Conversation · Klaasje (Miss Oranje Disco Dancer)

"Who gave it to you?"

"A teenage boy. A million years ago."

I don't care.

Someone's angry... she's in trouble.

"Finally we meet, Katarzine Alasije." (Proceed.)

She nods. Her round eyes meet yours. They seem moist from the wind on the roof.

"Hold on, Katarzine Alasije is not an Oranjese name, is it? It's not even Mundi. It's Graad."

"My parents were Zsiemsk immigrants, but I'm nationalized. Oranjese. All I remember is Oranje." She's silent. "Alasije is my father's name."

Of course -- she doesn't look like an Oranjese woman at all. She's...

"I should have guessed. You don't look Oranjese."

"I've always had that going for me. Oranjese women do not win beauty pageants at 14."

"I've always had that going for me -- I only have the birthmarks of an Oranjese woman."

Say nothing.

She nods, nervously. Then pulls on her cigarette.

Could it mean Klaasje is an allacronym? For Katarzine Alasije?

"Was the passport bullshit too? That passport you keep hidden?"

"No, it's submerged in a plastic buoy on the coast, in the reeds. It just... doesn't say Klaasje Amandou. It says Annouk Meijer-Smit."

"Falsified documents?"

"Passport and visa." She nods. "Given to me by my employer. I can't even use them. My employer probably leaked the name -- Meijer-Smit -- to hurt me."

"Why would they do that?"

"I didn't show up to a rendezvous. They don't take that lightly." She rushes to explain: "I didn't show up because I was afraid they'd... do something to me. The job was finished -- I'm just a liability now."

She fears an arrest right here and now. This has been an awful turn of events for her.

"It's fake too?"

She nods. "A fake passport and visa. Given to me by my employer. I can't even use them. My employer probably leaked the name to hurt me."

"Why?"

"Enough." (Conclude.)

She nods, her back straight -- ready for whatever is next.

Ready for the damage. She knows you're grilling her.

"Where is this buoy?"

"West of the boardwalk -- in the reeds -- on the coast there." She points toward a clump of ruins on the western horizon. "I put it there when I first arrived. Haven't been there since. I'm not sure I could even find it now..."

"It's useless."

The wind rises. So do the hairs on your back. Somewhere West, small bubbles rise from a plastic ball floating in the water -- rusty, the colour of over-steeped tea.

Shake your head.

Long spindly arms spin the buoy... Oh, but it's all gone now...

"Fine. Tell me one more thing." (Move on.)

"Of course." She nods.

"West of the boardwalk, in the reeds? I need to check this buoy out." (Accept task.)

The lieutenant makes a note of it.

"You're welcome to it. It's in the reeds northwest of here, past a broken sewage pipe. Right near the waterline."

"You're welcome to it. It's in the reeds northwest of here, past a broken sewage pipe. Right near the waterline."

What's happening?

Long, spindly arms are spinning the buoy around, turning it, inspecting it like a magic eight-ball, trying to find a way to snap it open...

NOTHING IS USELESS.

"I knew it."

"Good. You can tell me the truth."

"'Okay' what?"

"Okay -- it's not."

"We don't need to do this." (Back off.)

"Thank you." She sounds grateful.

"You know -- I think you didn't make that call to the station."

"I did." She takes a step forward. "What is this? I called your desk, or whatever it is. The numbers are all over town: 'Call 8-100-2 for Emergencies'."

"There was an older woman on the other end. It sounded like she was smoking. She took my complaint. She coughed."

That is the Emergencies Desk number...

Anyone could know that, sire. By looking around and calling the desk. I don't believe a single word she says!

"What time did you make the call?"

"Thursday night. It was late. Some time after twelve."

The lieutenant nods in your direction: "It checks out."

"Anyone could know the number. And that someone coughed -- it means nothing."

"But I know the time of the call too!" She breathes in. "I know I have not been 100% truthful with you, officers. But I am now."

She sounds like a sixth grader, apologizing.