The Guard (5 page)

Ten minutes later we're walking next to each other. We follow the perimeter of the basement, hardly cutting any corners, keeping our hands behind our backs. The jam stain in the middle of the concrete floor has turned from dark-red to a brownish color. After completing our inspection round several times in succession, it's as if, instead of guarding the basement entrance, we are now guarding the stain, circling it like sheepdogs to keep it neatly in position. Just past Garage 22, the closest to the stain, I spot a lazy fly rising up from it. It's the kind of fly that always seems to fly in squares. At least, it always does corners, never curves. It must have got in yesterday when the gate opened. I hope it doesn't lay eggs, that the traces of sugar left in the stain don't convince it to lay eggs. I feel an itch under my cap. Maybe it will come land on my face in the night to probe the corners of my mouth with its proboscis, hungry and angry because there's nothing left in the stain. Maybe it will dare to venture between my slightly parted lips to eat from my teeth.

While striding along with Harry, it occurs to me that catching the fly now would be relatively simple. It doesn't rise higher than fifty centimeters or deviate more than a meter from the spot. The fly too seems to be guarding the stain.

I don't think Harry's noticed it. It's obvious that we can't afford to get wound up about a fly; that would be ridiculous. But at night when I am the first to go to bed, the temptation to check the room carefully is irresistible. All things considered, it's only a minor inconvenience.

I don't find any flies. Harry, who is sitting outside the door close to the chink, will have to suffice as a deterrent. I clean my teeth with my index finger, after first dipping it in a glass of bottled water.

The calendar is hanging from a nail in the corner and forms a diptych with the mirror above the washbasin on the other wall.
The front shows all twelve months in two columns of greatly reduced reproductions of the inside pages. The Tengmalm's owl above October is a blur within a blur. Twelve endangered bird species, possibly already extinct. The cross I add before getting into bed is the second cross on this date. The double crosses stretch back four or five months. Harry started it, the day we got our first rations. A day to remember, he said.

30

Harry can't sit still while talking about the guard. He jumps up and straightens his jacket and tie as he starts to pace, a few steps left, a few steps right.

“It can only mean one thing . . .” He stops and points at my chest. “How long ago did the organization announce the guard?”

We both know the answer to the day, but I've been to university, so I'm better at that kind of thing.

I've sat down on the chair and stretched my legs, extending my toes as far as I can. The pleasure that starts in my muscles buzzes through my body and dims at the top of my skull. It's only after hesitating that I say, peering into space, “Six resupplies.”

“Six resupplies ago, Michel. Six.” Harry starts moving again. “Six resupplies: that's a very long time. And no message to the contrary in the meantime. If you think it through, systematically, it can only mean one thing.”

I nod in agreement. When he delays the pronouncement of his conclusion, I say it for him, with appropriate pride. “It must mean,” I say, “that we're doing an exceptional job.”

Now it's Harry's turn to nod, at length. “Everything's going smoothly. No difficulties, no disturbing incidents. In all that time not a single intruder has dared to make an attempt! We haven't
relaxed our grip. We've kept our eyes on the entrance every second. We've always maintained control. Given the nature of this building, that is quite an achievement.” At those last words, Harry lowers his voice and turns abruptly toward the empty space in the middle of the basement, head hunched down between his shoulders, hand on holster. But I've been keeping a sharp eye on everything.

He is rarely guilty of such inattention. Talking with your back to the open area could be fatal. You can't hear anything except your own voice and at the same time you're blocking your partner's view.

Harry recognizes the irony of the situation, slipping up while summarizing our record of service. His smile soon changes into a small but urgent warning to me. Did I see how fast it can happen?

“A formidable achievement,” he continues finally. “Because hidden away like this, we can't possibly gauge the degree of danger. It has evidently become so large or unpredictable that the organization considers it necessary to station three guards here instead of two. Our continuing to take care of business is something they can't fail to notice, Michel. As long as they keep the reinforcements in reserve, we should see that as a favorable sign. A very favorable sign. Recognition.”

31

I peer through the crack to the side of the entrance gate with my left eye first, then my right. I can't see any difference. The patch of night sky around the silhouette of the bare treetop is always uniformly dark. I can't make out any glow, no reflected flames in the cloud cover, no gradations of light.

Is the city dark and quiet? Or does the crack look out in the other direction, away from the city? When they brought me to this building
they led me inside too quickly for me to get my bearings. Am I looking in the direction the wind is blowing from, carrying the silence of the countryside? I press my nose up against the crack. The cold draft seems to make the metallic smell of the groove even stronger.

I continue my round.

The authorities have declared a curfew: anyone who ventures out onto the street at night will be shot without warning. The snipers use silencers so as not to sow panic. The authorities have issued sheets of thick paper to black out the windows like in old-style wars. Is an air raid alarm about to go off? Is it possible that the endless silence will suddenly be shattered by an old-fashioned air raid alarm? How big is the chance of that happening while I'm thinking of it? No bigger than when I'm not thinking of it.

I stand still and listen.

32

It seems unlikely to me that the fly will ever find the crack and escape from the basement. Unless a bright light shines outside for an extended period, as bright as a spotlight aimed at the opening. The fly will starve to death. The garbage crushers are hermetically sealed; the empty tins we throw in have been wiped clean with a piece of bread. There can't be any nutritional value left in the jam stain by now. Harry and I drop crumbs when we eat, but how could the fly find those crumbs? Inconspicuous crumbs which are as good as odorless in a basement that must be enormous to a fly. It must have landed on the floor somewhere to patiently await its death. It is no longer capable of flight. It isn't in our room. It's not there when I go to sleep and it's not there when I wake up. I look down at the floor constantly, searching for black spots on the concrete. I hope to find it, so I can squash it underfoot.

33

Harry says he finds it hard to believe. He says enough time has passed now to thoroughly train a new guard, no doubt about it. He stares ahead and, lost in thought, gently shakes his head. We're sitting either side of the bunkroom door, Harry on the chair, me on the stool. We could sit on the side of my bed with the door wide open to give us a good view of the basement. We could sit on the soft mattress. Obviously, we don't.

“The organization would never announce a guard if they didn't have one available,” Harry says. “That's simply impossible.”

“Extremely unlikely,” I admit.

“They had someone ready,” Harry says. “We have to face facts. Due to developments outside, the organization decided that there should be three of us on this job. They have, for the time being, reversed that decision because we're coping better than expected. Two of us are doing a job which they thought required three guards. Think about it, Michel.”

“As long as we keep it up,” I say.

“We have to keep it up,” Harry says. “Do you think that jam came out of nowhere? You don't think it was a gift, do you? That jam was earmarked for the elite. The elite's rations include jam. Take it from me. Would you like to be able to eat strawberry jam on your bread every day? I know I would.”

34

We drive through unfamiliar streets, passing extremely tall buildings now and then. Towers of shiny new glass, decorated with fleecy clouds. The gate on the street is already rolling back over its
track as we stop. A sign announces that this is private property and a prohibited area. There is also a warning in various languages and a simple illustration pointing out the lethal, high-voltage wires above the thick yellow line three meters up from ground level. The two bottom languages must be Chinese and Arabic. We stop on a sloping drive just inside the gate and the driver sticks his hand in a scanner, rubs a card over a reader and types in a code. He then aims an infrared key at the top right-hand corner of an immense concrete gate. I'm nervous, my carotid artery is throbbing against the stiff collar of my new shirt. This is it, I think, as we drive into the gaping darkness. This is my last chance to make something of my life.

Standing in front of the car is a man who has been waiting for us; his features appear as the gate closes again. He is strongly built, his uniform fits him like a glove and looks as new as mine, though that's impossible. At first I can hardly believe it's the same uniform. I look at the breast pocket, the emblem, the lapel, the buttons. I look at his cap. Now I understand the odd regulations concerning the angle of our cap. That decision was made with this man in mind. It is not in the least bit ridiculous.

The driver hands me two meals and leaves. Carrying the thermos boxes as a gift to show I come in peace, I approach him, put them down on the floor between us and hold out a hand. There is no prescribed way for two guards to greet each other and I fall back on elementary politeness. He shakes my hand and tells me he's called Harry.

He has a strange accent from the north of the province. He comes from a family of farmers, pioneers, but those days are over now. Bob and Jimmy, his brothers, are guards too. He says security is in their blood, they have a talent for it, their father is a veteran. It's possible that the farming was going downhill; I don't ask. Maybe it was a logical progression after having to go to more and more drastic lengths to protect their land and livestock forever-decreasing profits. Or is it more straightforward and have these men become guards out of conviction? Harry has light-blue eyes;
I suspect that women find him attractive. He is younger than me, about four years. The skin of his square face is taut and clear. He has the bulging jaw muscles of a cow or a sheep. He comes over as extremely self-confident; I'm inclined to believe him.

He gives me a tour of the basement. We step into our room together, making it seem even smaller. He turns the tap on and then off again. He shows me the bottom bunk, which is made up perfectly. He keeps quiet about my predecessor. Has he given up? Was he discharged from service? Or did something happen to him during an incident? Is there a tacit agreement not to talk about such things? Because it would bring bad luck? Because it's disrespectful? Or do I just need to ask the question for it to be answered?

He explains the daily routine. He tells me about the residents, their idiosyncrasies, their cars, their children. He introduces me to the staff. Gradually I win his confidence. His face relaxes. We exchange stories. I believe there is a lot he can teach me. I am attentive.

35

“A hundred times bigger,” Harry says. His eyes seek out the perimeter of the basement as if to verify that he has the correct proportion. He almost always uses a factor of one hundred, occasionally resorting to “more than a hundred times.”

In half an hour I'll go to bed. Harry's voice sounds softer than in the daytime. We drank a thin stock and ate some bread and now tiredness has struck. My biorhythm is getting too regular. We would be wise to reverse the sleeping order to break the pattern.

“There's really no comparison to our situation,” Harry continues. “Here we only have a single entrance to the building. One of those big country estates can be attacked on all sides and that makes it a lot more vulnerable. The kind of fencing plays a major
role, true, but fencing never comes with a guarantee that nobody's going to get over the top or tunnel under it.”

He sticks out his chin and gives the hair on his throat a good scratch. I point my rifle almost straight up and pull the trigger without hesitating. My shoulder jolts and the masked figure on top of the fence is lifted a couple of meters. The now motionless body falls as a dead weight. The thud on the ground is followed a couple of seconds later by a soft rustling as the mist of blood and pulp that was blown high into the sky rains down on the grass.

“A property like that is in the middle of a rolling landscape with magnificent trees, so you don't always have a clear view. Sometimes the boundaries of the property run straight through thick vegetation. But it still makes sense for the residents to withdraw to their villas and mansions and stay there for so long; they're protected by the elite. Some units are fifteen men strong. Together they're a well-oiled machine that never falters. They don't hire ordinary guards, you have to be at the very peak of the profession to even get considered. The owners want value for money and that's understandable. Even the simplest tasks aren't entrusted to just anyone. The chain is as strong as its weakest link.”

Harry's account is enthusiastic. He tells me about it as if it's the first time I've asked him about the elite. His words fascinate me more than ever. They are old and slightly the worse for wear, but the story they tell could soon be our reality.

36

Harry says that they are exceptional guards, every last one of them. That's why positions almost never come up. He asks if I understand that properly. They almost never lose anyone. He shrugs. They're simply very difficult to eliminate. What's more, we mustn't
forget there's virtually nobody who feels up to confronting them. You'd have to be pretty crazy, says Harry. But if it does happen, some commando or other trying to intrude upon the defenses, our colleagues have the very best weapons and equipment at their disposal, including, obviously, a lot of high-tech gear. Lasers and thermographic cameras, for instance. Night-vision goggles are part of their standard kit. He tells me to stop and picture it. From an objective point of view their lives are more dangerous, true, their minefield is more densely sown as it were, but compared to the elite, we, Harry and I, are crossing ours blindfold. He grips the lapel of his blue jacket and shows it to me. Stressing his words, he asks me if I know what kind of suits the elite wear. He tells me the story about the suits that are made in three layers. It's a kind of diving suit, skin tight. The top layer is waterproof, the bottom layer registers body functions. The middle layer contains STF, a fluid that immediately changes into an impenetrable shield when pierced by a bullet or sharp object.