The Guard (15 page)

It is unacceptable, Harry says, that the client's interests should suffer in any way at all because of the secret ambitions of a clown like the guard. That is fundamentally wrong; it goes against everything the organization stands for. The whole point of all this is the client's security, which is under serious and acute threat. That's why the organization's sent the guard. And what is a guard's number one priority? For all guards, wherever they're stationed, irrespective of any ambitions they might harbor? Harry is going to tell me: the client. It's the client who digs deep into his pocket for our special services, the client who is our priority, the client and no one else. We, as guards, as individuals, do not actually exist. We
live for the client. Anyway, says Harry, how long have we been locked up in this basement now? How long without faltering even once? Harry and me, us? I know it better than he does, says Harry, no, he doesn't have to tell me. If we, with our service record, can't lay claim to a pillowcase or a flannel of our own, to give an example, then we at least have the right to information that is crucial to the protection of our client? Surely?

109

What do I think about it? Surely I must agree with him that the situation is absurd. We're stuck here like sitting ducks. And by “we” Harry doesn't just mean him and me but, more than anyone else, the last resident too. At the mercy of the pettiness and disgusting lack of professionalism of a fellow guard, who is also putting his own safety at risk in the process. Like some kind of suicide bomber who'll stop at nothing to reach his goal. An insult to our profession and a personal humiliation for both of us because isn't it so that, by consistently withholding information, the guard is constantly laughing in our faces? I should just stop and consider it from a fresh perspective. After a while things get muddled of course. After a while the guard starts thinking he's got a clear playing field, that there's nothing stopping him. If I look at the situation from a fresh perspective, I'll come to the same conclusion. I can take that from Harry. There's just no other option. We have to intervene. We can't let this state of affairs carry on any longer. What would the organization require us to do? Just keep plodding along? Do I know what it is? We misjudged things. We wanted to prove our independence by not asking the guard any questions and carrying on with our work as if he's not even here. It hasn't helped. Harry doesn't exclude the possibility that the guard, if he really is
an agent with honorable intentions, is waiting for the exact opposite: initiative. Engagement. If he's a good agent, he'll understand our intervention perfectly and value it. He won't report it as a sign of weakness or stress. He'll speak of dedication, praising us for our bold action, while fully understanding our initial reticence. That's how Harry sees it. And if the guard isn't honorable, we'll have to come up with something to make him better his ways. We no longer have any choice.

110

“A what?”

“An agent,” Harry repeats. “Someone who's been dispatched on a special mission. In this case, a secret mission.”

Just now, when I caught a glimpse of the guard through the crack, he was sitting on the side of my bed, lower arms on his knees. Slightly surprised, but imperturbable, he looked at the corner with the washbasin, where Harry had presumably taken up position. Harry thought he should interrogate the guard himself, to impress the seriousness of the situation on him from the start. We had no time to lose. I'm sitting on the chair outside the bunkroom door; someone has to keep watch. All ears, I stare absentmindedly into the middle of the basement.

After a silence the guard says, almost whispering, “I don't think so. But if I was an agent on a secret mission, I obviously wouldn't be allowed to talk about it. The organization would have forbidden it. A guard is obliged to respect the rules.”

“True,” Harry says. “But you could say whether or not you've been given a special mission, without letting slip what that mission entails.”

“I understand that,” the guard says.

“It's in the interest of the resident.”

“The resident?”

“The last resident, on 29. You sharing your information with us is in his interest. You know that his security is under threat. That's why you're here. He's the first priority, for you as a guard.”

“I don't think I'm an agent. I'm a guard.”

“Sometimes you can be both.”

“An agent and a guard?”

Harry doesn't deem this question worthy of an answer. Either that or he nods.

“What kind of secret mission would I have if I had one?”

“One you'd know all about.”

“What do you think?”

“No idea. Actually, it's not important. What's important is you sharing your information with us.”

“Don't you want to tell me what you think?”

“I told you, I don't know. I'm not a special agent.” Harry's voice betrays the difficulty he's having trying to control himself.

“And you're sure they exist, these agents?”

“Maybe you can tell me.”

“Yes,” the guard says with conviction. “I think they do exist. In secret.”

“Are you one?”

“No. I'm a guard.”

“You're a guard who's putting his own life at risk. Do you realize that?”

“It's better,” the guard says after a while, “to banish bad thoughts from your mind and only think about good things.”

“Are you taking the piss?”

I think I can hear Harry's breathing.

“You don't sound very friendly.”

“Maybe you're not acting like a good colleague. You're not just endangering yourself but also the resident, more than anyone else, and Michel and me. Not a very good colleague, in other words, and anything but professional.”

“Michel?”

“Yes. Michel and me too. Just like at your previous post. If we can believe your stories at least.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That I, for starters, don't believe your story. And if those porcelain figurines existed, you also put your previous colleague in danger by going to talk to him . . .”

The guard is apparently dumbstruck, horrified.

The silence presses on my chest, pinning me to the spot.

“Only twice,” I finally hear. Words that float out calmly on the deep vibrations of his voice box. “I shouldn't have done it. I thought he was my friend.”

111

After making sure the guard is asleep, Harry takes me by the arm. In the darkness between Garages 34 and 35 he asks what has happened in the last few hours. While I was asleep, the guard completely ignored him, as if he didn't exist. Harry claims that the whole situation suits the guard down to the ground. His feigned indignation about our accusation gives him the ideal excuse for not saying another word. If he hadn't known already, he now realizes what an enormous advantage he's at. Harry says we're facing a difficult, if not impossible task. I remark that I didn't notice any great difference from before. Maybe the guard was a little quieter, a bit more introspective, but he talked. Not about the issue, that was a subject he avoided. Just a bit of chitchat now and then. I got the impression, I say, that he was trying to reassure me. Reassure you, Harry repeats softly. That was my impression, I say, yes. I say that I assumed he wanted to let me know that he didn't mind and that I didn't need to feel bad about it. That he understood me telling
you his story. Something like that . . . Harry keeps quiet. It's as if he's dissolved into darkness. Just when I'm convinced that he must have heard something somewhere else in the basement, the soles of his shoes crunch as he turns.

112

Is he speaking loud enough? It really is true and there's no need for me to worry. After all, it's a test; somehow, it's a test. But we're one step ahead. It won't be easy. We'll have to act honorably. I can leave it to him. Am I listening? From out of nowhere, Harry presses his chest against me. He says everything will turn out well. He hugs me. Our caps bump and turn. I smell walnut. Everything will work out. He pushes me away and tells me I'll see. He squeezes my shoulders and talks at me. I don't need to worry, not for a second. Of course the guard would answer me that he doesn't use flannels. The bastard. What did I expect? Of course he'd say he washes himself with his hands. His answer doesn't surprise Harry in the least. Am I listening, do I understand? Have I given the situation enough thought? How long we've been here in the basement together, all the things we've been through. He doesn't have to tell me that. No flannel! Harry heard us, me and the guard, he clearly heard us talking again. But that was last night. Water under the bridge. No flannel! The black shit. He'd do better to use one. Stinks to high heaven. Terrible. Isn't it terrible? The way he manipulates and uses us. Not an ounce of respect. No, guys like him never have any. They rabbit on about it the whole time, sure—respect this, respect that—but when it comes down to it . . . It makes your skin crawl. It's all behind us now. It's in the past. We have to trust each other. We're being put to the test, but it's never simple. There's no time left. We mustn't neglect our duty. I needn't worry. As long as we keep our
faith in each other, we're untouchable. Neither of us can lose sight of that. I have to remember that. I have to keep it in mind. We've earned our place in the elite. Him and me. We have to do what's expected of us. Sometimes life is simple. Sometimes life taps you on the shoulder and takes you by the hand. Do I hear him? Harry presses up against me. His breast expands and contracts. It will all work out. I can leave it to Harry. He hugs me. I'll see.

113

I let the Flock slip out of my hand and push the lowest button on my wristwatch to turn off the alarm. I stay lying on the mattress for a couple of minutes with my eyes open. Images that have visited me constantly for the last five hours sink slowly to the bottom of my clearing consciousness. I take my pistol, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and push myself up off the metal frame. I take two or three steps in the dark, put the barrel against the light switch and push.

It's as if I can tell that something's not normal from the mirror, from the reflection of my face, but my face is the same as any other day. It's not my face, I realize that at once, it's not me.

It's the room.

Slowly I turn around. I'm standing in front of an empty floor.

I wave my arm cautiously and feel no resistance where the table used to be. It feels like I'm moving my arm straight through it, that's how hard it is for me to believe my eyes. I have never seen the room without the table: it was already here when I arrived, right in this spot. A cheap garden table with gray weathered planks. Now it's gone.

I wash my face, clean my teeth, rinse out my mouth, dress quickly and brush my uniform. Outside I wait at the bunkroom door. Harry and the guard must be near the entrance. I scan the
sides of the basement, searching for a blur of movement. I can't see their legs or feet anywhere. I can't see the table anywhere either. After a while, I feel the seat of the chair. Cold.

I judge it better to stay here for the time being. It's better for me to keep still and wait.

What reason could they have had for moving the table out of the bunkroom? And why do it when I was asleep?

The buzzing of the middle fluorescent light builds up. While I'm looking at it, the tube dies with a flash and a pop. A black hole drops into the middle of the basement as if that part of the ceiling has collapsed.

“I'll replace that right away,” Harry says. “We've still got plenty of spares.” He is coming out of the storeroom. He pulls the door shut behind him and locks it. His jacket is folded neatly and draped over his forearm. He must have removed the key from the pocket of my pants while I was asleep. Ever since I've been stationed here, it has been my responsibility to inspect the storeroom twice a day, and especially the ammunition. That's why I always have the key in my pocket.

114

As if he's heading out for the evening or has just come back, that's how his jacket is draped over his arm. The storeroom key disappears in his trouser pocket. He's in a cheerful mood. It is so peculiar to see Harry emerging from the storeroom with his jacket draped over his arm that I don't recognize him, even though it's patently obvious it's Harry. It's as if I am now seeing him for the first time.

He's hot, his shirt is wet with sweat. Not just under the arms, but around the neck and on the back too. An hour before washing it, I'll rub liquid soap into those patches, the way I always do the
collars. If you saturate the cotton with soap, you can hardly see or smell the sweat stains afterward.

Harry sits down on the chair, laying the jacket over his legs. Evidently he wants to calmly finish the count before withdrawing to the bunkroom. I sit down on the stool and pull the Flock 28 out of my holster, push in the magazine catch and let the cartridge clip slide out of the butt. I count in silence. Fifteen. I wait for Harry, for the result of his inspection. His Flock stays on his hip. When he makes no move to count his cartridges, I remember the table. Harry says the table is in the storeroom, it's more use there. After a short silence in which I wait for an explanation, he says blandly that I won't need to do any timing for a while. He taps his watch with a long fingernail. It won't be necessary. He's alluding to the guard's long visits to the toilet, although the really long visits generally take place just after he wakes up. What's more, I only time them in the day, when there are three of us.

We wait for the guard for a while, but then Harry tugs his tie loose and stands up. I say good night.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he says.

“I will.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, “it would be better if you took up position outside the storeroom. Near the door. You never know with these guys. They're slow, but they're built like gorillas.”