Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah..." She smiles bitterly. "I'll get over it. Once I don't have to look at him anymore."

"Blue, light blue. They were like..." She stops, her eyes half closed, then continues: "Like little blue galaxies, you know. It was strange, seeing those eyes in his fucked up face..."

"He had a tattoo -- what did it mean?"

"Oh." She smiles. "That."

It's clear she liked it.

"It was a map of his service history?"

"Sure, service history... It was mostly for showing off to chicks though."

"For showing off to chicks? How so?"

"How?" She leans back. "Imagine him lying in bed, freakish musculature laid out on the sheets. Scarred, of course. Tattooed. The sheets are dirty for some reason."

Is this Oranjese lit?

Don't interrupt.

"He's smoking and drinking, of course. And his chest and shoulders and arms are studded with stars. Tens, hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands."

"And the woman goes like..." She points at the air with her sharp-nailed finger, picking out an imaginary tattoo-star. "'What was this, baby?'"

"And he says..." She lowers her voice, comically. "'That was too hard core. Don't ask me about that.' So she goes: 'Okay. But what's this, baby?' And he's like: 'Saw some bad shit there, killed some loincloths.'"

"And so it goes -- star after star, port after port, third world country after third world country. And he's done horrible things in every single one of them."

"You were the woman in this?"

"Oh yeah." She nods.

"Can you tell us precisely what these mean?" (Hand her the photo.)

"No thank you." She does not take it. "I've seen enough of him dead. I can tell you what they meant without looking at them." She pours herself some more coffee.

"Go on."

"He was a blue-eyed boy with thick arms. From a small town. He was also poor, and the government of Oranje needed some people killed, so they turned him into a grotesque killer -- for money."

"He went to Killer Academy in Vredefort. Then he killed some people on the Semenine islands. And on other islands too -- all of the islands. After this he came to Revachol and got killed himself."

"Not a very fun story."

"It is when you're high. It can be very exciting then -- you have the tools to deal with it. It's not a very nice story to remember when you're sober." She smiles faintly. "A change of topic?"

"Thank you for clearing that up."

"Change of topic, perhaps?" She looks over her shoulder, to the sea. Then back at you, smiling faintly.

"Good story. Thanks."

"He went to Killer Academy in Vredefort. Then he killed some people on the Semenine islands. And on other islands too -- all of the islands. After this he came to Revachol and got killed himself."

"Is this Oranjese lit?"

"Yes. This is the very essence of Oranjese lit -- a moment's respite. Dark and hopeless as the struggle itself." She leans even further back to demonstrate.

"Thank you. A few more questions..."

"Yes?" She looks at the note in your hand.

"What did it represent -- do you know?"

"It was a map. Of his life and the places he visited as a soldier. It was mostly for showing off to chicks though."

"You liked it?"

"Quite a lot, yes."

"It was an Oranjese Map of the Waterways?"

"Sure, waterways... It was mostly for showing off to chicks though."

"I ran the serial number on his boots. I know his name."

She blows a long column of smoke and watches it disperse overhead. After a moment, she says: "Good for you."

"I bet you're playing aloof because you wanna know really, really bad."

"Not really," she says with complete uninterest. "I just think Lely's good enough. But go ahead. You look like you want to tell me."

"Ellis. Ellis Kortenaer was his name."

"Hmh..." She doesn't smile. She taps the ash from her cigarette and shrugs. "Sounds oddly feminine..."

"You don't want to know?"

"Not really." Curls of smoke leave her mouth with each word. "Lely's good enough for me."

"I'll respect that."

"Thank you." She smiles, takes a puff on her cigarette.

"His name was Ellis. Ellis Kortenaer."

"We requested a semen screening from Processing."

"Good for you."

"What do you think it will tell us?"

"I don't know how a semen sample works, officers. How many days after intercourse does it have to be -- I don't even know if he had sex with someone else. We didn't go steady."

Is she avoiding anything? Technically not.

Technically not? C'mon man. Listen. You can't trust them. It's just you and me.

See? There's something off here. This one must know she's deploying flares and countermeasures.

This is one of her manoeuvres. The others are fast asleep, as always... it's hard to say what the truth is.

What? Huh? The truth? All the world's a stage! Aren't we all just actors?

"Tell me something odd -- did he enjoy his death?"