Peter Terrin - The Guard

I peer through the crack to the side of the entrance gate with my left eye first, then my right. I can’t see any difference. The patch of night sky around the silhouette of the bare treetop is always uniformly dark. I can’t make out any glow, no reflected flames in the cloud cover, no gradations of light.

Is the city dark and quiet? Or does the crack look out in the other direction, away from the city? When they brought me to this building they led me inside too quickly for me to get my bearings. Am I looking in the direction the wind is blowing from, carrying the silence of the countryside? I press my nose up against the crack. The cold draft seems to make the metallic smell of the groove even stronger.

I continue my round.

The authorities have declared a curfew: anyone who ventures out onto the street at night will be shot without warning. The snipers use silencers so as not to sow panic. The authorities have issued sheets of thick paper to black out the windows like in old-style wars. Is an air raid alarm about to go off? Is it possible that the endless silence will suddenly be shattered by an old-fashioned air raid alarm? How big is the chance of that happening while I’m thinking of it? No bigger than when I’m not thinking of it.

I stand still and listen.

32

It seems unlikely to me that the fly will ever find the crack and escape from the basement. Unless a bright light shines outside for an extended period, as bright as a spotlight aimed at the opening. The fly will starve to death. The garbage crushers are hermetically sealed; the empty tins we throw in have been wiped clean with a piece of bread. There can’t be any nutritional value left in the jam stain by now. Harry and I drop crumbs when we eat, but how could the fly find those crumbs? Inconspicuous crumbs which are as good as odorless in a basement that must be enormous to a fly. It must have landed on the floor somewhere to patiently await its death. It is no longer capable of flight. It isn’t in our room. It’s not there when I go to sleep and it’s not there when I wake up. I look down at the floor constantly, searching for black spots on the concrete. I hope to find it, so I can squash it underfoot.

33

Harry says he finds it hard to believe. He says enough time has passed now to thoroughly train a new guard, no doubt about it. He stares ahead and, lost in thought, gently shakes his head. We’re sitting either side of the bunkroom door, Harry on the chair, me on the stool. We could sit on the side of my bed with the door wide open to give us a good view of the basement. We could sit on the soft mattress. Obviously, we don’t.

“The organization would never announce a guard if they didn’t have one available,” Harry says. “That’s simply impossible.”

“Extremely unlikely,” I admit.

“They had someone ready,” Harry says. “We have to face facts. Due to developments outside, the organization decided that there should be three of us on this job. They have, for the time being, reversed that decision because we’re coping better than expected. Two of us are doing a job which they thought required three guards. Think about it, Michel.”

“As long as we keep it up,” I say.

“We have to keep it up,” Harry says. “Do you think that jam came out of nowhere? You don’t think it was a gift, do you? That jam was earmarked for the elite. The elite’s rations include jam. Take it from me. Would you like to be able to eat strawberry jam on your bread every day? I know I would.”

34

We drive through unfamiliar streets, passing extremely tall buildings now and then. Towers of shiny new glass, decorated with fleecy clouds. The gate on the street is already rolling back over its track as we stop. A sign announces that this is private property and a prohibited area. There is also a warning in various languages and a simple illustration pointing out the lethal, high-voltage wires above the thick yellow line three meters up from ground level. The two bottom languages must be Chinese and Arabic. We stop on a sloping drive just inside the gate and the driver sticks his hand in a scanner, rubs a card over a reader and types in a code. He then aims an infrared key at the top right-hand corner of an immense concrete gate. I’m nervous, my carotid artery is throbbing against the stiff collar of my new shirt. This is it, I think, as we drive into the gaping darkness. This is my last chance to make something of my life.

Standing in front of the car is a man who has been waiting for us; his features appear as the gate closes again. He is strongly built, his uniform fits him like a glove and looks as new as mine, though that’s impossible. At first I can hardly believe it’s the same uniform. I look at the breast pocket, the emblem, the lapel, the buttons. I look at his cap. Now I understand the odd regulations concerning the angle of our cap. That decision was made with this man in mind. It is not in the least bit ridiculous.

The driver hands me two meals and leaves. Carrying the thermos boxes as a gift to show I come in peace, I approach him, put them down on the floor between us and hold out a hand. There is no prescribed way for two guards to greet each other and I fall back on elementary politeness. He shakes my hand and tells me he’s called Harry.

He has a strange accent from the north of the province. He comes from a family of farmers, pioneers, but those days are over now. Bob and Jimmy, his brothers, are guards too. He says security is in their blood, they have a talent for it, their father is a veteran. It’s possible that the farming was going downhill; I don’t ask. Maybe it was a logical progression after having to go to more and more drastic lengths to protect their land and livestock forever-decreasing profits. Or is it more straightforward and have these men become guards out of conviction? Harry has light-blue eyes; I suspect that women find him attractive. He is younger than me, about four years. The skin of his square face is taut and clear. He has the bulging jaw muscles of a cow or a sheep. He comes over as extremely self-confident; I’m inclined to believe him.

He gives me a tour of the basement. We step into our room together, making it seem even smaller. He turns the tap on and then off again. He shows me the bottom bunk, which is made up perfectly. He keeps quiet about my predecessor. Has he given up? Was he discharged from service? Or did something happen to him during an incident? Is there a tacit agreement not to talk about such things? Because it would bring bad luck? Because it’s disrespectful? Or do I just need to ask the question for it to be answered?

He explains the daily routine. He tells me about the residents, their idiosyncrasies, their cars, their children. He introduces me to the staff. Gradually I win his confidence. His face relaxes. We exchange stories. I believe there is a lot he can teach me. I am attentive.

35

“A hundred times bigger,” Harry says. His eyes seek out the perimeter of the basement as if to verify that he has the correct proportion. He almost always uses a factor of one hundred, occasionally resorting to “more than a hundred times.”

In half an hour I’ll go to bed. Harry’s voice sounds softer than in the daytime. We drank a thin stock and ate some bread and now tiredness has struck. My biorhythm is getting too regular. We would be wise to reverse the sleeping order to break the pattern.

“There’s really no comparison to our situation,” Harry continues. “Here we only have a single entrance to the building. One of those big country estates can be attacked on all sides and that makes it a lot more vulnerable. The kind of fencing plays a major role, true, but fencing never comes with a guarantee that nobody’s going to get over the top or tunnel under it.”