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  “Grote ver Jezus (Jesus Christ),” he whispered to himself.

  With that, Peter threw himself into a week of monastic isolation. No phone calls, no nightcaps at the bar, no football. He stocked up on cheese and plunged into a fit of research that at times felt dreamlike. What emerged was an esoteric description of how the world’s water supply could be used to transmit voice, video and data to homes and offices through the municipal water network. It was a big idea. For Peter, it was up there with Newton’s apple. He wrote it all down, put it in an envelope, dropped it in his tutor’s mailbox on an uncharacteristically sunny Friday afternoon, and headed to the graduate lounge for half-priced pints of Oranjeboom beer.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tuesday morning. A soccer-ball phone blared next to Peter’s head.

  “Peter, can you come to my office this afternoon?”

  “Why?”

  “Your paper. We need to talk. I want you to meet somebody.” The door of his tutor’s office had that kind of opaque, private

  investigator glass prevalent in Dashiell Hammett flicks. Peter knocked and went in.

  “Ah, Peter, thanks for coming by. I want you to meet Phillipe

  Timmermans.”

  “Pleasure,” Peter said.

  “Timmermans is an old friend. We did our national service

  together in Belgium. Many years ago it seems now, huh, Phillipe?” “It does, Alexi.”

  Trust wasn’t a reaction that Timmermans immediately inspired in

  Peter. The man was thin and unusually tan for a Belgian. For someone in his early 50s, Timmermans lacked a single gray hair among a sea of black.

  Probably dyed , Peter thought. Timmerman’s eyes weren’t exactly shifty, but they didn’t seem to focus on any one thing for very long. The guy had confidence, though. Peter could feel it.

  “Peter, I happened to be having dinner with Phillipe on Saturday evening. I mentioned your paper. Quite interesting, your idea.”

  “You showed it to him?” Peter said, annoyed.

  “Relax, Peter. That’s why I’ve asked you to come here. I’d like you to explain it to Phillipe yourself, that is, if you’re comfortable doing that. What you’re proposing doesn’t belong in academia. It’s too important, and it comes at a time when the technology universe could use a shot in the arm. Phillipe is an entrepreneur. He’s done well for himself in diamonds, construction and telecommunications.”

  “You did well in telecom?” Peter asked, incredulous.

  “For a while,” Timmermans said, smiling.

  Peter scanned the room. His tutor could tell that he was a bit put out.

  “Peter, you remember the time that you spent in Belgium? Remember how dismal the phone system was there? Remember how long it used to take to simply get a phone hooked up by the local company?”

  “Yeah, months.”

  “Well it now takes a day, partly because of the role this man played, and his contacts with the American phone company that bought a 51% stake in the Belgian company.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “So I’d like to hear a bit more about your thoughts on water,” Timmermans said, taking a silver cigarette case from the pocket of his yellow tweed jacket. “Of course, it’s entirely up to you what you’d like to do with your idea, and frankly I didn’t understand most of what Alexi here was babbling about over dinner, but I sensed something bold and wanted to talk to you.”

  Peter looked straight through Timmermans as if he was somehow trying to assess his soul. After all, 30 minutes ago Peter had been under the duvet dreaming of scoring the winning corner kick for FC Groningen against Utrecht. Now a total stranger, the looks of whom he didn’t even like, was being thrust upon him by a mentor whom he respected but who hadn’t come to him first.

  “I’m not sure about this,” Peter said.

  “Understandably,” Timmermans said. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re asking yourself, ‘Who the hell is this guy?’”

  “Right again.”

  “You’d prefer to get to know me.”

  “You were closer the first time.”

  Timmermans smiled and took a long drag from his Dunhill Blue. “How about tonight?”

  “What, tonight?”

  “Dinner, on me. We can talk.”

  “Won’t work. There’s a match. FC Groningen.”

  “That’s too bad. Unfortunately, I leave tomorrow for several days of business in Amsterdam,” Timmermans said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Amsterdam this week for a lecture?” Peter’s tutor chimed in. Peter stared at him, clearly disturbed by the mention.

  “I tell you what,” Timmermans said, reaching for something in his sport coat. “No pressure. Let me leave you my card. We can arrange to meet the next time you are in Amsterdam. If you care to join me for dinner, the invitation stands.”

  Timmermans wrote out the name and address of a restaurant on the back of his business card, flipped it back over and handed it to Peter.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Several weeks had come and gone since the meeting with Timmermans. It wasn’t so much out of spite that Peter had procrastinated, more out of unease. Who the hell was this guy? Just another schlep desperately trying to get back in the tech game off someone else’s idea - this time, his idea? When Timmermans called Peter’s tutor to say that Peter had

  been a no show, the tutor paid Peter a visit. He said he understood Peter’s reluctance, and then got into the “you’ve been working on your PhD for seven years now” speech. Peter had heard it before, but the tutor was more persuasive this time. Peter did want to leave. He did want to see what it was like on the outside. He agreed to meet with Timmermans, but wouldn’t guarantee when.

  The air was crisp when Peter arrived at the Amsterdam train station. He bought a Coke, threw his bag over his shoulder, and walked outside to the rack of white municipal bikes that the government provided to the city’s inhabitants free of charge. It was a clever way to deal with theft — give people free bikes that they can leave anywhere in the city, and they won’t have to steal.

  “Kapitein Zeppos” was the name of the restaurant that Timmermans had written on the back of the business card. Peter knew the place. It had taken its name from a 60s Belgian TV series, but that’s not what Peter was thinking about as he pedaled. He was thinking of a youth hostel nearby. He had stayed there after a particularly drunken evening with buddies in the red light district. A bet had been put on the table that night which could not be resisted. One of his friends, who was trying to stop smoking, brazenly challenged the others that if he could go two days without a cigarette they would each have to eat 13 raw herring sandwiches with mayonnaise and pickles at the market in the morning. If willpower did not prevail and the friend did have a smoke, Peter and the others were to have the privilege of picking out the fattest, blackest Zairian girl dancing in one of the windows along the Oudezijds Achterburgwal to service their mate. Raw herring won. It had to.

  The rich smell of rijsttafel loitered outside an Indonesian restaurant as Peter turned a corner. He was still vacillating between meeting Timmermans or bailing. It was pretty clear what the Belgian wanted. Profit is the only motive of the businessman species. But this idea, it was all just a harebrained notion scribbled on some paper. Didn’t Timmermans realize that? As much as Peter liked the idea, as much as he wanted to see it work, even he had his doubts about its viability.

  Peter liked gliding through the narrow streets on the bike. There was an edge to Amsterdam that he appreciated. When Peter got to Zeppos, he parked the bike and had a quick smoke. From the street he could hear nothing, but suddenly someone opened a door and a flood of laughter, glasses, music and bohemia spilled out onto the cobblestones. It was his sort of place. Peter looked at his watch, checked the alley for Timmermans, stamped out his cigarette and stepped over the threshold into this pleasant world.

  A jazz trio played Brubeck’s “Take Five.�
�� No sign of Timmermans. Peter ordered a beer and scanned the room. A couple made eyes at each other in the corner next to him. He hated that. A table of plump Eastern European businessmen toasted each other with vodka and howled at something funny. A man in his late 40s ate alone — pheasant with raisins and sauerkraut.

  Everything was normal, but something seemed odd. Then he spotted it. The drummer had one leg, the bass player was missing an ear, and the trumpet player had one hand.

  “Peter, I’m glad you made it,” Timmermans said, walking up from behind, coat off, as if he’d been there a while. “May I join you?”

  “Of course. Cool place,” Peter said, making stupid conversation.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  Again, Timmermans pulled the silver cigarette case out of his jacket. It was clearly one of the Belgian’s props. “So, let us talk about this technology of yours.”

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “Why should I? It’s clear why we’re both here.”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, it’s clear to me. Why are you here?”

  “I heard good things about the band.”

  “I see. Why don’t you tell me a bit more about your idea.” “You seem to already know a lot about it.”

  “Very little, actually. Your tutor didn’t break too many confidences. I did try to pry it out of him, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “I thought we had established that back in Alexi’s office?”

  “I know nothing of your business talent.”

  “True, although I can assure you it is excellent.”

  “I don’t even know your taste in women, and that explains a lot about a man.”

  “True, as well, but once again, I can assure you that my taste is exceptional and my senses are keen. That woman over there with that man, for example.”

  “Which one?”

  “That one, there. She’s a fortuinzoekster (gold digger).”

  “You know this, how?”

  “She laughs at everything that ugly bastard is saying. I’m guessing she grew up near Alkmaar. When she was young, she worked for her father — a cheese man. When he died, it was odd jobs — cleaning houses, working at the fish market, that sort of thing. She never went to college. Her first sexual encounter was at 16 with the older brother of the boy across the street. It was enjoyable enough that she tried it with other boys. She soon discovered the power that sex had over men — a power that, at first, was difficult for her to harness, a power that she was surprised a girl like her was capable of possessing. But it was tangible, and good.”

  Peter was impressed by the assessment. “Close,” he said. “But she’s not from Alkmaar. I’d say she’s from Hoorn. I used to spend summers there with my parents. Her accent is familiar. Her father was a fisherman.”

  “Very well. He was a fisherman then.”

  “Anyway, what’s your story?”

  A waitress appeared. “Alstublieft.”

  “Glass of Pinot Grigio,” Timmermans said.

  “Beer,” said Peter.

  “Well, Peter, I was born in Mechelen and raised in Antwerp. I studied medieval philosophy at Leuven, couldn’t feed myself, went to work in the construction business, made a lot of money, got married, got divorced ... got married again. It goes on from there. You?”

  Peter looked surprised. He thought he was doing the interviewing. “My priorities are pretty simple. I would rank them as follows…”

  “Let me guess,” Timmermans said, scrunching his eyes and taking a drag of his Dunhill.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “I think your priorities would go something like: water, beer, football … women.”

  “Damn close,” Peter said. “You forgot one.”

  Timmermans nodded as if to say, “Go ahead then.”

  “A 1974 Honda CR125M Elsinore motorcycle,” Peter said proudly.

  “Of course. Now really. Let’s hear it – what’s your story?”

  “Born near Assen, still at Groningen University. Never want to get married. Hate liars. Have been studying water for a long time.”

  “What is it that fascinates you about water?”

  “The fact that it’s taken for granted.”

  The waitress returned with drinks. “Alstublieft.”

  “Bedankt. Can I trouble you for a glass of water?” Timmermans said.

  Peter smiled at the irony. The Belgian actually had a sense of humor. “Why do you like business?” Peter asked, sipping his beer.

  “It, too, is taken for granted. Everything has a buyer and a seller. When we’re young, we bargain for approval. When we’re seventeen, we bargain with girls to see which one will take her clothes off. When we go to the market, we haggle for the tastiest piece of meat. When we marry, we do so with the knowledge that no one woman can fulfill our deepest needs. It’s a tradeoff between the 50,000 women out there you could choose from, and the one that comes into your life to whom you say ‘yes,’ or who says ‘yes’ to you. Sad thing is, most people don’t want to make choices. They stroll through life listening to the hymn of comfort — too afraid or too settled to abandon what they have for the risk of something more meaningful, more right.”

  “Is that directed toward me?”

  “Not unless it describes you. Does it?”

  “What’s considered right?”

  “For me, it’s having a feeling in your gut that is so right it hurts.”

  “Is that how you feel about my idea?”

  “Absolutely. I think you ... we ... could make a lot of money.”

  “How?”

  “I can’t help but think that money must have been somewhere in the back of your mind when you wrote your paper. Can you not see it?”

  “Not really.”

  “The world craved bandwidth before the dot.com meltdown and it craves it now. It’s like cocaine. Everyone is desperately trying to cram all those music CDs, Tom Cruise films, and endless lines of blogging through a pipe the size of a garden hose when what is needed is a fire hose at least.”

  Peter nodded.

  “What you’re proposing, Peter, if it works, is extraordinary, revolutionary. It was so obvious that no one saw it. My feeble brain isn’t smart enough to understand how someone can send an email through the municipal water supply, but I can smell a good idea when it’s put before me. I’m here because you’ve got the science and I have the contacts.”

  “What kind of contacts?”

  “Businessmen, bankers, the kind of people who say ‘I’ll send the car to get you.’”

  A waitress brushed Timmermans’s back while balancing a plate of fish and potatoes with a warm buttery sauce.

  Peter quietly played with his glass. “Maybe it’s just a silly idea,” Peter said.

  “Doubtful,” Timmermans said, unflinching.

  “Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe I’m already working with another venture capital guy.”

  “What’s his name? I probably know him. If he’s Dutch, good luck. You need American money, and even that’s hard to come by these days.”

  “Maybe I just want to put my paper in my desk drawer.”

  “That would be stupid. That’s what I’m trying to talk you out of. I knew guys like you in Leuven. Permanent students. Smart guys. They’re now world-class connoisseurs of late-night kebabs, beer, and 21-year-old language students. I want to save you from that, Peter.”

  “What’s wrong with 21-year-old language students?”

  “Listen, your idea is good, Peter. You owe it to the world not to keep this in your head.”

  “I don’t owe anybody, anything, thank you very much.”

  “Look. It’s as simple as this. Let me help you make a lot of money,” Timmermans said, staring deeply into Peter’s eyes as if he was trying to hypnotize him.

  “And help yourself,” Peter said.

  “And h
elp myself. You’re 29 years old. Imagine retiring at 31. Imagine that. What would you do?”

  Peter thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. You must have an idea.”

  “Move to Wyoming, I suppose. Buy a lot of guns. Date women with big hair. I think I’d like it out there.”

  “I can get you there, Peter.”

  “How?”

  “Patent the technology, form a company, bring in some gray hairs like myself to run the place.”

  “You can make that happen?”

  “Yes.”

  Peter paused. The trio finished its set and made its way to the bar. The Eastern Europeans shoveled food into their mouths. Two women kissed. The scene felt right. They were his kind of people in his kind of place. But he suddenly felt overcome with a desire to say his goodbyes, as if he were going on a trip. He visualized Kapitein Zeppos twenty years down the road. He saw the same group of people eating, enjoying themselves, but not laughing as deeply. He saw older visages on the wounded jazz trio, and the same plate of fish and potatoes being served to the table next to him. Same waitress, same smell, same music. He remembered an ad for a dude ranch that he had cut out from the back of a magazine ...

  “ There’s a place in the Wyoming mountains where time slows down, the air smells clean, the water runs pure and the people are down-home friendly. Boulder Lake Lodge is truly at the ‘end of the road,’ nestled in the foothills of the Bridger National Forest. Thick aspen groves and pine-covered hillsides set the stage for one of the finest vacations in the Wind River Mountains.”

  Timmermans smoked his Dunhill.

  Peter didn’t like this Belgian, but he was beginning to sense the man was for real. Peter began to speak, stopped himself, and then started again. “What would we call it?”

  “What?” Timmermans said.

  “The company. What would we call it?”

  Timmermans paused for a moment to take a deep hit on the cigarette. “Whatever you want, Peter,” he said, smoke slinking out his nose.