Peter Terrin - The Guard

“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.