Peter Terrin - The Guard

While getting dressed, he asks if Jews are allowed to keep dogs. He thinks it’s the kind of thing I’d know. He says he’s never seen a Jew with a dog. I think about his question. The combination of Jew and dog is hard to picture for me too, but I’m not sure why. I’m not even able to come up with a reason why the Jewish religion would prohibit the keeping of dogs. Harry says, either way, we should hope for a post where they don’t have dogs. No matter how good you keep your eyes peeled on patrol, sooner or later you step on a turd and get to spend quarter of an hour scratching the orange shit out from the tread of your shoe. As depressing as it gets. If it’s up to Harry, preferably no dogs. Anyway, despite their masters’ claims to the contrary, dogs always stink.

76

The residents’ names come and go. Day after day they visit us in the basement offering us panoramic views of fabulous gardens in which we can move freely, in which we can breathe and live freely, providing security under the very best of conditions. We’ve got plenty of choice.

Some names emanate an intoxicating perfume as if someone, hidden behind a pillar, presses an atomizer the moment the name is spoken. I’ve stopped going over to sniff the residents’ elevator; it was foolish to expect the door seal to smell of anything except, vaguely, rubber.

77

I try to explain that both Mr. Toussaint and Mr. Colet had white cars, but Harry won’t listen. He thinks I’m trying to put him in his place. I clarify my position by saying that I’m not correcting him when he says that Mr. Colet drove a white car. He’s right. Mr. Colet did have a white car, something American. But in the particular incident with the frangipane, although it’s trivial, he actually means Mr. Toussaint, not Mr. Colet. Because Mr. Toussaint also drove a big white car and that’s probably why Harry has switched the two men. After all, Mr. Colet had nothing to do with Claudia. Harry says that Mr. Colet definitely liked them plump, or women with a fat backside at least. But that is beside the point because Mr. Colet didn’t know Claudia from Adam. He just happened to also drive a white car. That’s why Harry confuses Mr. Colet and Mr. Toussaint. And it is, by the way, Mr. Toussaint, not Mr. Colet, who is a distant relative of Mrs. Olano, with whom Claudia was in service. Harry looks at me and says he can’t believe it. He turns away and sulks in silence for a long time. I say that it’s not important anyway. It’s a detail, it doesn’t matter. Then Harry says that I was asleep at the time. If I was asleep, how can I know whether it was Mr. Colet or Mr. Toussaint? I tell him that I still know Claudia. Claudia told me about it herself.

78

Harry swears that it was Mr. Colet and wants that to be the last word on the subject; he quickens his pace, taking a slight lead. I leave it for now.

The discussion makes me think back on Mrs. Rosenthal’s son. Until recently I remembered the Jewish youth as a devout figure with an affable smile for all who crossed his path, regardless of creed, status or position. An odd creature, true, an adolescent with the air of an old man, something I put down to exceptional intelligence. But the way Harry described him was just as accurate. He could also have been a pernicious brat who got his kicks by grinning in people’s faces to wind them up, especially those who served him and were, therefore, in a sense powerless.

It’s happened several times in the past few days. Mr. Schiffer’s personal assistant for instance. I don’t believe he suffered from a skin condition. I think he was an alcoholic and that Mr. Schiffer turned a blind eye as long as he didn’t shame their confidence or let it compromise his work. He was after all, I assume, an extremely correct, civilized and capable man. But his face was red from the booze.

It was as if I had insulted Harry personally.

Which made me doubt myself for a moment.

79

We’re sitting on either side of the bunkroom door, silent. Suddenly I no longer have any idea what time it is or which part of the day we’re up to. It has struck me out of the blue. I must have been deep in thought. I wrack my brains, but can’t recall what I was thinking about so deeply, even though it was just a second ago. I try to reconstruct the hours, starting from the inspection rounds; their interchangeability doesn’t help. I can’t find anything concrete. Nothing that unmistakably locates me in the present, in this present. Then I think, disbelievingly and with mild self-contempt, of my watch. How could I have spent so long, second after second, not thinking of the watch that will give the correct time as long as my heart keeps beating?

Now that the solution is at hand, I postpone it a little. For the pleasure of it. As if I’m on an excursion in countryside that’s full of surprises. I’ll turn back soon. There’s plenty of time.

I become aware of the absence of my body. How long have I been sitting in this position? I don’t feel anything anymore, my body has gone completely numb. As a consequence, I have the idea that I can no longer move. Afraid of failing, I don’t dare to simply try. My eyes roll easily in all directions and my eyelids blink like before; the rest seems anesthetized or paralyzed. I concentrate on my feet, sending my thoughts down to them, scouts in search of a sign of life. I send them to my left foot first, forcing them to my little toe. I work systematically, from bottom to top. Arriving at my backside I encounter cold emptiness, as if I’m sitting on concrete instead of a wooden stool. In my lower back, which is leaning against the wall and bearing the weight of my relaxed upper body, I even discover pain, concealed in habituation.

I stay sitting in the same position, surrendering to a state of contemplation or detachment. In the corner of my eye I see Harry sitting motionless on the chair. I want to maintain this condition as long as possible, this complete quietude. But I know that eventually a word will be said, a superfluous word, that will make me jump out of my skin. It’s inevitable. In one intense spasm all of my muscles will be called to order.

Is Harry thinking about his prediction? A good five weeks have passed since he claimed that we would be relieved within a week. Is he still thinking of the residents? They have almost disappeared from our conversations. Frequent use has robbed their names of their power. They have degenerated into abstractions, sequences of letters.

The smells faded away long ago.

During one of my night rounds I stepped into Garage 22. With the little light available, I searched for signs of the Bentley, tire marks. After a few minutes I was able to make out two dark patches deep in the garage, where the front wheels would be. I imagined Mrs. Privalova’s awkward assistant, nervously turning the steering wheel. I heard the shrill shriek of hard rubber. Two shadows on a slightly lighter background. The residents really existed.

80

“It’s Friday.”

Harry doesn’t turn around.

I’m standing at the door with sleep in my eyes. I button my collar and pull up my tie. It’s Friday, I repeat to myself. For some reason, I have to smile. It’s Friday. I feel my smile growing wider, my mouth opens. Friday! There is something irresistibly funny about the word. My lips are tight over my gums. I am only just able to control myself. I mustn’t think about it. I think of Monday, but that doesn’t really help, the distraction is too blatant. I think Monday and hear Friday. I know it’s insane to laugh about the name of a day. I try to reduce the pressure in my head by coughing and clearing my throat, by concentrating on my cap, which I arrange at the correct angle. I realize that I have always announced the right day, for so long now, whereas Harry couldn’t give a rat’s ass what day it is. I could have announced Thursday again today, or Tuesday, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Never having played it on him doesn’t make the joke any less funny. I feel my stomach muscles, tense from restrained laughter. It’s as if I’ve been greeting him for weeks now with the announcement that it’s Friday and he still hasn’t cottoned on. I mustn’t laugh out loud, I’d never be able to explain it, he wouldn’t believe me. He’ll think I’m laughing at him behind his back, because I feel that if I lose it now, I’ll crack up completely. As an explanation, Friday will not suffice.