floating in arrogant glory on a green swell of luminous water mirroring steeply rising silver-gray mansions, holding on to each other in their great age.

Grijpstra looked up. The narrow gable frames supported golden balls flanking a stonework angel raising his trumpet The tall trees, carrying heavy loads of leaves, reached for the angel. The adjutant sighed. He would like to do this painting himself, and perhaps he could, but he would need some rest and unlittered space. His small apartment offered neither. He thought of his flat-footed heavy wife and the overflow of furniture, stacked under low ceilings, in a haze of kitchen smells.

He was ready to sigh again, when the rocking cart forced him into a lopsided dance. An old woman climbed the cart, an ugly shape topped by a glistening skull spotted by transparent clusters of gray trailing hair. She peered at him from watery eyes pressed by puffy skinbags. Her teeth clacked as she spoke.

"Isn't it terrible? Yes, it's terrible. That's my neighbor, Frits Fortune. He doesn't do nothing. It's no sin to be drunk. I order more beer and Frits goes to get it and falls. His crutch gets away and breaks the glasses. We jump about, me and the others, to get hold of Frits and save the drink and down he goes again. The fuzz rushes in. It beats us with nightsticks. Frits gets offthe floor and his crutch hits the fuzz, right on the smacker. Accident, everybody knows he don't mean it, but the fuzz knows nothing. They drag Frits out and dump him in the canal. We're friends so we put in a word. I did, and Zhaver, he's the barman, and Titania, she's the barmaid, and Borry Beelema, he's the boss, he also runs the hair salon on the other side. Borry always helps, he does, God's other son we call him, you know? So Borry, he grabs a bottle and
hey hey
we all shout and back comes the fuzz. Then we do nothing, for the fuzz has guns." She waved a claw.

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