The Guard (7 page)

I ask Harry to come in. With a shocked expression he joins me in the cubicle that isn't really big enough for two people. I am already kneeling in front of the toilet bowl. I ask him to watch over my shoulder while I press the tip of my finger against the inside of the enamel where the water gushes down when you flush. To my great relief I see and feel the initially invisible trickle build up and find new paths on either side of my fingertip.

“The toilet's leaking,” says Harry.

45

I turn the key in the lock of the storeroom door through two full circles and see at a glance that the ammunition is all there with every box in place, just as they were eight hours ago. I count per shelf and do the multiplications in my head. Fifteen times three is forty-five boxes. Flat and rectangular, long sides against each other. The Winchester cowboy spurs his horse, never getting any closer to himself. I check each box separately, starting with the weight, although that of course can never be a valid criterion. Behind the flap, the cartridges stand in tight lines, immaculate and gleaming like polished jewels. Our most valuable possession.

I like being in this room. I take my time. The room appears to have been created by chance in the lost space between three supporting elements, but now derives its importance from the function it has been given, the ammunition on the shelves, the food and bottled water against the wall opposite. Necessities for the protection of the building.

I think of Harry and how he assigned a function to his life at an early age, deriving importance from it. The way he owns our modest uniform and how well it fits him. How he is driven by the goal of becoming an elite security guard. He has never been lost space in a dark corner of a basement where there is no longer so much as a breath of wind to disturb the accumulated dust.

I count all of the cartridges in all of the boxes. Time has no hold over them, they are patient, they look exactly the same as the first time I counted them. Winchester, 9mm Luger (Parabellum). And like that first time, the final qualification reminds me of the Latin adage,
Si vis pacem, para bellum
. If you want peace, prepare for war.

46

At the door of our room I inform Harry of the results of my inspection. We pull out our Flock 28s. In turn, we silently count the contents of the cartridge clip. After I have given Harry a nod, he repeats the total from the storeroom out loud and says, “Plus two times fifteen.”

We sit down and eat bread I baked this morning. I added ingredients in the correct proportions and turned on the machine; it's questionable whether that justifies my claim of having baked bread. Sometimes I feel like it's not enough. There's something missing, without which the bread, although delicious, is not real bread at all but an outstanding imitation. Harry couldn't care less. He tears
off chunks and stuffs them in his mouth in one go. It's remarkable how he always manages to find room to turn it over and chew it up without opening his mouth.

Afterward he tells the story of Claudia and the frangipane. Chewing has brought back memories, or is it his craving for sugar? Or something else I can't even imagine? The story dates from an increasingly distant past, but sounds like it might just as easily have happened yesterday, this morning or an hour ago. Claudia just stepped back into the elevator.

Harry is relaxed, seated, legs spread slightly. He touches his tongue with the tip of one finger and collects three crumbs that have fallen on his pants. He nibbles them between his incisors while continuing the story, which happened while I was asleep in bed. It is a drawn-out anecdote that ends with a misunderstanding Harry finds extremely amusing. Today he forgets to mention the buckled patent-leather shoes. And although it's a minor detail, he gets Mr. Colet and Mr. Toussaint mixed up again; they both drove a white car.

47

Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven's fiancée lies stretched out between high walls, Italian marble extending up to the cornices. Lukewarm water trickles from a gold tap and the heady smell of cherry blossom wafts through the bathroom. She rises up from the froth, which slowly slides off her body. She dries herself with a thick towel, thoughtfully, as if dabbing a wound. She rubs lotions into her skin and plucks her eyebrows. She files her toenails and varnishes them pale pink. It is only at the very end of her toilet that she steps into a dress, lifting the bands up over her round shoulders.

It is a morning full of hope, the sky is blue. She sits down and informs the servant that she would like to drink grapefruit juice
for breakfast, sweetened with half an orange. And afterward, as usual, a large cup of coffee topped with a thin layer of frothed milk. She uses a silver teaspoon to scoop strawberry jam onto crusty bread. She rests her elbow on the mahogany tabletop and holds the slice of bread up to her supple lips. Catharina's weight is suddenly on her lap; immediately she starts to purr and settle down.

Outside the sunlight is sparkling on the leaves of hedges, shrubs and trees, on the blades of grass in the beds. Even on the helmets of the patrol. The two guards hold their dark weapons diagonally across their chests as they walk side by side across the lawn. They almost never stick to the paths, a sign in part of how reliable they are.

Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven's fiancée is imperturbable; she carries on with the life she has always led, unbothered by the heightened security measures. She enjoys watching the guards, who have become, in a sense, her possessions, part of the villa's furnishings, things she can gaze upon unhindered and even touch, should she so desire. They are like the works of art hung on the walls and mounted on plinths. Their secrets stir her imagination.

48

I imprint the days in my memory. After waking—before washing and dressing—I look at the date on the cover of the calendar. Then I look inside for the day of the week. As it's last year's calendar, I add one day. Wednesday is Thursday. A year is made up of fifty-two weeks and one day. Of course, the calculation is imprecise, the surplus is added every four years. Next year we reach that stage: I'll have to add two extra days and three from February 29. Wednesday on the calendar will be Saturday in reality.

Around noon, forgetfulness sets in. If I succeed at this point in summoning up the correct day, I remember it until it's time for me to go to bed and dispatch it to the past with a cross. Much more often, I get my memories of the countless concentrated moments standing in front of the calendar mixed up. Understandably, because they always take place in the same circumstances and in the same light, week after week. I manage better when I'm sleeping before Harry. When I'm sleeping after him and wake up slowly in his presence, I say, fairly regularly, the name of the day out loud. “It's Thursday today.” Harry never reacts. My days have been noted. I am often sure that I have remembered the day correctly only to discover in the evening that it's Thursday again tomorrow. Or already Saturday. Memories of mistakes are especially confusing.

49

Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven's fiancée is appalled by the sight of the guards. Their constantly increasing numbers, their heavily armed presence: it ruins her breakfast. It ruins the garden, the villa, the art collection. It rubs her nose in the facts. Everything around her is compromised because no one can say what's in store for her. The guards owe their existence to potential danger and therefore personify it. Their being there evokes the horror that could strike her, in whichever form, a horror that would end everything that is familiar to her, what she sees as her life, the person she is.

She orders the servant to activate the sunshade.

Perhaps she would prefer to not hire any guards at all, telling herself that none are needed, that the state of grace in which she lives will go on forever. After all, nothing has happened for so long. Gradually she would forget the threat, bolstering the illusion. Not
one secure second would be spoiled again. Until the day they've all been used up.

50

The last tin of corned beef. We've stretched it out so thriftily over several meals that the last bit tastes strange, already slightly tainted. We no longer eat the meat on bread. I lay the precious cube on my tongue and smear it against the roof of my mouth. The saliva starts to flow and mixes with the salty taste. I wait for a long time, until my taste buds are saturated, then swallow tiny gulp after tiny gulp until my mouth is empty. Harry eats the meat a little faster, but with comparable attention. We've wiped the tin out with bread several times. We've pushed the tips of our tongues into the corners. Harry has put the tin on the floor next to the leg of the chair. It sits there like a memento, no longer smelling even slightly like something edible.

51

I could just snap that he's damn right. Kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, I keep my fingertip on the enamel. The toilet is leaking and together we stare at the stream of water splitting into two. It's as if I'm constantly pointing at him, the transgressor, forcing him to repent. He apologizes. He won't be so remiss again. He spontaneously promises to always push the button up with his finger. He swears it on his father's grave. Because he understands better than
anyone my need to keep the environment clear and tidy so that my thoughts can settle into their familiar groove and relax a little. That's all. I'm not asking for anything else and Harry realizes that. That's why he bows his head, ashamed of his careless negligence. I stand up, brush the dust off my knees and tell him it's okay. No, he says quietly, it's not okay. As he's leaving the toilet, I briefly lay a hand on his shoulder. We're a unit; we take each other into account. We depend on each other. He watches over my freedom, I watch over his. That allows us to relax and sleep at night. In this world we are each other's only security. We differ, that's true, but those differences make our unit more complete; the organization has paid careful attention to that. We are like a left eye and a right eye. Together we see depth.

52

I study the bare tree through the crack to the side of the entrance gate. Over the whole crown there are a dozen dry leaves still hanging, each at the tip of a branch in the very place where they are most exposed to the wind. I don't know if this is a sign. The old fear of a nuclear disaster takes hold of Harry.

“Have a smell.” He nudges me and stares intently at my nose as I stick it in the crack. I doubt that radioactive fallout can possibly manifest itself as a smell. I feel like a canary in a coal mine. I breathe in reluctantly and instantly distinguish stone and iron, smells which become ordinary even during that first inhalation and cannot in any way be linked to danger. After three or four breaths, I'm convinced that there's nothing else to smell. I look back at the tree. I look at the section of wall tapering up to street level, over which, once again and for weeks now, the strange, dark-black shadow of an elongated, triangular
object outside our field of vision has been slowly sliding; it will disappear again in spring.

“If it was a bomb,” I say, “an explosion, then it must have happened a long way away. No more than a couple of nuclear warheads, maybe a targeted strike against a city on the south coast. A large-scale attack would have caused a cloud of dust that blocked out the sun.”

Harry leans on the entrance gate. “The groundwater's contaminated,” he mumbles to himself. “The tree has been defoliated through the groundwater, through the roots. It's nothing to do with the season. That's why the leaves on the end of the branches have been spared the longest.”

A nuclear disaster or a small-scale atomic attack would explain a lot, first of all the silence in the city: a mass evacuation or wholesale flight to escape airborne death. Is it possible to clear an entire city, or better, is it possible to mute all of a city's noises? I concentrate hard on Arthur; snippets of his monologues about the construction of the building echo in my mind, but not once do I hear him talking about lead. Or is that something that has been taken for granted for ages? Including lead lining in the walls of extremely expensive new buildings? Is that why we never get to see the remaining resident? Because there's no need for him to show himself? We've already determined that he must have an immense larder at his disposal.

I think of the driver, the young guy who, instead of appearing in uniform, showed up last time in a baggy blue sweater and pants without a crease. I wonder if lead thread is woven into those garments, if that could be the explanation. Was he decked out in a new kind of chain mail?

Will Harry and I end up besieged by desperate mobs, repulsively mutilated, who attack slowly and with inhuman patience, scratching at the concrete for months on end with screwdrivers and knives until the groove disengages and they, with their combined strength, can push the entrance gate just far enough aside? Will we
be able to maintain our mental health until the last moment, saving our fire until the enemy is in sight?

53

Harry bends over the basement floor plan, gripping the table tight as if he's about to lift it up and hurl it across the room in fury. I'm standing at the short end, at right angles to the plan. He doesn't agree with me. He says it would be a sign of weakness. What clearly disturbs him the most is not the nature of my question, but my having asked it at all. He can hardly believe I've asked a question like that, he's disillusioned. “Don't you think,” he says after a while, without looking up, “that the organization will inform us when the organization considers it necessary to inform us?”

“We could just touch upon it in passing?”

“You want to exchange chitchat with a punk like that?”

“I mean, we could ask him an innocent question or raise the subject without immediately exposing ourselves.”

“You've gone crazy. You do you realize that, don't you? Asking a subordinate for an explanation. Don't you understand? That would be risking everything we've built up so far. In all the time we've been posted here, the organization hasn't heard from us once, not once. For the organization we're a completely autonomous two-man unit that looks after itself and that's why we're on the verge of a well-earned promotion to the highest level you and I can ever attain. We're a two-man unit that knows what it has to do—guard this basement—and also knows what it's better off not doing—asking superfluous questions. And that's what you want to start doing in the middle of resupplying, during a standard situation, the only occasion on which we might possibly be subjected to one last
test before the organization decides to transfer us to the elite. Just think about it, Michel. Think!”