of will and enter the in-between dreamscape where all facts connect." He sighed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
\\\\ 6 ////
D E GIER SLEPT ON THE RED PLASTIC COUCH IN THE burglar's apartment. He had closed the curtains before lying down. Dripping spittle was cooling his mustache and he was turning on his side when he heard the door squeak. He was still too far gone to wake up completely, or perhaps fear crippled him; that possibility occurred to him later, although he never bothered to confirm it.
Whether he was dreaming was to remain unclear too. He saw a blade shape that he interpreted as a bird, a vulture. The vulture did not walk, but hopped. Each hop brought the bird closer to the couch. The vulture looked like the bird that he saw in the early morning, on the antenna in the Olofs-alley, but this vulture was considerably bigger, bigger also than the birds of prey in the zoo, hunched-up sad feathery bodies staring morosely at a hostile world.
The vulture wasn't in a hurry. The sergeant heard its claws scratch on the floor's linoleum. He saw its wings, flapping clumsily. He also noticed the sinister hooked beak and the evil eyes, surrounded by dry folds of skin.
The dream's backdrop changed. The sergeant was lying in a white-yellowish desert, under a scorching sun, and the vulture fluttered closer, bent over his prostrate body, and stared down curiously. Vultures don't wait until you're dead, the sergeant thought, they get right into you, chisel into your skull, tear out brains, hack away.
He was also thinking that the bird was an aspect of himself, representing his own evil, the solid poison that had accumulated because of wrong living and that now was strong enough to split away and take its own form.
That he was frightened was certain. The impulses emitted by his brain did not connect. Paralyzed by dread, he tried to concentrate on the wet sensation in the lower extremity of his mustache, the only part of his body he was still aware of. His fear was somewhat comical. It was funny that he could do nothing to protect himself. Here I am, the sergeant thought, judo champion of the Amsterdam Municipal Police, with the world's most deadly pistol tucked into my armpit, and I'm ready to be torn into slivers.
The dreadful bird stood next to him, stretched out, its head bent back in order to be able to strike down more forcefully. The sergeant wanted to scream but couldn't produce more than the weakest squeak, drowned immediately in the vulture's awful screech. The biting impact numbed his head. The furious bird shuffled away; the door banged closed.
The painful and, in spite of its lengthy introduction, still rather sudden attack broke his sleep-induced overall paralysis and the sergeant groaned, sat up, and even managed to force himself to his feet and stagger over to the windows to open the curtains. He saw that the couch was covered with soppy white worms, which were also stuck to his shoulders and slithered down his jacket. The worms burned his hands and he yelled as he tried to flip them away. The couch looked too disgusting and he staggered to a chair. He heard the door open again and tried to get up, to defend himself against the returning bird.
"What's all this?" Grijpstra asked.
"Adjutant," babbled de Gier. "Adjutant. To arms!"
"What on earth for?" Grijpstra was about to sit down on the couch.
"No!"
Grijpstra studied the white worms on the red vinyl. "What's the mess?"
"My brains."
"Looks more like spaghetti."
"Look, my blood too."
"Spaghetti with tomato sauce?" Grijpstra smeared a finger with the warm fluid. "Still hot. Tastes okay. Why did you throw it out?"
"Attacked. By a vulture. While I slept."
"You got sick," Grijpstra said. "Unwell. Puked, I imagine."
"No no no." De Gier grabbed his head. "I was hit. Beaked. By a bird." He knelt in front of the adjutant. "Feel my head."
"Never," said Grijpstra, in the bathroom watching de Gier shower, trying to follow the sergeant's stuttered
\\\\ 6 ////
D E GIER SLEPT ON THE RED PLASTIC COUCH IN THE burglar's apartment. He had closed the curtains before lying down. Dripping spittle was cooling his mustache and he was turning on his side when he heard the door squeak. He was still too far gone to wake up completely, or perhaps fear crippled him; that possibility occurred to him later, although he never bothered to confirm it.
Whether he was dreaming was to remain unclear too. He saw a blade shape that he interpreted as a bird, a vulture. The vulture did not walk, but hopped. Each hop brought the bird closer to the couch. The vulture looked like the bird that he saw in the early morning, on the antenna in the Olofs-alley, but this vulture was considerably bigger, bigger also than the birds of prey in the zoo, hunched-up sad feathery bodies staring morosely at a hostile world.
The vulture wasn't in a hurry. The sergeant heard its claws scratch on the floor's linoleum. He saw its wings, flapping clumsily. He also noticed the sinister hooked beak and the evil eyes, surrounded by dry folds of skin.
The dream's backdrop changed. The sergeant was lying in a white-yellowish desert, under a scorching sun, and the vulture fluttered closer, bent over his prostrate body, and stared down curiously. Vultures don't wait until you're dead, the sergeant thought, they get right into you, chisel into your skull, tear out brains, hack away.
He was also thinking that the bird was an aspect of himself, representing his own evil, the solid poison that had accumulated because of wrong living and that now was strong enough to split away and take its own form.
That he was frightened was certain. The impulses emitted by his brain did not connect. Paralyzed by dread, he tried to concentrate on the wet sensation in the lower extremity of his mustache, the only part of his body he was still aware of. His fear was somewhat comical. It was funny that he could do nothing to protect himself. Here I am, the sergeant thought, judo champion of the Amsterdam Municipal Police, with the world's most deadly pistol tucked into my armpit, and I'm ready to be torn into slivers.
The dreadful bird stood next to him, stretched out, its head bent back in order to be able to strike down more forcefully. The sergeant wanted to scream but couldn't produce more than the weakest squeak, drowned immediately in the vulture's awful screech. The biting impact numbed his head. The furious bird shuffled away; the door banged closed.
The painful and, in spite of its lengthy introduction, still rather sudden attack broke his sleep-induced overall paralysis and the sergeant groaned, sat up, and even managed to force himself to his feet and stagger over to the windows to open the curtains. He saw that the couch was covered with soppy white worms, which were also stuck to his shoulders and slithered down his jacket. The worms burned his hands and he yelled as he tried to flip them away. The couch looked too disgusting and he staggered to a chair. He heard the door open again and tried to get up, to defend himself against the returning bird.
"What's all this?" Grijpstra asked.
"Adjutant," babbled de Gier. "Adjutant. To arms!"
"What on earth for?" Grijpstra was about to sit down on the couch.
"No!"
Grijpstra studied the white worms on the red vinyl. "What's the mess?"
"My brains."
"Looks more like spaghetti."
"Look, my blood too."
"Spaghetti with tomato sauce?" Grijpstra smeared a finger with the warm fluid. "Still hot. Tastes okay. Why did you throw it out?"
"Attacked. By a vulture. While I slept."
"You got sick," Grijpstra said. "Unwell. Puked, I imagine."
"No no no." De Gier grabbed his head. "I was hit. Beaked. By a bird." He knelt in front of the adjutant. "Feel my head."
"Never," said Grijpstra, in the bathroom watching de Gier shower, trying to follow the sergeant's stuttered
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