Read Online The Guard by Peter Terrin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter Terrin
Tags: FICTION / Dystopian
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summoning up the correct day, I remember it until it’s time for me to go to bed and dispatch it to the past with a cross. Much more often, I get my memories of the countless concentrated moments standing in front of the calendar mixed up. Understandably, because they always take place in the same circumstances and in the same light, week after week. I manage better when I’m sleeping before Harry. When I’m sleeping after him and wake up slowly in his presence, I say, fairly regularly, the name of the day out loud. “It’s Thursday today.” Harry never reacts. My days have been noted. I am often sure that I have remembered the day correctly only to discover in the evening that it’s Thursday again tomorrow. Or already Saturday. Memories of mistakes are especially confusing.
49
Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven’s fiancée is appalled by the sight of the guards. Their constantly increasing numbers, their heavily armed presence: it ruins her breakfast. It ruins the garden, the villa, the art collection. It rubs her nose in the facts. Everything around her is compromised because no one can say what’s in store for her. The guards owe their existence to potential danger and therefore personify it. Their being there evokes the horror that could strike her, in whichever form, a horror that would end everything that is familiar to her, what she sees as her life, the person she is.
She orders the servant to activate the sunshade.
Perhaps she would prefer to not hire any guards at all, telling herself that none are needed, that the state of grace in which she lives will go on forever. After all, nothing has happened for so long. Gradually she would forget the threat, bolstering the illusion. Notone secure second would be spoiled again. Until the day they’ve all been used up.
50
The last tin of corned beef. We’ve stretched it out so thriftily over several meals that the last bit tastes strange, already slightly tainted. We no longer eat the meat on bread. I lay the precious cube on my tongue and smear it against the roof of my mouth. The saliva starts to flow and mixes with the salty taste. I wait for a long time, until my taste buds are saturated, then swallow tiny gulp after tiny gulp until my mouth is empty. Harry eats the meat a little faster, but with comparable attention. We’ve wiped the tin out with bread several times. We’ve pushed the tips of our tongues into the corners. Harry has put the tin on the floor next to the leg of the chair. It sits there like a memento, no longer smelling even slightly like something edible.
51
I could just snap that he’s damn right. Kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, I keep my fingertip on the enamel. The toilet is leaking and together we stare at the stream of water splitting into two. It’s as if I’m constantly pointing at him, the transgressor, forcing him to repent. He apologizes. He won’t be so remiss again. He spontaneously promises to always push the button up with his finger. He swears it on his father’s grave. Because he understands better thananyone my need to keep the environment clear and tidy so that my thoughts can settle into their familiar groove and relax a little. That’s all. I’m not asking for anything else and Harry realizes that. That’s why he bows his head, ashamed of his careless negligence. I stand up, brush the dust off my knees and tell him it’s okay. No, he says quietly, it’s not okay. As he’s leaving the toilet, I briefly lay a hand on his shoulder. We’re a unit; we take each other into account. We depend on each other. He watches over my freedom, I watch over his. That allows us to relax and sleep at night. In this world we are each other’s only security. We differ, that’s true, but those differences make our unit more complete; the organization has paid careful attention to that. We are like a left eye and a right eye. Together we see depth.
52
I study the bare tree through the crack to the side of the entrance gate.
49
Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven’s fiancée is appalled by the sight of the guards. Their constantly increasing numbers, their heavily armed presence: it ruins her breakfast. It ruins the garden, the villa, the art collection. It rubs her nose in the facts. Everything around her is compromised because no one can say what’s in store for her. The guards owe their existence to potential danger and therefore personify it. Their being there evokes the horror that could strike her, in whichever form, a horror that would end everything that is familiar to her, what she sees as her life, the person she is.
She orders the servant to activate the sunshade.
Perhaps she would prefer to not hire any guards at all, telling herself that none are needed, that the state of grace in which she lives will go on forever. After all, nothing has happened for so long. Gradually she would forget the threat, bolstering the illusion. Notone secure second would be spoiled again. Until the day they’ve all been used up.
50
The last tin of corned beef. We’ve stretched it out so thriftily over several meals that the last bit tastes strange, already slightly tainted. We no longer eat the meat on bread. I lay the precious cube on my tongue and smear it against the roof of my mouth. The saliva starts to flow and mixes with the salty taste. I wait for a long time, until my taste buds are saturated, then swallow tiny gulp after tiny gulp until my mouth is empty. Harry eats the meat a little faster, but with comparable attention. We’ve wiped the tin out with bread several times. We’ve pushed the tips of our tongues into the corners. Harry has put the tin on the floor next to the leg of the chair. It sits there like a memento, no longer smelling even slightly like something edible.
51
I could just snap that he’s damn right. Kneeling in front of the toilet bowl, I keep my fingertip on the enamel. The toilet is leaking and together we stare at the stream of water splitting into two. It’s as if I’m constantly pointing at him, the transgressor, forcing him to repent. He apologizes. He won’t be so remiss again. He spontaneously promises to always push the button up with his finger. He swears it on his father’s grave. Because he understands better thananyone my need to keep the environment clear and tidy so that my thoughts can settle into their familiar groove and relax a little. That’s all. I’m not asking for anything else and Harry realizes that. That’s why he bows his head, ashamed of his careless negligence. I stand up, brush the dust off my knees and tell him it’s okay. No, he says quietly, it’s not okay. As he’s leaving the toilet, I briefly lay a hand on his shoulder. We’re a unit; we take each other into account. We depend on each other. He watches over my freedom, I watch over his. That allows us to relax and sleep at night. In this world we are each other’s only security. We differ, that’s true, but those differences make our unit more complete; the organization has paid careful attention to that. We are like a left eye and a right eye. Together we see depth.
52
I study the bare tree through the crack to the side of the entrance gate.
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