From Bruges with Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

relentlessly, constantly trying to grab his attention. Going on about the house seemed to be the only way to restore communication between him and Vermast.
    â€œAnd the rest, Commissioner. I worked on the place day and night for eight months before we could move in. It was more like a cowshed than a farmhouse back then.”
    Vermast pushed his daughter aside and joined Van In at the table. Leen finished her tea and fetched the juicer from the cupboard with clear reluctance. She ripped open one of the brown bags on the kitchen counter and grabbed a bunch of carrots. Tine clung to her mother like a black widow on her partner.
    â€œI can show you some photos of what it used to look like if you’re interested.”
    Van In nodded, trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. Things were going from bad to worse.
    â€œLet’s go to the living room. It’s quieter there,” Vermast suggested, hoping fervently that the girl would stay with her mother.
    They had just arrived in the living room when the juicer started to whine at an earsplitting pitch. Vermast was wise enough to close the door, reducing the volume by a good forty decibels. He invited Van In to take a seat on a rustic sofa, the upholstery of which was in a lamentable state, much like the rest of the furniture.
    While his host searched for the promised photographs in a quasi-antique linen closet, Van In sized up the Vermast family habitat. They had probably paid a fortune to some canny antique dealer for the rickety furniture. The cupboards were full of bursts and cracks and were covered with caustic soda stains. A clumsy endeavor to camouflage the stains with thick layers of furniture polish had clearly failed. An orange crate would have fetched more at auction. The rest of the woodwork was worse than the furniture, if that were possible. In an eager attempt at giving it the authentic farmhouse look, Vermast had tried to clean the grime from the beams supporting the roof. Without the protective layer of paint, the wood now looked like dried gingerbread. It was nothing short of a miracle that the place was still standing. The state of the wooden floor defied description. Capricious tunnels testified to the unflagging zeal of a woodworm colony.
    Their things had clearly been put together from rummage sales and flea markets—artificial pewter plates, a rusty set of fire irons, a chandelier in the form of a wagon wheel, and a selection of agricultural implements on the walls, all intended to create a country feel. What irritated Van In the most, however, were the unrecognizably mutilated toys scattered all over the room. Anything goes, he thought.
    â€œFinally,” Vermast groaned. He had emptied half the linen closet by this time. “Here they are.”
    Vermast turned to reveal a torn cardboard box. He placed it between them on the sofa and removed the lid. It was overflowing with photos, most of them simple family snapshots.
    â€œThese are from last year.” Vermast handed him a pile of underexposed Polaroids. Van In examined them carefully. The piece of land was only recognizable from the hawthorn hedge and the leafless elms against the ominous fall sky. Vermast hadn’t been kidding. The original building was little more than a hovel.
    â€œIncredible, Mr. Vermast. You’ve worked wonders with the place. It’s close to a miracle.” Vermast smiled like an amateur cyclist winning his first race. The compliment had tickled his vanity. He walked over to the old-fashioned dresser, where he kept a bottle of cognac behind a pile of magazines and newspapers.
    â€œLeen’s brother-in-law has a buddy in the real estate business who pointed us in the right direction. It was a bargain, let me tell you. He also took care of the necessary building permissions.”
    Van In raised his eyebrows.
    â€œThe new house will be three times the size of the old place,” said Vermast, grinning conspiratorially. “The property is