They were walking through a piece of virgin land and de Gier stopped. He looked at the weeds growing around his feet. "Do you think these weeds are dangerous?" he asked.
Grijpstra looked at the weeds de Gier was pointing at. "No. I used to work for a farmer when I was a boy, during the summer holidays. I had to clear land for him. I remember some of the weeds. That's pig's grass, I recognize the black spots on the leaves. You see?"
De Gier saw the black spots. "What did she need those weeds for?" he asked.
Grijpstra turned to his friend and looked mean. Grijpstra was good at looking mean for he often had to read stories to his two youngest children and they liked him to pull faces as he read. He now pulled his meanest face, reserved for really wicked characters. He bared his big square teeth, lowered his eyelids and twisted his upper lip so that the ends of his bristly mustache came up a little.
"She wanted to put a spell on her clients," he hissed.
"Sha," de Gier said, "don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk like that."
"I wasn't talking like that," Grijpstra said. "I was trying to explain something."
"Do you think she can fly on a broomstick?" de Gier asked.
"Could," Grijpstra said. "She is dead now."
"Her soul is still alive," de Gier said, and shuddered.
Grijpstra didn't reply. He had seen the shudder and was wondering whether the shudder was real. He had never been able to really get to know his colleague, for as soon as Grijpstra had labeled de Gier's behavior and fitted him into a certain pattern, de Gier would do something in direct opposition to the newly found definition. But perhaps, Grijpstra thought, the shudder was real. They had, after all, discovered Mrs. van Buren's dead body that morning and there had been the smell and the three evil blue-bottomed, gigantic flies. And de Gier had been nauseated. Since then they had discovered the weeds, witch weeds, black-magic weeds.
They had reached the door of the small houseboat. The door opened as de Gier reached for the bell.
"Sorry it took so long," de Gier said.
Bart smiled. "It's all right, please come in. You can have some coffee if you like."
"That would be very nice," Grijpstra said gratefully.
"You can have some sandwiches as well," Bart said.
"That would be even nicer."
The houseboat consisted of one room only. Bart cut the bread and poured coffee.
The boat's interior was remarkable, remarkable because there was hardly anything in the boat. The walls, made of large strong planks, were painted white and left bare. There was a large table and a chair and a wooden bench on which the policemen were now sitting, looking neat and obedient, like boys at a well-disciplined school. There were some books on the table. De Gier got up and looked at them. Three had been written by highbrow writers and the other two contained reproductions of modern paintings. All five books had been borrowed from the public library. There was a bed in the boat, an army bed, and the mattress and blankets were army as well. A comer of the room was arranged as the kitchen. There was an old fridge, a simple electric stove and a large sink, and another table on which Bart was now preparing a salad. There was also an easel with a half-finished painting.
"You like olives?" Bart asked.
"No, thanks,' ^1 Grijpstra said.
"Please," de Gier said.
"I like to cook," Bart explained as he quickly set the table. "If I had known you would be coming for lunch I would have produced something better. I have two good meals every day, it makes up for being alone."
"You have never been married?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes. A long time ago now."
"Any children?" Grijpstra asked.
"No. I wouldn't have left her if there had been any children, I think. My father left me when I was a baby."
"I see," Grijpstra said.
"Nice boat," de Gier said, taking a bite out of the thick slice of freshly baked bread which Bart had amply covered with a piece of smoked sausage and a lettuce leaf, "but a bit bare."
"A poor man can't afford to have things," Bart said.
De Gier shook his head. "I don't agree," he said, "I have been poor but I have always had things Too many, in fact. Clutter the place up. God knows where they come from but before you know it the room is full of them and you have to start throwing them away. And you live in an empty boat. How do you manage living without things?"
"Oh, I don't know," Bart said. "I do have things. Bed, table, chair, a complete kitchen. I paint and I need brushes and canvas and frames and lots of paints, of course. I have all that. And there's a cupboard over there which you haven't seen yet, there's a gramophone in it and an electric heater and clothes and a few odds and ends."
De Gier was still shaking his head. "You have the absolutely necessary," he said, "but where's the rest?"
Bart laughed. "You really want me to explain my way of life? Are you interested in people?"
"I am," de Gier said.
"Of course he is," Grijpstra added, "he is very interested in people. So am I."
"You are policemen," Bart said, "representatives of the State. Have you ever realized that we, ordinary citizens, think of you as representatives of the State? That we think, every time we see a cop, 'there's the State'?"
"We do," Grijpstra said.
"Yes," Bart said, "perhaps you do. You are probably intelligent. It's a pity. A civilian may think 'there's the State' but he will also think 'ah well, cops are stupid.' But maybe he is wrong. Perhaps cops are not so stupid."
"Please explain your way of life," de Gier said.
Bart poured more coffee from his tin jug. "I am a misfit, that's my explanation. But I know I am. I'll never be able to hold a job. I start working, I try to fit in, I do my best but after a while it goes wrong and I get fired. When I do work I earn the minimal wage and when I lose the job I only get a percentage, so whatever I do, I'll never have any money."
"So?" de Gier asked.
"So I don't spend any. It's possible to live quite comfortably on little money. It's a discovery I made a long time ago. It needs discipline, that's all. I say 'no' all the time. I buy food, of course. Good food. And tobacco. Food and tobacco have their price and I have to pay it. But all the other stuff I don't buy."
"You bought the furniture," Grijpstra said, "and the kitchen utensils, and the blankets and whatever you have in your cupboard."
"I did. But I paid very little. It came from auctions and dump stores. I save half of what I get, wages and unemployment money. I have an old bicycle for transport. This boat I built myself, years ago. The boat itself I stole from the ship's cemetery on the river. I think the man in charge saw me take her but he didn't mind. There are a lot of boats over there and they are rotting away. I had to rebuild the superstructure and I had to buy some materials but not much. I don't think I spent more than half a year's savings and since then it has saved me a good sum in rent."
De Gier had got up and was looking out of the window. A large barge came past, being pulled by an energetic little river tug.
De Gier was thinking of his own flat in the suburbs. He was also thinking of all the money he had wasted over the years. The day before, in fact: two striped shirts he didn't need, and at a very fancy price.
"What the hell," he thought and turned around. "But you paint," he said.
"Yes. I do, and I have never been able to figure out a way of buying paint cheaply. I try not to waste paint."
Grijpstra had walked over to the easel. "Can I look at your work?"
"Sure."
The painting showed a building. Grijpstra recognized the building, it had never occurred to him that there was anything special about it, a large lumpy heap of bricks and plaster, built during the depression of 1929 by the city for one of its many departments. The painting was very realistic, minute in detail. But Grijpstra found that he liked the painting and he kept looking at it.