On the phone, Grupstra had been explaining the suspects' presence just now, not so much as a detective informing his colleague of developments in his quest, but rather in his role of complaining friend-how everything, once again, had turned for the worst and how he could in no way be blamed for any mishaps. First, he'd lost his way; second, he'd got stuck in marital problems; third, he'd slipped off a dike. Grupstra, through no fault of his own, caught in a web spun by fateful circumstances. Does nothing ever go right?

Think a little, de Gier thought, catch the hidden thread. And make use of helpful hints supplied by literature manufactured in this very country, showing images in a foreign language that, with a little trouble can be grasped. Literature exaggerates. Mem never ate Douwe. Reality exaggerates too, but with less use of symbolism.

De Gier, barely awake on the couch, surrendered to hellish scenes. He saw local witches, degenerated from abuse and neglect, feeding ferocious flames of revenge emerging from the darkness of each other's souls. Their fury takes on different forms: one changes her home into a trap and lures a hapless male into her cupboard, where she humiliates her prey on a shelf; the other ventures out into the damnation of die Amsterdam night, and Douwe crumbles and floats away in a burning dory.

Both scenes were equally terrifying. De Gier preferred to wake up, to drag his body off the soft couch to a hard chair at the table, where he returned to the study of literature. What conclusions could the female author offer? A sentence stuck out. The male can never be a true source of pleasure.

Well now, that would hardly be a good reason to dust off an antique German pistol left over from the war. Just because there was no pleasure in the beast? He read on. A dialogue emerged between two women-between Mem and Gyske?

Gyske: 'Tell me, why did you get married?"