Read Online The Guard by Peter Terrin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Terrin
Tags: FICTION / Dystopian
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“Plus two times fifteen.”
We sit down and eat bread I baked this morning. I added ingredients in the correct proportions and turned on the machine; it’s questionable whether that justifies my claim of having baked bread. Sometimes I feel like it’s not enough. There’s something missing, without which the bread, although delicious, is not real bread at all but an outstanding imitation. Harry couldn’t care less. He tearsoff chunks and stuffs them in his mouth in one go. It’s remarkable how he always manages to find room to turn it over and chew it up without opening his mouth.
Afterward he tells the story of Claudia and the frangipane. Chewing has brought back memories, or is it his craving for sugar? Or something else I can’t even imagine? The story dates from an increasingly distant past, but sounds like it might just as easily have happened yesterday, this morning or an hour ago. Claudia just stepped back into the elevator.
Harry is relaxed, seated, legs spread slightly. He touches his tongue with the tip of one finger and collects three crumbs that have fallen on his pants. He nibbles them between his incisors while continuing the story, which happened while I was asleep in bed. It is a drawn-out anecdote that ends with a misunderstanding Harry finds extremely amusing. Today he forgets to mention the buckled patent-leather shoes. And although it’s a minor detail, he gets Mr. Colet and Mr. Toussaint mixed up again; they both drove a white car.
47
Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven’s fiancée lies stretched out between high walls, Italian marble extending up to the cornices. Lukewarm water trickles from a gold tap and the heady smell of cherry blossom wafts through the bathroom. She rises up from the froth, which slowly slides off her body. She dries herself with a thick towel, thoughtfully, as if dabbing a wound. She rubs lotions into her skin and plucks her eyebrows. She files her toenails and varnishes them pale pink. It is only at the very end of her toilet that she steps into a dress, lifting the bands up over her round shoulders.
It is a morning full of hope, the sky is blue. She sits down and informs the servant that she would like to drink grapefruit juicefor breakfast, sweetened with half an orange. And afterward, as usual, a large cup of coffee topped with a thin layer of frothed milk. She uses a silver teaspoon to scoop strawberry jam onto crusty bread. She rests her elbow on the mahogany tabletop and holds the slice of bread up to her supple lips. Catharina’s weight is suddenly on her lap; immediately she starts to purr and settle down.
Outside the sunlight is sparkling on the leaves of hedges, shrubs and trees, on the blades of grass in the beds. Even on the helmets of the patrol. The two guards hold their dark weapons diagonally across their chests as they walk side by side across the lawn. They almost never stick to the paths, a sign in part of how reliable they are.
Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven’s fiancée is imperturbable; she carries on with the life she has always led, unbothered by the heightened security measures. She enjoys watching the guards, who have become, in a sense, her possessions, part of the villa’s furnishings, things she can gaze upon unhindered and even touch, should she so desire. They are like the works of art hung on the walls and mounted on plinths. Their secrets stir her imagination.
48
I imprint the days in my memory. After waking—before washing and dressing—I look at the date on the cover of the calendar. Then I look inside for the day of the week. As it’s last year’s calendar, I add one day. Wednesday is Thursday. A year is made up of fifty-two weeks and one day. Of course, the calculation is imprecise, the surplus is added every four years. Next year we reach that stage: I’ll have to add two extra days and three from February 29. Wednesday on the calendar will be Saturday in reality.
Around noon, forgetfulness sets in. If I succeed at this point in
We sit down and eat bread I baked this morning. I added ingredients in the correct proportions and turned on the machine; it’s questionable whether that justifies my claim of having baked bread. Sometimes I feel like it’s not enough. There’s something missing, without which the bread, although delicious, is not real bread at all but an outstanding imitation. Harry couldn’t care less. He tearsoff chunks and stuffs them in his mouth in one go. It’s remarkable how he always manages to find room to turn it over and chew it up without opening his mouth.
Afterward he tells the story of Claudia and the frangipane. Chewing has brought back memories, or is it his craving for sugar? Or something else I can’t even imagine? The story dates from an increasingly distant past, but sounds like it might just as easily have happened yesterday, this morning or an hour ago. Claudia just stepped back into the elevator.
Harry is relaxed, seated, legs spread slightly. He touches his tongue with the tip of one finger and collects three crumbs that have fallen on his pants. He nibbles them between his incisors while continuing the story, which happened while I was asleep in bed. It is a drawn-out anecdote that ends with a misunderstanding Harry finds extremely amusing. Today he forgets to mention the buckled patent-leather shoes. And although it’s a minor detail, he gets Mr. Colet and Mr. Toussaint mixed up again; they both drove a white car.
47
Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven’s fiancée lies stretched out between high walls, Italian marble extending up to the cornices. Lukewarm water trickles from a gold tap and the heady smell of cherry blossom wafts through the bathroom. She rises up from the froth, which slowly slides off her body. She dries herself with a thick towel, thoughtfully, as if dabbing a wound. She rubs lotions into her skin and plucks her eyebrows. She files her toenails and varnishes them pale pink. It is only at the very end of her toilet that she steps into a dress, lifting the bands up over her round shoulders.
It is a morning full of hope, the sky is blue. She sits down and informs the servant that she would like to drink grapefruit juicefor breakfast, sweetened with half an orange. And afterward, as usual, a large cup of coffee topped with a thin layer of frothed milk. She uses a silver teaspoon to scoop strawberry jam onto crusty bread. She rests her elbow on the mahogany tabletop and holds the slice of bread up to her supple lips. Catharina’s weight is suddenly on her lap; immediately she starts to purr and settle down.
Outside the sunlight is sparkling on the leaves of hedges, shrubs and trees, on the blades of grass in the beds. Even on the helmets of the patrol. The two guards hold their dark weapons diagonally across their chests as they walk side by side across the lawn. They almost never stick to the paths, a sign in part of how reliable they are.
Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven’s fiancée is imperturbable; she carries on with the life she has always led, unbothered by the heightened security measures. She enjoys watching the guards, who have become, in a sense, her possessions, part of the villa’s furnishings, things she can gaze upon unhindered and even touch, should she so desire. They are like the works of art hung on the walls and mounted on plinths. Their secrets stir her imagination.
48
I imprint the days in my memory. After waking—before washing and dressing—I look at the date on the cover of the calendar. Then I look inside for the day of the week. As it’s last year’s calendar, I add one day. Wednesday is Thursday. A year is made up of fifty-two weeks and one day. Of course, the calculation is imprecise, the surplus is added every four years. Next year we reach that stage: I’ll have to add two extra days and three from February 29. Wednesday on the calendar will be Saturday in reality.
Around noon, forgetfulness sets in. If I succeed at this point in
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