with some roast beef? Or smoked eel? With a salad, yes?"
"Yes." The commissaris rubbed his hands while she laid the table. "Radishes—would you have those too? And some cold genever, to encourage the digestion?"
Why do people complain so much? the commissaris thought as he ate. Life isn't all that bad really, and with a bit of patience you get just about anything you can wish for. I thought that I would have to hang round the streets and be thoroughly uncomfortable, and look what fate has pushed my way. But one has to be able to frame the exact desire, like smoked eel on toast, so that fate knows what to give.
"You seem happy," Nellie said.
The commissaris raised his glass. "I am. Your very good health."
"Henk likes to eat too," Nellie said, "and he loves the garden. I'm fond of men who know how to enjoy themselves. But he doesn't come too often. How is his wife doing?"
The commissaris pointed at his mouth that he had just filled with lettuce leaves. He chewed diligently.
"Do you know his wife?"
"From a distance."
Nellie became interested in the hem of her little apron. "Isn't she rather fat?"
The commissaris stuffed his mouth again.
Nellie's fingers plucked away at the hem. She looked down. "I have that problem too, but Henk doesn't like too much of me, so I'm careful." She made gymnastic movements. "Every morning, with the radio, there's a lady who says what to do, and music. I get all twisted up sometimes. Pity in a way, I like pie, with cream on top." She patted her hips. "But the cream makes me puffy. But why bother, eh? He doesn't come too often anyway."
"His sense of duty," the commissaris said. "The children, they need a father around the house."
"But aren't they growing up now?" Nellie fetched a chair from under the kitchen stairs and unfolded it energetically. She sat down at the other side of the table. "I don't want him to come and live with me, although that would be a good idea too. He wouldn't even have to work anymore, he could ask for early retirement. He always says he wants to paint but that his house is so full that he hasn't got the space. He could have my basement, or sit outside if the weather is like it is now."
The commissaris lit a cigar. "A most excellent meal, Nellie, I do thank you."
"Another drink?"
"No, thanks."
"Coffee? It should be done perking by now."
The commissaris looked at her slender well-cared-for-hands playing with each other on the tablecloth. "I'm working, Nellie, although you wouldn't think so. About Obrian, now, the man who was shot early this morning. Did you know him at all?"
"I'm glad," Nellie said, "I'll never have to know him again. It's a sin, of course, but if I think it, I may as well say it. I hope Luku Obrian goes to hell. He was worse than the worst types one sees around here. If that bastard looked at a woman with those large moist eyes he had, then she could forget her future, and everything else as well. All he wanted to do was have your guts and then throw away the skin."
"A pimp, wasn't he?"
Nellie's fingers cracked as she contorted them. "Right. I know all about pimps, had one myself when I started out. He talked nicely enough, but he was just like the others, after the money to spend it on others. Once you get into their hands, you'll never get out again, and when mine caught a knife in his lovely flat belly, I swore I would never have another one."
"Obrian was after you too?"
She looked up. "Whatever makes you think that?"
The commissaris crumpled his paper napkin. "Well, he was a pimp, wasn't he, and he knew you, and you're a very attractive woman. I'm just asking. Policemen ask. I didn't want to offend you."
Nellie laughed. "You're a cop, aren't you? Who would ever think so?" Her hand slid across the table and touched his.
The commissaris smiled. "Grijpstra is a cop too."
"Yes, I'll never believe it. Such a sweet man. The ideal father, and you would be the right grandfather."
"Now now."
"Only when you dress up funny. Old clothes
"Yes." The commissaris rubbed his hands while she laid the table. "Radishes—would you have those too? And some cold genever, to encourage the digestion?"
Why do people complain so much? the commissaris thought as he ate. Life isn't all that bad really, and with a bit of patience you get just about anything you can wish for. I thought that I would have to hang round the streets and be thoroughly uncomfortable, and look what fate has pushed my way. But one has to be able to frame the exact desire, like smoked eel on toast, so that fate knows what to give.
"You seem happy," Nellie said.
The commissaris raised his glass. "I am. Your very good health."
"Henk likes to eat too," Nellie said, "and he loves the garden. I'm fond of men who know how to enjoy themselves. But he doesn't come too often. How is his wife doing?"
The commissaris pointed at his mouth that he had just filled with lettuce leaves. He chewed diligently.
"Do you know his wife?"
"From a distance."
Nellie became interested in the hem of her little apron. "Isn't she rather fat?"
The commissaris stuffed his mouth again.
Nellie's fingers plucked away at the hem. She looked down. "I have that problem too, but Henk doesn't like too much of me, so I'm careful." She made gymnastic movements. "Every morning, with the radio, there's a lady who says what to do, and music. I get all twisted up sometimes. Pity in a way, I like pie, with cream on top." She patted her hips. "But the cream makes me puffy. But why bother, eh? He doesn't come too often anyway."
"His sense of duty," the commissaris said. "The children, they need a father around the house."
"But aren't they growing up now?" Nellie fetched a chair from under the kitchen stairs and unfolded it energetically. She sat down at the other side of the table. "I don't want him to come and live with me, although that would be a good idea too. He wouldn't even have to work anymore, he could ask for early retirement. He always says he wants to paint but that his house is so full that he hasn't got the space. He could have my basement, or sit outside if the weather is like it is now."
The commissaris lit a cigar. "A most excellent meal, Nellie, I do thank you."
"Another drink?"
"No, thanks."
"Coffee? It should be done perking by now."
The commissaris looked at her slender well-cared-for-hands playing with each other on the tablecloth. "I'm working, Nellie, although you wouldn't think so. About Obrian, now, the man who was shot early this morning. Did you know him at all?"
"I'm glad," Nellie said, "I'll never have to know him again. It's a sin, of course, but if I think it, I may as well say it. I hope Luku Obrian goes to hell. He was worse than the worst types one sees around here. If that bastard looked at a woman with those large moist eyes he had, then she could forget her future, and everything else as well. All he wanted to do was have your guts and then throw away the skin."
"A pimp, wasn't he?"
Nellie's fingers cracked as she contorted them. "Right. I know all about pimps, had one myself when I started out. He talked nicely enough, but he was just like the others, after the money to spend it on others. Once you get into their hands, you'll never get out again, and when mine caught a knife in his lovely flat belly, I swore I would never have another one."
"Obrian was after you too?"
She looked up. "Whatever makes you think that?"
The commissaris crumpled his paper napkin. "Well, he was a pimp, wasn't he, and he knew you, and you're a very attractive woman. I'm just asking. Policemen ask. I didn't want to offend you."
Nellie laughed. "You're a cop, aren't you? Who would ever think so?" Her hand slid across the table and touched his.
The commissaris smiled. "Grijpstra is a cop too."
"Yes, I'll never believe it. Such a sweet man. The ideal father, and you would be the right grandfather."
"Now now."
"Only when you dress up funny. Old clothes
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