Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

She was her type.

Look at her: teeth like pearls, face like a pebble -- she looks like a Twenties movie star. You can almost see her in Automatik Polychrome. Those posters in Ruby's lorry...

"What if I told you you're under arrest, miss."

"Klaasje..." she repeats with a pained smile on her face, her back pressed against the railing.

"It was my first real boyfriend who gave me that name. He never recovered from the shit we went through. Because of me."

"Who was he?"

"Who was he? A boy. A student. It was a good thing and I destroyed him." She looks you in the eye, her mouth quivering.

"I know I'm shit -- I know. But I haven't done anything. At least nothing illegal."

Failure to aid a police investigation.

She purposefully misrepresented information crucial to the case.

Fucking mind games! Enough!

That's right. Stern and merciless now, STERN AND MERCILESS as we reel her in.

"You're a flight risk -- and I've already told you're a suspect in a murder investigation, remember?"

The lieutenant produces a pair of handcuffs...

"Please, no." Her eyes become round with fear. She tries to back further off...

...but there's nowhere to go. A two-story drop to the plaza mosaic -- if she could, she would've run before.

Fragile, unshielded, her voice is thin and tired.

"I think I know who did it. Who shot Lely... I can tell you. I can help you."

She knows something!

"Kim, arrest this woman before she can say anything else." (Ignore her theory.)

"What do you know? Who shot him?"

She's silent for a second -- as if looking into herself for certainty. Then, in a hushed voice, she says...

Gearing up for this betrayal is hard for her.

"Ruby."

"Industrial espionage. We uphold international law here in the Zone of Control."

"You misrepresented information about the case. Without the Hardies' confession we'd know nothing."

"You're not playing these mind games with me anymore." (Wag your finger next to your head.) "You're coming in."

"You're a suspect in a murder investigation. You're a flight risk. That is all the reason I need."

"Failure to aid a police officer. You have wasted our time -- in a time-critical investigation."

"Cute. You're still under arrest."

"But I haven't done anything..." She backs up against the railing -- with a forced smile on her face. "Anything illegal."

You almost say the words, then stop -- the lieutenant is off somewhere, 28 kilometres from here, probably reading the manual for incarceration. The one he knows how to use. Come back and say this with Kim here; you can't handle it without him.

"Your real name isn't Klaasje Amandou."

"I agree." The lieutenant turns to her. "You wouldn't give us your real name -- not when people are after you."

"Okay." Her voice cracks suddenly -- like there's a garrotte around her neck.

Tighten it. You've got her.

"All out of lies now, huh?"

"Okay, yes -- it's not." She's cornered. "It's not my name."

"You admit to it!"

"You log your work every week. It's all transmitted to COMINSUR. I couldn't just beg you not to enter my name... So I lied."

"Like I lied before. Like I lied to my employers. I have to lie all the time..." She looks at her hands, her fingernails are chipped white. "I'm so tired of it."

She's not lying now. She really is very tired. Her metabolism is failing her, the afterglow of whatever narcotics she's been taking is wearing off.

"You're probably not even Miss Oranje '37, are you?"

"I am." Her smile quivers. "They can never take my sash and my sceptre from me."

Yes they can! For lying!

"Tell me your real name."

"It's Katarzine Alasije." The smile on her face is timid -- almost painfully so.

It's a Graad name -- Zsiemsk or Yugo-Graad in origin -- not Occidental at all. Smells of motor oil, taiga, economic desolation, and rock music infused alcoholism.

It also makes Klaasje almost an allacronym -- for Katarzine Alasije.

Say nothing. (Proceed.)

"I haven't said it aloud in such a long time... that name." She shakes her head.

She's filling dead air. Can't stand the silence.

"I'll keep calling you Klaasje. "(Proceed.)

"That's cool..." She looks at the ashtray. Then up at you.

She doesn't feel like a Klaasje. She feels like nothing.

"I'll just call you Miss Oranje Disco Dancer." (Proceed.)

"You can call me whatever you want." She smiles, too tired to laugh.

"Wait, Klaasje is an abbreviation of Katarzine Alasije?"

She nods. "It was a sentimental thing. I wanted to be more me here. This time. So I used my nickname."

A nickname -- who gave you this nickname, Klaasje?