hand grenades on his belt; quite a young man still, and he had lost his mind. He was yelling at us and pointing at the clouds. We took his weapons and he never noticed. He was singing by then. We tried to send him off, for a prisoner would slow us down; we were about to attack."
"Yes," the commissaris said.
"I was the sergeant," Troelstra said. "I was supposed to know what to do. My men were looking up to me. The Russian was stamping on the snow, screaming some ditty, frothing at the mouth, eyes popping out of his head. We were close to the enemy, and he was giving our position away."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "I could have some more coffee."
"Java Mocha," Troelstra said. 'Too good a brand for this place but I'm getting too old to make a profit."
"Yes?"
"I took that Russian along," Troelstra said, "with my arm around his shoulders, friendly-like, I was his older brother. He pulled away and ran into the trees; when I found him again, he was talking to an oak."
"You shot him?"
"Yes."
"And that's the way Scherjoen was helped out?"
"I wouldn't know," Troelstra said slowly.
An old man shuffled into the caf6, in a dirty raincoat and frayed trousers. "Jelle, a lemonade today."
Jelle poured soda, holding the gin jar in his left hand. The old man studied first the jar, then his own trembling hands, clutching at the counter. "Yes, go ahead."
The gin joined the lemonade in the tall glass. Jelle lifted the jar but didn't replace it. "Right," the old man said. The jar tinkled again. The man drank. He put the glass down. "Aaah," the man said happily.
"I only meant," Troelstra said to the commissaris, "that things are often not quite what they seem. So I betrayed my country. Maybe I did. Maybe it wasn't meant that way."
"You meant well?"
"Things had to get better, didn't they?" Troelstra asked. "And they got worse. Isn't that the human way? We mean well and we become active and we go down even further."
"In the beginning • • •"
"... there was God." Troelstra scratched his chin. "But where did He go? I sometimes think about that a bit."
The man in the dirty raincoat rattled his glass. "Same again, Jelle." Jelle poured from bottle and jar. The man's toothless smile widened. "Nice day today."
Troelstra and the commissaris said that the old man was right.
"It's all so easy," the old man said, "but I keep forgetting, and it takes a few glasses to remember it again. To keep it easy can be rather tricky."
"You generally succeed?" the commissaris asked.
"I've got a strong character," the old man said. "I never stop trying. No matter what they do to me. They won't knock me over."
"Let's have the bill," the commissaris said.
Troelstra looked out the window. Shadows moved through the street, dating back to a far past. Comrades-in-arms? A dying Russian? Wild men, with bones through their noses? An assistant inspector who didn't handcuff the traitor and took him to Headquarters in a streetcar?
"That won't be necessary," Troelstra said. "I still owe you. You kept me alive. I could experience a few good moments. New Guinea is beautiful, there are some fine birds out there, colorful, with long tails, and flowering shrubs that grow nowhere else. The voyage, there and back, tropical seas, palm trees on beaches, going on for miles. And the café here at the end, I don't mind doing this."
"Scherjoen?" the commissaris asked.
"Can't help you there."
The commissaris didn't catch on at once. He wondered whether he should ask.
"Is there something else you can help me with?"
"Last week..." Troelstra interrupted himself and looked at the old man, who was smiling and occupied with rolling a cigarette. "Would you mind moving up?" he asked the commissaris, who got off his stool and followed the coffee cup that Troelstra slid across the counter.
"Last week," Troelstra said softly, "two heavy boys came here to have a few. A certain Ary, small chap and bald, and a certain Fritz, big fellow with a tuft of stiff hair on his big head.
"Yes," the commissaris said.
"I was the sergeant," Troelstra said. "I was supposed to know what to do. My men were looking up to me. The Russian was stamping on the snow, screaming some ditty, frothing at the mouth, eyes popping out of his head. We were close to the enemy, and he was giving our position away."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "I could have some more coffee."
"Java Mocha," Troelstra said. 'Too good a brand for this place but I'm getting too old to make a profit."
"Yes?"
"I took that Russian along," Troelstra said, "with my arm around his shoulders, friendly-like, I was his older brother. He pulled away and ran into the trees; when I found him again, he was talking to an oak."
"You shot him?"
"Yes."
"And that's the way Scherjoen was helped out?"
"I wouldn't know," Troelstra said slowly.
An old man shuffled into the caf6, in a dirty raincoat and frayed trousers. "Jelle, a lemonade today."
Jelle poured soda, holding the gin jar in his left hand. The old man studied first the jar, then his own trembling hands, clutching at the counter. "Yes, go ahead."
The gin joined the lemonade in the tall glass. Jelle lifted the jar but didn't replace it. "Right," the old man said. The jar tinkled again. The man drank. He put the glass down. "Aaah," the man said happily.
"I only meant," Troelstra said to the commissaris, "that things are often not quite what they seem. So I betrayed my country. Maybe I did. Maybe it wasn't meant that way."
"You meant well?"
"Things had to get better, didn't they?" Troelstra asked. "And they got worse. Isn't that the human way? We mean well and we become active and we go down even further."
"In the beginning • • •"
"... there was God." Troelstra scratched his chin. "But where did He go? I sometimes think about that a bit."
The man in the dirty raincoat rattled his glass. "Same again, Jelle." Jelle poured from bottle and jar. The man's toothless smile widened. "Nice day today."
Troelstra and the commissaris said that the old man was right.
"It's all so easy," the old man said, "but I keep forgetting, and it takes a few glasses to remember it again. To keep it easy can be rather tricky."
"You generally succeed?" the commissaris asked.
"I've got a strong character," the old man said. "I never stop trying. No matter what they do to me. They won't knock me over."
"Let's have the bill," the commissaris said.
Troelstra looked out the window. Shadows moved through the street, dating back to a far past. Comrades-in-arms? A dying Russian? Wild men, with bones through their noses? An assistant inspector who didn't handcuff the traitor and took him to Headquarters in a streetcar?
"That won't be necessary," Troelstra said. "I still owe you. You kept me alive. I could experience a few good moments. New Guinea is beautiful, there are some fine birds out there, colorful, with long tails, and flowering shrubs that grow nowhere else. The voyage, there and back, tropical seas, palm trees on beaches, going on for miles. And the café here at the end, I don't mind doing this."
"Scherjoen?" the commissaris asked.
"Can't help you there."
The commissaris didn't catch on at once. He wondered whether he should ask.
"Is there something else you can help me with?"
"Last week..." Troelstra interrupted himself and looked at the old man, who was smiling and occupied with rolling a cigarette. "Would you mind moving up?" he asked the commissaris, who got off his stool and followed the coffee cup that Troelstra slid across the counter.
"Last week," Troelstra said softly, "two heavy boys came here to have a few. A certain Ary, small chap and bald, and a certain Fritz, big fellow with a tuft of stiff hair on his big head.
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