Peter Terrin - The Guard

39

Perec doesn’t look back, he gestures with one shoulder that I have to follow him. We stick close to the front of a tall building, our shoulders sliding along the smooth stone facade. I can’t hear any other sound in the whole city, not anywhere. There must have been a gas attack — not a single pigeon in the sky — but it’s strange that we can breathe without masks. How long ago did the attack take place? I can’t see any bodies lying around, no people who threw themselves to the ground in the hope of finding some oxygen, salvation, while their features were eaten away, disappearing into the holes in their skull. And what are we doing in town? Why aren’t we on site somewhere, why aren’t we at our post? Guards stay at their post, they don’t patrol the city. What’s come over Perec? I should kill him. I could easily kill him. I only have to aim my pistol and fire a bullet into the back of his head and no more Perec. He’s as vulnerable as any human being. I concentrate on the spot where his spinal column joins his skull. I can see the curve of the bone very clearly through his bristly hair. I could press the barrel against the base and aim up at his forehead to maximize the bullet’s trajectory through his brain. I could do it; no one would suspect me. But I don’t. I don’t shoot him dead. I spare Perec’s life out of self-preservation and follow him closely. It seems to be the only thing I’m still capable of doing. Without Perec, I would slump down against the smooth facade and sit on the ground next to his body, waiting for whatever was going to happen to me.

40

I can only have slept about an hour: my body is sluggish, as if paralyzed head to toe. As heavy as a walrus, I lie on my stomach. The left side of my face is pressed against the pillow. Something has woken me. It takes superhuman effort for me to move my right eyelid. The semidarkness in the room is different, disrupted. I realize that I am looking at a big shadow on the wall. The outline is hazy, but I recognize the shape of Harry’s cap. He’s standing at the foot of the bed, out of sight. He’s standing there looking at me and stays like that for a while. Then he takes off his cap and lays it on the table. He hangs his jacket up on a hook without a coat hanger. I feel his weight pressing down the side of the mattress. His hand is on the other side of my body and he’s leaning on it, the way a parent sits on a child’s bed before giving it a goodnight kiss or drawing a cross on its forehead with a thumb.

Harry pulls the blanket back and joins me on the bed. Behind my back I hear him spitting on his hand, twice; sometimes he does it three times. I grip the metal bedframe tight, it’s icy cold, my hands go numb. I notice a vague smell of bark. Harry plants his right arm immediately in front of my face, a solid pillar. The play of the dim light emphasizes the veins that crawl over the back of his hand like fat worms heading for his fingertips. Instinct tells them where to go. Like Harry. No thinking required. You just follow the chosen path to the end.

In my mind’s eye a light shines on a portrait of my parents, a framed photo that doesn’t exist, which I compose while looking at it. My mother is in a lady’s suit with her knees turned aside and her ankles crossed elegantly, sitting on the edge of a French armchair: carved wood, curved legs, lion heads. Her hands are resting on her lap, relaxed but self-assured. Half-hidden behind her is the unassuming figure of my father: a servant charged with sliding up the chair. They didn’t endow me with any distinct talents. They gave me their kind support. They increased my confusion. With infinite patience, they sketched panoramic views when I needed coordinates and precise orders.

41

We clean our pistols daily. Every morning after the second inspection round. We never do it simultaneously. We sit either side of the bunkroom door. As Harry clicks in the safety catch of his Flock 28, my arms are stretched out toward the entrance with my finger curled around the trigger. In a flash the fifteen cartridges are in his jacket pocket and the pistol is disassembled on a cloth on his lap. Slide, barrel with chamber, recoil spring guide. The black, steel-reinforced polymer frame. The magazine tube, the magazine spring, the feeder. I recognize all of the parts in the corner of my eye. In my mind I speak their names out loud, as if they’re essential information I must never forget, words I have to be able to retrieve even when semi-conscious, long after I’ve forgotten my own name.

Harry only does what’s strictly necessary. Neither of us says a word, the procedure demands absolute concentration. Having your pistol in pieces on your lap is an extremely vulnerable position. But it is incontrovertible that we also love the ritual and the reassurance of understanding the technical side of the tool we use and, given our profession, rely on to protect our lives.

In less than two minutes, Harry has carefully cleaned the barrel and tested the sear and the firing-pin spring. A dry, insignificant click. And then another, in full accordance with the regulations: the joy of twice pulling the trigger. Then the rapid succession of precisely fitting locks and engagements that turn the inconsequential pieces of metal into a deadly weapon.

42

I can hear it clearly. The sound has been absent for a month; I recognize it instantly. The toilet is to the left of the storeroom, our bunkroom to the right. When we’re not using the toilet, we always leave the door ajar to let it air. I can hear the whistling to about midway through the basement, beyond that the sound is too vague and I’m no longer sure whether I’m actually hearing it or just imagining it. Like a month ago, the sound is just below the hum of the emergency lighting. I imagine it as taut, extremely thin gauze. Other noises pass through it freely.

43

Perhaps Harry’s hearing isn’t as good at those frequencies. “A whistling sound?”

“Do you hear the lighting, the hum of the fluorescent tubes? It’s just under that.”

Harry looks at the light fittings for a while. He tilts his head to a ridiculous angle, horizontal, as if to literally catch the whistling sound in his ear as it falls from above.

“No, I can’t hear a thing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“I hear the emergency lighting.”

“Not the whistling?”

“No whistling. I don’t hear any whistling.”

“Just under the lighting.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t hear it.”

We continue our round: the hems of our pants tapping against our polished shoes; the heavy material of our uniforms rustling and rubbing as our legs cross. Underfoot, now and then, the grating of a stone, stowaways smuggled into the building in the tread of expensive tires. Harry slows and stops. Frowning, he looks at me.

“Do you hear other noises too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Whistling sounds. Have they been bothering you long?”

I search his face for a clue, reading the lines and folds around his mouth, nose and eyes. I take my time, giving myself two seconds, three, four if necessary, to discover that he’s having me on. That he’s simply been slack and neglected to push the button back up, so that the float jams and the water keeps trickling. That he can hear it just as well as I can, the running water, and now I notice that the sound is as clear here, on the opposite side of the basement, as it was over there. As if the toilet has been moved behind my back to Garage 5. If I couldn’t see where I am with my own two eyes, I would swear I was standing next to the toilet.

44

In the end we completed the round, marching all the way back from Garage 5 in silence. I heard the whistling constantly, but didn’t ask Harry about it again.

I push the toilet door wide open, ignoring what I experience as an increase in volume, ignoring what my ears tell me. I want certainty, confirmation. I mustn’t exclude the possibility that the never-ending exposure to almost constant silence has affected my hearing.