Read Online The Hollow-Eyed Angel by Janwillem van de Wetering - Free Book Online
Authors: Janwillem van de Wetering
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and I upholstered it. It would cost a fortune if you figured in the hours."
"The professional artistic touch," Grijpstra said. He moved carefully, anxious not to damage the couch's ancient springs, which creaked painfully under his bulk.
"The coffee you are drinking comes from Nigeria," Sara said. "It's from Zabar's, in New York. That's the biggest and best deli in the world. In New York you can buy anything. Americans still have the greatest buying power."
"A strong and interesting flavor," Grijpstra said.
"Care to join me here?" Joop Lakmaker asked from his desk. He had unfolded a map. "This is Central Park and this is where we saw the man you are inquiring about now. Just off this path, next to that meadow." Lakmaker changed both his voice and his posture so that he could be a poet, speaking loudly and with a rhetorical effect. "The grass was green," Lakmaker declaimed, "and the gent was dying. The balloon beast was rising"—Lakmaker covered his heart with his hand—"and the children were playing." He looked at Grijpstra. "How does that sound?"
"That sounds real pretty," Grijpstra said.
Lakmaker grinned. "I didn't even have to put in the blooming azaleas. I wanted to be a poet, wear a corduroy suit, live in a mountain cabin, but Sara wanted us to live usefully instead."
"Joop," Sara warned.
"And usefully we lived. A lifetime long. Do you know," Joop asked, "that I was instrumental in lowering the cost of Dutch soda pop?" Joop's bulging eyes looked through Grijpstra. "Isn't that something?"
"You were much appreciated," Sara said. "You did a good job. You raised good kids." Sara smiled. "You collected art." She pointed at three masks hung above the large TV screen. "We already auctioned off two collections and now Joop has started collecting again. Impressive? They are Bolivian. We bought them on a trip. Mine workers make them from beer cans during their yearly holiday."
Grijpstra and de Gier looked at the masks. "Devils?"
"Mine demons," Sara said. "They live underground and come up with the workers, to share their holiday."
The masks sprouted blunt horns, and blood dripped from the eyes.
"Expressive," Grijpstra said.
"I changed my interests and collected Fellini." Joop pointed at stacked videotapes. "I want that included in my obituary."
"Joop," Sara warned.
"Not in the Rotterdam Times," Joop said, "I know I'm not on that level. Maybe in the Nieuwegein Advertiser!" He was rubbing his hands. "What do you think, policeman? You think that my regression from present-day pop art to a nostalgic interest in surrealism, due to reliving World War II horrors, will make good copy?"
"So that poor old man in Central Park was Dutch," Sara said. "He spoke English to us. Amazing. Our running into a Dutchman in Central Park, I mean."
"Nothing out-of-the-way about that," Joop said. "Holland is rich so we Dutch can travel. New York welcomes big spenders. Six jumbos a day on the transatlantic route. 'Step right up, step right up.'" He made inviting gestures. "We're bound to stumble into each other in Central Park."
"Did that poor man survive?" Sara asked. "He seemed to be feeling very bad. The horse kicked him, you know. There he was, spinning and turning. And that uniformed hussy just rode off."
"Uniformed hussy," Grijpstra said. "What uniformed hussy would that be?"
"The policewoman," Sara said. "We had been watching the poor man for a while, you see. So had she. From high up on her huge horse."
"Well," Joop said, "that's what you thought, Sara. We can't know for sure. She was wearing sunglasses."
"To answer your question," Grijpstra said, "yes, the old man died. He was found in the azalea bushes the next morning. So the police horse kicked him?"
"Just a little," Sara said. "There was a lot going on. They had a big balloon beast going up for the kids, on the meadow, some kind of dinosaur."
"Tyrannosaurus rex," Joop said. "Enormous. Made from multicolor balloons stuck together."
"And there was a jazz group playing,
"The professional artistic touch," Grijpstra said. He moved carefully, anxious not to damage the couch's ancient springs, which creaked painfully under his bulk.
"The coffee you are drinking comes from Nigeria," Sara said. "It's from Zabar's, in New York. That's the biggest and best deli in the world. In New York you can buy anything. Americans still have the greatest buying power."
"A strong and interesting flavor," Grijpstra said.
"Care to join me here?" Joop Lakmaker asked from his desk. He had unfolded a map. "This is Central Park and this is where we saw the man you are inquiring about now. Just off this path, next to that meadow." Lakmaker changed both his voice and his posture so that he could be a poet, speaking loudly and with a rhetorical effect. "The grass was green," Lakmaker declaimed, "and the gent was dying. The balloon beast was rising"—Lakmaker covered his heart with his hand—"and the children were playing." He looked at Grijpstra. "How does that sound?"
"That sounds real pretty," Grijpstra said.
Lakmaker grinned. "I didn't even have to put in the blooming azaleas. I wanted to be a poet, wear a corduroy suit, live in a mountain cabin, but Sara wanted us to live usefully instead."
"Joop," Sara warned.
"And usefully we lived. A lifetime long. Do you know," Joop asked, "that I was instrumental in lowering the cost of Dutch soda pop?" Joop's bulging eyes looked through Grijpstra. "Isn't that something?"
"You were much appreciated," Sara said. "You did a good job. You raised good kids." Sara smiled. "You collected art." She pointed at three masks hung above the large TV screen. "We already auctioned off two collections and now Joop has started collecting again. Impressive? They are Bolivian. We bought them on a trip. Mine workers make them from beer cans during their yearly holiday."
Grijpstra and de Gier looked at the masks. "Devils?"
"Mine demons," Sara said. "They live underground and come up with the workers, to share their holiday."
The masks sprouted blunt horns, and blood dripped from the eyes.
"Expressive," Grijpstra said.
"I changed my interests and collected Fellini." Joop pointed at stacked videotapes. "I want that included in my obituary."
"Joop," Sara warned.
"Not in the Rotterdam Times," Joop said, "I know I'm not on that level. Maybe in the Nieuwegein Advertiser!" He was rubbing his hands. "What do you think, policeman? You think that my regression from present-day pop art to a nostalgic interest in surrealism, due to reliving World War II horrors, will make good copy?"
"So that poor old man in Central Park was Dutch," Sara said. "He spoke English to us. Amazing. Our running into a Dutchman in Central Park, I mean."
"Nothing out-of-the-way about that," Joop said. "Holland is rich so we Dutch can travel. New York welcomes big spenders. Six jumbos a day on the transatlantic route. 'Step right up, step right up.'" He made inviting gestures. "We're bound to stumble into each other in Central Park."
"Did that poor man survive?" Sara asked. "He seemed to be feeling very bad. The horse kicked him, you know. There he was, spinning and turning. And that uniformed hussy just rode off."
"Uniformed hussy," Grijpstra said. "What uniformed hussy would that be?"
"The policewoman," Sara said. "We had been watching the poor man for a while, you see. So had she. From high up on her huge horse."
"Well," Joop said, "that's what you thought, Sara. We can't know for sure. She was wearing sunglasses."
"To answer your question," Grijpstra said, "yes, the old man died. He was found in the azalea bushes the next morning. So the police horse kicked him?"
"Just a little," Sara said. "There was a lot going on. They had a big balloon beast going up for the kids, on the meadow, some kind of dinosaur."
"Tyrannosaurus rex," Joop said. "Enormous. Made from multicolor balloons stuck together."
"And there was a jazz group playing,
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