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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