Chapter 2

..............Mister Pruijn LL M, lawyer and tax consultant, is informed of the calamity at two o’clock in the morning by the local fire department. He and his partner Holla were expected to drop by at the police-headquarters early next morning for further questioning; also he is expected to inform his business partner Holla. His first reaction seemed somewhat clouded by sleep but soon afterwards he had sounded stricken. ‘Arson? You are saying it was arson!?’, but alas, his question got reaffirmed. Then Pruijn said was going to what used to be their office, for he wants to see the fire and damage with his own eyes.

Ignoring his wives stare Pruijn immediately calls Jan-Willem Holla. At first Holla needed to overcome his shock, and became silent for a short while, then stutters ‘Ar…ar…son…’ Immediately Pruijn tries to calm him down with a few general remarks: their insurance would cover the costs, no-one was hurt, it was not as bad as it could have been...Some matters needed to be attended to a.s.a.p. The employees needed to be informed early in the morning, before eight o’clock. They would have get in contact with the office management company they earlier contacted to arrange a temporary office. Pruijn continues his monologue: they would take care of putting together an operational back-up and the immediately required host computer copies. Only now Holla comes with his first remarks: he would like to inform the insurance companies to ensure that direct and collateral damages were estimated for both their own premises and the adjoining premises.

And naturally they had to get in contact with their most important customers. Special care had to go into the message to Robert Keyser, by far their most important customer. They decided to send it early in the morning, carefully worded to ensure no panic ensued: as short as possible and to the point. Pruijn did not need to look up the itinerary to know that he was on his way back from a three-week business trip to Southeast-Asia and was making a stopover at Minsk, White Russia, one of the former USSR-territories officially named Belarus. Yes, it is time for a late night, or, technically, a very early appointment.

As soon as he hangs up the phone Pruijn stands up and enters the adjacent changing room. He dresses up as if for next morning, for a gentleman is only a gentleman when he is dressed likes one. The black Armani made-to-measure suit, the jet-black Bommel shoes and the purple-blue silk batik shirt do the trick. He grabs a lively multi-coloured tie to finish it off. Then his wife, clearly not at ease, appears wants to get out of bed too. Yet he dismisses the arson as a matter with no importance whatsoever: ‘Darling, even our JP the MP receives threat letters on a weekly basis. More often then not they contain bullets nowadays… Just try to see this fire as an overheated form of communication...’

‘But why can’t you just stay here until tomorrow morning? What can you do there anyway, Maarten?’ she pleads. The crack in her voice sounds frightened. As wild and free as she behaved at the grand Keyser parties lately, yet so timid and scared right now. Pruijn himself feels furious, but is able to hide this for her: playing poker was more then a hobby, it was an addiction. Keep your cool, no matter what hand was given…

’Atta girl, atta girl...’ he continues in other attempt to calm her, ‘Listen, darling. This is all covered by insurance. Jan-Willem and I just need to go there and check our place. I’ll be back in an hour, two hours tops.’ She smiles sadly but starts to lie back in the large four-poster bed. Bending over he kisses her knitted brows and briefly caresses her bare breasts. Then he tucks her in.

Mr Pruijn is a distinguished man in his fifties. He looks stunningly well preserved and very fit. Salt and peppery hair, just a modest hair loss, a well-trained lean bronzed face, with a powerful jaw line. Somehow they fit his personality, for he is a born organizer. The complex tax laws and treaty’s, phonebook sized contracts and agreements, the endless array of EC directives, you just name it; in his head they merged into an international roadmap with a GPS kind of accuracy. Yes, he could take each and every junction, which others believed to be complicated and full of obstacles, at full speed. Quickly thereafter he would find the hidden side-road, the handy short cut, the near to invisible fly-over. And it was over there the tiny loopholes in the elaborate and complex tax legislation could be found. These holes were planned by lobbyists: big guys working for even bigger guys; didn’t they all play golf…

One trait he picked up through the years was that of total concentration. He could not do anything about that fire right, now; all he could do was drive there. He puts the metallic green-blue BMW Z8 in reverse and, looking into the rear-view mirror, drives out of the built-in garages. Again in his mirror he sees the garage-door closing and with the push of another button the wrought iron gate at the entrance of the estate opens. Why start guessing about the current state of their office building on fire: only there he could assess the damages. Never mind even thinking about person and motive of the arsonist: the cops had to catch him, period. He knew that anger and rage were, above all, counterproductive.

Now this automobile had captured his undivided attention. After all the modifications this Z8 could compete and outrun even some of the Ferrari’s. Yes, every time he feels as in love with this incredible race car, this miracle of technique and beauty. His hart pounds quicker after hearing the powerful motor roar. The leathery smell of the luxurious interior makes him feel immune for everything. The car with handcrafted seats fits him like a protective cocoon. As ever the thrust forwards was unbelievable.

An eight-lane motorway takes him into the city. Pruijn presses another button on the steering wheel and suddenly Miles David seems to appear from all sides, blowing his trumpet. It is one of his favourite songs, with the ingenious musician on an electric trumpet this time. It’s the phenomenal, outrageously funny song ‘You’re under arrest’. First the musicians in unison, exaggeratedly sniffing and snorting coke in the back of a car. ’Oh-oh!!’ one of them shouts and his heavy set niggervoice implied only one thing: they’re fucked! Big time! Cartyres shriek as the brakes are slammed. ‘We got you!’, an angrily yelling choir of policemen. Then a first accusation: ‘You got that girl in there...’ A few ominous trumpet tones of Miles later another follows: ‘…smoking that marijuroni!’ Anticipatory Pruijn starts grinning. There come the cops again ‘We were following you in that yellow…Ferrari…’ Then the man himself, Miles Davis with his raw-throated reproach: ‘That was no yellow Ferrari...you were following a cab...’ Now Pruijn is laughing aloud: how to mistake an American yellow cab, shaped as a tank, for an Italian Ferrari with the grace of a reclining bicycle! It was all the more funny because he owned one, a yellow one indeed!

Connections and money, it has always been, is now is and for ever will be an unbeatable combination. It offered protection from all kinds of discomfort, wherever you happened to be. Waiting lists to see a specific doctor, getting your driver licence revoked, little civil servants giving you a hard time; with some assistance these problems would vanish like snow before the sun. Yes, with the right network and the right amount of money you became like a true Teflon-character: nobody was gonna get a grip on you. An old friend had to deal with rich people’s worst nightmare: one of his children got the kidnapped. Well, some four hundred policemen were willing and able to chase the culprit. Everyone knew hardly forty cops were put on an average kidnapping. Soon thereafter his friends pride and joy came out of some trunk, unharmed; while the taxpayer was gonna take care of the bill.

Fifteen minutes later he turns on to the Prinsengracht. The traffic is held back at the short connecting-road to the Herengracht, close by the court of justice. Unfortunately the bend in the canal blocks his view of the burning building. He really thought this fire should have been extinguished by now...but the hellish glow can be seen indirectly…turning the blackish water orange… Shortly after he parks his car in one of the few available parking spaces. Now on foot, he is able to count three fire engines and one fireboat. They were pumping water out of the canal at full power. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he curses out loud. That bloody arsonist had balls. Big ones, too! The police headquarters was only six blocks away. He cannot help but remember the commotion in the media when the first wave of female cops got employed. All their male colleagues seemed to be watching porn-movies when on duty. During low tides, anyway! ‘And those movies’, Keyser once declared ‘were delivered by me, personally!’ Everyone there had appreciated the joke. It wasn’t so funny, now.

As if the newest incentive, performance contracts, could change anything. A cynical cartoon in the newspapers had this issue graphically addressed: ‘Where is the Violence that has been performed? There is no Violence to put in the ledgers! Our target Violence must be accounted for!’ Oh yes, targets! Or, to be more specific, growth-targets; they were another disgusting form of a bureaucracy gone bonkers and berserk at the same time. As if crime fighting was the same thing as running some retail shop and could be regarded likewise. For criminals, yes, but for them it was nothing but doing business! The police, on the other hand, only got involved after the criminal facts occurred. Demand was not directly connected to supply. Pruijn now both sees and hears the roaring fire. The totally glassless windows look like huge fireplaces, with one big difference: enormous flames just leaped out, skywards. The sight is nothing less then a disconcerting inferno. Pruijn watches the fire-marshal yelling orders if he was a drilling officer. Next moment he starts shouting into some supersized mobile phone. You had to be totally blind not to realise that their fine Golden Age canal-side offices were irretrievably lost. Finally he notices his partner, Holla, almost behind one the fire engines. Pruijn waves and screams to attract his attention. Holla waves back and gestures with a shrug he could not get through. Pruijn points to the other side of the canal, pulls out his cellular phone and calls him.

A moment later, Holla crawls panting into his sport car. Their personal differences, the fatty professor and the slim athlete, were generally an additional bonus. Holla was a specialist, he himself a generalist. The nit-picker, zooming in scrupulously versus a bird of prey, overseeing it all. His partner is obviously off balance. His change of voice, the stuttering and the ominous silences were clear from the start. But watching the flames together it is flagrantly obvious: the man beside him is staring at the orange fire sea on the other side of the canal, mesmerized, like a sick, pale and bloated myxomatosis rabbit.

’Jan-Willem, please, try to be realistic, will you! This has to be an action of some weirdo, a frustrated client, a troublemaker in general. A nut with a few leftover Molotov cocktails in his shed. That jerk aimed at our premises, and not that of our opposite neighbours, only because of the so-called dead man’s hand. Really, man, come on, all that is gone is some finely designed work space’, he tries to keep his partner’s mind focussed. ‘Next week, probably in a slightly less opulent building,’ but nothing had changed for the better on Holla’s face, ‘next week we will be fully operational again.’ His neighbour stares across the canal. Nothing, zilch and zero reaction on what he had put forward for the sake of perspective. ‘What the fuffu…ffuck is the…fuffu…ffunction of a gogo…goddamn expensive sprippri…pprinkler installation anyway?!’ is all that Holla manages to ut-ut-utter.