Outsider in Amsterdam by Janwillem van de Wetering Page B

check by irregular gymnastics in Headquarters’ sportsroom.
    Grijpstra opened one eye. “Ha,” he said. “Did you come to help me?”
    “Yes,” de Gier said.
    “With what?”
    “With thinking,” de Gier said.
    Grijpstra closed his eye.
    “That’s all right,” he said, “but try and be as quiet as you can. There’s nothing worse than loud thinking. And sit down somewhere.”
    De Gier looked around. The chairs didn’t look very inviting and Grijpstra had the settee. In the end he selected three cushions and arranged them close to the wall. He closed his eyes.
    An hour passed. Grijpstra breathed deeply; his mouth had lost its usual energetic expression and drooled slightly.
    De Gier had slept for a while but his head wasn’t properly supported and he had woken up again. He smoked, stared, and saw vague, ever-changing scenes and pictures in which the images of Thérèse and the girl in the bus, in various stages of undress, recurred. Grijpstra’s mouth opened a little more andsuddenly a sorrowful and very loud snore broke through the peace of the room. De Gier got up and stretched his back. He considered shaking Grijpstra awake but changed his mind. He thought of a more subtle approach. A set of small bongo drums in a corner of the room suggested it. He picked up the instrument, tiptoed to the settee, sat down on the floor, looked at the relaxed and helpless head of his superior, and hit the right bongo drum with a strong movement of his flat hand while the other veered quickly on the left drum.
    Grijpstra leaped from the settee.
    “Sha,” Grijpstra said, “bongo drums. Where did they come from?”
    “Some search,” de Gier said. “They were in the room. You must have seen them before.”
    Grijpstra thought while he rubbed his face. “True. I had them in my hands even, to see if there was anything inside them.”
    He put out his hand and de Gier gave him the drums.
    Grijpstra studied the instrument with some distrust. He was used to larger drums in Headquarters. He vaguely tapped the right drum, rubbed the skin, and hit it with his knuckles, near the edge. Slowly a rhythm was being formed, quietly, pleasantly even, consisting of dry short plocks. While he played he looked at de Gier, invitingly almost, and de Gier understood. He felt in the inside pocket of his coat and found, in between his two ballpoints, wallet and comb, the leather case containing his flute, the flute he had been carrying since Grijpstra had begun to play drums again. De Gier had been a promising musician as a boy, playing the recorder in the school’s orchestra, and had even specialized somewhat in medieval religious music, but he had given it up in exchange for sports and hanging around at street corners in the company of pimply friends telling tall stories. At the police school he had thought of music again but had been stopped by the prospect of becoming part of the police band, parading in the rain. But when Grijpstra had found his drums,de Gier had been inspired as well and had bought himself a secondhand flute, and brought it out, after much hesitation, during an early morning solo in which Grijpstra had excelled in delicate rustles and taps, and he had blown a long thin note.
    Grijpstra hadn’t even looked up but he had heard all right and immediately the drums filled the space that the weaving flute left open and since then they had often played together.
    Grijpstra didn’t look up now either. De Gier’s flute was neither thin nor hesitant now but strong and free, and Grijpstra had to go down to the depth of his heavy soul to find the inspiration necessary to follow his artful friend. De Gier was on his feet, bent slightly, shoulders hunched; he had closed his eyes. The bongo drums formed a well connected base, fairly loud and extremely simple, and the flute was now very courageous, shrilly wavering between two notes, shrieking almost. One shriek was so loud, and so breakable, that nothing could follow it.
    Grijpstra paused