Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

"Because it's buried in a sealed plastic bag at an undisclosed location on the coast. Along with cash and airline tickets."

"Thank you for your candour -- why?"

"They say so in your tourist brochure -- keep travel documents away from your person when west of the river."

"I'm pretty sure I have the legal right to demand your passport, miss."

"Officer, I like this place, but I don't want to be stuck wandering the city like a ghost after being robbed of my travel documents."

"I don't want to become an indentured servant in a brothel on Boogie Street -- and I don't want my relatives to pay the ransom."

There are plenty of other reasons for hiding your documents from the law.

"How do I know you've told us your real name?"

"If I were to lie to you, I would come up with a more mainstream name than Klaasje Amandou. It's... a weird name."

She seems to be telling the truth, sire.

"That's not why you hid it, though."

"It's also why I hid it."

"Why else?" He's suddenly very attentive.

"I'm an unpopular girl." She takes a drag. "There are people back home who don't like me -- if they show up, I'm in a hurry."

"The kind of hurry where you can't afford to not find your documents -- but don't worry. This has nothing to do with your investigation."

"Why else?"

"Okay then." (Conclude.)

"Okie-dokie." She pours herself more coffee.

If any of this made her nervous, it certainly doesn't show in her expression or her movements.

"What kind of people are these -- the ones that don't like you?"

"I would love to change the subject. It's not important. Unless I'm some kind of... suspect?" She arches an eyebrow.

Didn't she say you would have to interrogate her? Before? And that she didn't do it? What was up with that?

"No. I've just come to talk."

"Whooh..." She wipes her brow.

Playfully. She doesn't seem to be overly distressed. Or distressed at all, really.

"Not yet."

"Whooh..." She wipes her brow.

"You might be."

"No, I'm not." She waves you off.

She doesn't seem to be overly distressed. Or distressed at all, really.

"My colleague has an exploratory sense of humour. Don't hold it against him."

He's thinking: "I like this kind of prodding, whatever the situation. It may lead somewhere yet..."

"Earlier you said I would have to interrogate you. Suspects are interrogated."

"Well-well." She leans back. "It seems I either underestimated you -- or overestimated your hangover, officer."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you feigned that 'fuck-having' line to get me to say something stupid. Was that so?"

The lieutenant gives you a little look.

It's good we discussed your history with her, he thinks. I can play along.

"No, that was sincere."

"I'm flattered. You told us about the investigation Friday night. Downstairs. At a table full of local kids and dockworkers. You told pretty much everyone. After you showed them your gun..."

"Anyway -- I thought it would be funny to say I didn't do it. Because I knew about your investigation..." She cringes. "Does that make me a suspect? I really must stop saying stupid things..."

"Totally."

"Cool. You told us about the investigation Friday night. Downstairs. At a table full of local kids and dockworkers. You told pretty much everyone. After you showed them your gun, that is..."

"Turns out it did suck -- for you."

"Not too hard. You told us about the investigation Friday night. Downstairs. At a table full of local kids and dockworkers. You told pretty much everyone. After you showed them your gun..."

We should have discussed your history before we came here, he thinks. So many unpleasant surprises with this guy...

"Why?"

"Okay."

"Thank you for your understanding." She looks a little surprised.

"Why?"

"What do you do, miss? What is your specialization?"

"Something stupid."

Wanna hear what's stupid? Somewhere in a one room apartment on Boogie Street a young man shows Patrol Officer Tillbrook his genital warts, asking if they're cancer.

His partner Émile Mollins can't be there -- he's in another apartment with another man who's showing him a dead dog under the radiator. 'It's dead,' Mollins says. "No," the man replies. "I touched him. He's warm."

"He's warm," Mollins replies, "because he's under the radiator."

"What's that?"

"Oranjese lit."

"Oranjese lit?"

"Oranjese literature. It's what I studied at the university." She raises both eyebrows.

"Back to you."

"Back to me." She breathes in the menthol-flavoured fumes, savouring it in her lungs.