Peter Terrin - The Guard

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.