The Guard (8 page)

He doesn't deign to look at me, he's deeply disappointed. It was an ill-considered suggestion. I look straight at Harry, waiting for him to glance in my direction so I can express my regret wordlessly. But he points at the map, at the entrance gate, and carries on where he left off. The hairs of his mustache are hanging down over his upper lip, the tips discolored by the acidity of his saliva.

“So he comes in here. He'll open the gate and drive the van into the basement. You take up position at Garage 3, keeping him covered. I'll ask for his ID and a confirmation. When I give the signal, you walk to the rear of the van. The moment the driver opens the doors, we have to assess the situation.”

“No time to talk,” I add eagerly. “Each of us, separately, decides whether or not to open fire. But if one of the guards opens fire, the other joins in unconditionally.”

“Dead right,” Harry mumbles.

54

Resupplying is already four days late. We spend most of our time sitting down and staring vacantly at the empty basement. We've run out of flour and yeast and bottled water. To conserve our energy, we've decided to reduce the inspection rounds to a minimum; who knows how long we'll have to get by on our reserves. We speak little. The hunger even weakens Harry's walnut smell, not that it makes him any less nervous. Now and then a drop of sweat runs over the black polymer of his Flock 28, which he constantly grips tight in his right hand, at most resting it briefly on his thigh. I don't tell him that he's burning up masses of valuable calories. We only give our shoes a slight rub, but still brush off our coats and pants
like always. We have postponed washing our shirts and underwear. Harry sits on the chair, I'm on the stool; I stick my pillow between my back and the wall.

Harry doesn't get to sleep at all in his five hours. Eyes wide open, he lies there listening to the inexhaustible silence. He is convinced we're being subjected to the ultimate test, that the time has come to show what we're made of and that, as a consequence, it's ridiculous to think that resupplying will happen in the daytime when we expect it. For myself, I keep my eyes open because I'm scared of dying in my sleep.

Halfway through the sixth day we decide to take up position on the chair and stool against the wall of Garage 4, in immediate, visible proximity to the entrance, while maintaining a clear view of the three elevators. All things considered, it seems more advisable. On the long journey over there we stop twice, resting on our loads to catch our breath.

55

Waiting for the entrance gate to click on: I imagine a woman in the middle of a bare, tiled hall, holding a crystal vase out in front of her. At some stage the vase must fall, that's the agreement, the scene's outcome . . . Endlessly, I see the vase descending through the air, which seems shocked by so much abrupt responsibility and is still trying to prevent its fall, while at the same time surrendering, withdrawing its hands as it were. Time and again, I see the lowest point of the vase approach the tiles and touch them. I watch as the vase's mass keeps moving, like a whale disappearing into water, a car crumpling against a wall, until its speed falters, the first resistance makes itself felt, the fracture lines branch through the crystal, creating shards, and finally canceling out the shape of the vase. I see
it again and again, time after time. Eventually I'm able to make out the high-pitched sound waves that sweep swiftly toward my head over the unmoving mirror of silence and break on my eardrums. It has long stopped hurting. I know what it sounds like, that's why it can't touch me. But the unending repetition is alienating. Is that what a falling vase really sounds like? I start to question the whole thing. Could this scene have another outcome? I watch closely. In my heart of hearts I believe that the vase will fall, but apparently not now, or now, or even now, not even within the foreseeable future; we learn that from experience, from time spent waiting. Perhaps that is the source of the confusion. I have time to study the woman and think of other possibilities and I think of them. While I am pondering this, the woman lets go, the vase falls, the sound hits me full on and completely unprepared; the entrance gate starts up.

56

We jump as if hit by a surge of electricity and immediately we're ourselves again, no longer hungry, no longer sleepy. It turns out to be nighttime, as Harry predicted. After just a couple of steps I get tangled in the beams of the headlights, apparently swinging my arms around because I swipe Harry's head, his cap. He shoves me and shouts over the racket, “Position!” His push was in the right direction. Taking the source of the scorching light as my point of reference, I quickly reach the spot near Garage 3 that I have spent long hours staring at from my prison on the stool, goaded by its terrible proximity. I spread my legs slightly, stretch my arms out in front of me and aim my service weapon just above the thundering engine, which is slowly approaching. Through the soles of my feet I feel the massive weight of the gate descend on the concrete. The engine turns off. My ears are ringing.

Gradually I regain control of my eyesight. The familiar emblem on the hood, large, presumably designed to be recognized from the sky. Again, spotless bodywork lavishly reflecting the basement's frugal emergency lighting. The driver says, “Here we are, then.” He's lowered his window all the way down into the door. It's only when he gets out of the van that I recognize him. He's wearing the same clothes as last time: the blue sweater, pants without creases, sneakers. The clothes are loose on his body, like normal clothes. He is tall and scarcely twenty. Does the organization choose underprivileged, foolhardy youths to work as drivers in the radioactive zone? Is his inflamed skin a first sign of contamination? Do they simply neglect to inform them about the conditions and the dangers? Is that the easiest and cheapest solution? I can't see any adjustments to the van. There's no oxygen tank mounted on the roof. It's an ordinary van.

“A sight for sore eyes,” he says. “My good old buddies.”

“Shut up,” Harry says. “Papers. And fast.”

The driver shows both passes.

“And who are ‘we'?” Harry asks.

The youth casts a cool glance over one shoulder, then looks back at Harry, who still has his pistol trained on him from behind the van. “God knows
who
you are, but you look pretty hungry.”

Harry comes very close to losing his temper. “You said, ‘Here we are, then.' Who are ‘we'?”

The driver grinned. “Me and my friend.” He raps on the side of the van.

For us, that rap is a punch in the face.

The guard.

Harry turns as white as a sheet.

I feel like my legs are about to buckle and force my knees back to lock them in place.

The driver raps on the van a second time and says, “We've had some wild adventures together.”

The silence that follows is broken by the youth's nervous laugh. “Before you attack and eat me alive, I've got rations in the back. Do you hear me?” He waves both hands. “Can you understand me?”

“Who did you have those adventures with?”

“My friend here, made in Korea. Have I come at the wrong time?”

“You mean the van?” Harry asks.

The driver looks over his shoulder silently. I aim at the spot where his eyebrows meet.

“Answer!”

“Of course I mean the van.”

Harry signals for me to join him at the rear of the van. As usual we take cover close to the ground. While the driver gets ready to open the doors, I see out of the corner of my eye that the barrel of Harry's pistol is shaking like a leaf. Get it over with, runs through my head. I'm exhausted, empty. I'm a shell. The idea of not shooting, of giving my assailant time to take aim so that one bullet will suffice, is almost overpowering. An irresistible prospect.

The doors swing open on oiled hinges, the driver clicks them into position—left, right—then takes a step back.

I'm alive.

And hungry again, more than ever.

57

From where I'm standing the load compartment looks empty. I study Harry's expression. He stands up and visually inspects the load.

“Everything in order, boss?” the driver asks.

As Harry nods, I stand up too. Before the youth bends into the back of the van, I catch a glimpse of the load. Not hard plastic trays in a range of colors, just one cardboard box accompanied by bottled water, stowed in a corner. The driver has to crawl into the load compartment to reach the ration.

The box is a good bit smaller than the previous one and exudes the smell of stale lavender. It once contained fabric softener, eight two-liter bottles.

Harry is almost beside himself with impatience but his hands stay glued to the Flock 28 while the driver, with growing reluctance, kneels to pull the bottled water back out of the depths. “Hurry up,” Harry snaps, coupling his order with a poke with his foot just when the youth is at his most defenseless. “Take it easy,” he says, remarkably unmoved. “I'm almost done.”

Afterward, leaning on his door, his right leg already in the cab, he looks us both in the eye by way of farewell. To me he seems much more mature all of a sudden. While dropping onto his seat, before slamming the door shut, we clearly hear him say the words, “Be glad I still bring you anything.”

58

We're sitting next to the cardboard box, in front of Mrs. Privalova's open garage, at a reassuring distance from the entrance gate, and neither of us is inclined to stand up and put an end to this party. For one and a half hours we've been sitting here as if in the company of an old mutual friend, who is telling us about long journeys, summoning up images of small harbors enclosed by steep mountainsides, sunbaked fishermen on strangely shaped boats who toss the morning's glittering catch onto the dock while the cool breeze rattles the rigging. There is a blissful peace on our faces. We have earned this, even though we wisely stopped after a quarter of an hour's gorging. Our initial regret about the lack of anything sweet, which evaporated at the sight of the tins Harry arranged around the box, now starts to nag again. Sugar would be a welcome change after the rich taste of fish in oil, but of course we don't complain. I saw my own
overwhelming desire reflected in Harry's eyes as he tore open the first tin and shook the chunk of fish out onto his hand as if it was coming out of a baking tray and the sensuous golden-yellow oil ran down between his fingers. Fortunately our stomachs have shrunk and the deranged flurry passed quickly, before we did even more damage to our limited month's supply. We know what we have to do; we just don't feel like it. Everything has to go straight into the storeroom, under lock and key, we have to put an urgent end to our debauchery or face another period of devastating hunger. Harry leans back on his elbows, a pose people adopt on the beach, gazing out to sea. He says he could fall asleep just like that. If he closed his eyes for three seconds he'd be gone. I remind him that by rights I get to sleep first. He sniggers and agrees and says that, given that it's now early in the morning, I have the right to go to sleep first in approximately sixteen hours; we'd do better to come up with something else. He's in a playful mood and suggests that whoever makes it to the bunks first gets to sleep first. His words curl around between us before stopping and hanging motionless in the air over the cardboard box. Then, as if our fragile bodies have already made a full recovery from days and days of starvation, we scramble up and run to the door of the bunkroom, clawing at each other's arms and screaming with laughter.

59

An hour later, I'm baking bread. Harry is snoring as if he's faking it, his eyes resting deep in their dark sockets. Bread will alleviate our most pressing needs, delivering the desired volume to our stomachs. It would be better if we didn't open anymore tins in the coming twenty-four hours. We have to battle the temptation with fire and sword. And after that, we need to reinstate our former iron discipline and keep ourselves going on a minimum of fuel. After
the tyranny of blind hunger, I consider myself capable of living off the smell of baking bread alone.

60

I think of Claudia.

She's dozens of meters above our heads in the Olano family kitchen, which is equipped with everything a chef desires and where this bread maker, before the arrival of a newer model, once stood. Every lunch Claudia is the center of a circle of braising, steaming and simmering, sautéing, hissing and spattering. The smells she brings to life cling to her, hanging onto her skirts like children, refusing to let go. After lunch the cheerful crew descend to our basement. A cloud that completely engulfs us, veiling the sharp-edged world.

61

We are sitting in our vests on either side of the door, which is ajar. The armholes hang loose under our arms. No matter how much liquid soap I use, the cotton stays gray without hot water. I've polished our shoes. The new shine keeps catching my eye. Our blue shirts are hanging upside-down to dry on the side of Harry's bed.

“Do you know what your brothers are guarding?”

“Apparently Jimmy's elite. An embassy. I heard something about it just before I got stationed here.”

He slides his cap back to scratch his head as if he's about to launch into a complicated story, but doesn't elaborate. He uses
both hands to put his cap back at the prescribed angle. His broad forearms are deathly pale with the occasional long curling hair here and there, ginger like his beard.

“And Bob?”

Harry shrugs. “Bob's Bob. He'll have blown away a few bad guys by now. It wouldn't surprise me.”

I don't know why I brought up his brothers. Maybe because he told me about Bob and Jimmy himself when I started as a guard, about their special bond. And because that made their being posted to three different districts so peculiar. Were we subject to a special policy designed to protect families from multiple losses from a single incident? Or was it their own free choice? Thinking back on Harry's stories now, I realize that they were all set in their childhood, on the farm; I can't remember any others. Three young men in a hole up north. One beautiful, fickle girl would have been enough.