Read Online The Perfidious Parrot by Janwillem van de Wetering - Free Book Online Page A

helicopter carrying nature reserve-watching tourists thundered over the protected wetlands. The commissaris reached a graffiti-covered bench and sat down to enjoy the remnants of silence. He observed waterfowl. He reflected that this was his life now. There was the investing on behalf of Grijpstra and de Gier, of course, but the money kept increasing. No challenge there. Most days looked alike. The money business required glancing at the financial paper, analyzing his computer screen twice a day, attending to the pains in his legs. Left thigh becoming too sensitive? Sell winners. Right thigh bone feeling hot? Buy recent losers. That interesting kind of splitting cramp with twisting and soaring red-hot arrows that reached both his knees? Sell anything that the analysts were telling him to hold on to. He didn’t really care to do this kind of work now; there was too much money in the account anyway, the boys would never have any need of it. De Gier considered the stuff a useless burden and Grijpstra no longer believed he could please Nellie by buying her more kitchen gadgets. It would be better if G&G were to engage themselves seriously again. It no longer interested the commissaris to watch de Gier grow ever more silly-named weeds in his paradise-loft, while waiting for Eve’s apple. Grijpstra might have his apple now, fed to him thrice a day by the queen of his dreams, but Grijpstra was gaining weight, hardly played his drums and kept painting the same dead ducks.
    And what about his own quest? A superior garden reptile to have a monologue with, but Turtle’s interest seemed to be waning lately. Besides, what did he require the turtle-conscience for now? Did he need advice to make choices? Yesor no to another holiday with Katrien? Holiday from what? Katrien was minding the grandchildren, she was done with travel. Perhaps Turtle might advise some discreet drinking, even whoring, at expensive locations, some private brothel on Apollo Avenue, or maybe an apartment in Beethovenstreet with a stately goddess specializing in pleasing old gents, catering to senile perversions, but should he even consider such a waste of his decreasing energy?
    The commissaris rubbed his aching body against the back of the park bench. He tried to visualize a goddess in the Beethovenstreet apartment. Perhaps a somewhat mature woman in a long simple dress, hardly any makeup, gradually opening up to a more intimate conversation while she stepped out of her gown, yesyesyes, but even so, the woman could be his daughter, or if she happened to be younger, his grand-daughter—once he considered those aspects the end result, if any, was sure to fall short of expectations. Still, he had better continue his enquiry. If not he would be like other old men whom he saw fading away while they roamed the city’s parks and nature reserves. Former directors of downsized corporations, once powerful city officials forced into accepting early retirement, now being quacked at by water fowl peering at the human ghosts wandering between willows and cattails.
    The commissaris dutifully observed black coots, busily swimming about. There were fat coots with white bills and slender coots with red bills. They kept nodding their heads, not because they wanted to confirm his soul-searching but because their biological programs made them bob their heads forever. Walk-bob-head. Swim-bob-head. The commissaris had gotten up to look at tall water lilies when he heard shots.
    The Bosnian Serbs are attacking, the commissaris thought. The Tutsis invade the Hutu camp. Ceylonese Tamils are launching a suicide attack. Arabs on the rampage. A German young intellectual has finally, after watching too much evening news, converted to fundamental Neo-Nazism and now has to prove himself by killing me.
    Or was it a flipped-out hunter hiding between the bushes at the other side of the brook? The “silence” area between the Amsterdam satellite towns of Abcoude and Ouderkerk does qualify for