53
Harry bends over the basement floor plan, gripping the table tight as if he’s about to lift it up and hurl it across the room in fury. I’m standing at the short end, at right angles to the plan. He doesn’t agree with me. He says it would be a sign of weakness. What clearly disturbs him the most is not the nature of my question, but my having asked it at all. He can hardly believe I’ve asked a question like that, he’s disillusioned. “Don’t you think,” he says after a while, without looking up, “that the organization will inform us when the organization considers it necessary to inform us?”
“We could just touch upon it in passing?”
“You want to exchange chitchat with a punk like that?”
“I mean, we could ask him an innocent question or raise the subject without immediately exposing ourselves.”
“You’ve gone crazy. You do you realize that, don’t you? Asking a subordinate for an explanation. Don’t you understand? That would be risking everything we’ve built up so far. In all the time we’ve been posted here, the organization hasn’t heard from us once, not once. For the organization we’re a completely autonomous two-man unit that looks after itself and that’s why we’re on the verge of a well-earned promotion to the highest level you and I can ever attain. We’re a two-man unit that knows what it has to do — guard this basement — and also knows what it’s better off not doing — asking superfluous questions. And that’s what you want to start doing in the middle of resupplying, during a standard situation, the only occasion on which we might possibly be subjected to one last test before the organization decides to transfer us to the elite. Just think about it, Michel. Think!”
He doesn’t deign to look at me, he’s deeply disappointed. It was an ill-considered suggestion. I look straight at Harry, waiting for him to glance in my direction so I can express my regret wordlessly. But he points at the map, at the entrance gate, and carries on where he left off. The hairs of his mustache are hanging down over his upper lip, the tips discolored by the acidity of his saliva.
“So he comes in here. He’ll open the gate and drive the van into the basement. You take up position at Garage 3, keeping him covered. I’ll ask for his ID and a confirmation. When I give the signal, you walk to the rear of the van. The moment the driver opens the doors, we have to assess the situation.”
“No time to talk,” I add eagerly. “Each of us, separately, decides whether or not to open fire. But if one of the guards opens fire, the other joins in unconditionally.”
“Dead right,” Harry mumbles.
54
Resupplying is already four days late. We spend most of our time sitting down and staring vacantly at the empty basement. We’ve run out of flour and yeast and bottled water. To conserve our energy, we’ve decided to reduce the inspection rounds to a minimum; who knows how long we’ll have to get by on our reserves. We speak little. The hunger even weakens Harry’s walnut smell, not that it makes him any less nervous. Now and then a drop of sweat runs over the black polymer of his Flock 28, which he constantly grips tight in his right hand, at most resting it briefly on his thigh. I don’t tell him that he’s burning up masses of valuable calories. We only give our shoes a slight rub, but still brush off our coats and pants like always. We have postponed washing our shirts and underwear. Harry sits on the chair, I’m on the stool; I stick my pillow between my back and the wall.
Harry doesn’t get to sleep at all in his five hours. Eyes wide open, he lies there listening to the inexhaustible silence. He is convinced we’re being subjected to the ultimate test, that the time has come to show what we’re made of and that, as a consequence, it’s ridiculous to think that resupplying will happen in the daytime when we expect it. For myself, I keep my eyes open because I’m scared of dying in my sleep.
Halfway through the sixth day we decide to take up position on the chair and stool against the wall of Garage 4, in immediate, visible proximity to the entrance, while maintaining a clear view of the three elevators. All things considered, it seems more advisable. On the long journey over there we stop twice, resting on our loads to catch our breath.
55
Waiting for the entrance gate to click on: I imagine a woman in the middle of a bare, tiled hall, holding a crystal vase out in front of her. At some stage the vase must fall, that’s the agreement, the scene’s outcome… Endlessly, I see the vase descending through the air, which seems shocked by so much abrupt responsibility and is still trying to prevent its fall, while at the same time surrendering, withdrawing its hands as it were. Time and again, I see the lowest point of the vase approach the tiles and touch them. I watch as the vase’s mass keeps moving, like a whale disappearing into water, a car crumpling against a wall, until its speed falters, the first resistance makes itself felt, the fracture lines branch through the crystal, creating shards, and finally canceling out the shape of the vase. I see it again and again, time after time. Eventually I’m able to make out the high-pitched sound waves that sweep swiftly toward my head over the unmoving mirror of silence and break on my eardrums. It has long stopped hurting. I know what it sounds like, that’s why it can’t touch me. But the unending repetition is alienating. Is that what a falling vase really sounds like? I start to question the whole thing. Could this scene have another outcome? I watch closely. In my heart of hearts I believe that the vase will fall, but apparently not now, or now, or even now, not even within the foreseeable future; we learn that from experience, from time spent waiting. Perhaps that is the source of the confusion. I have time to study the woman and think of other possibilities and I think of them. While I am pondering this, the woman lets go, the vase falls, the sound hits me full on and completely unprepared; the entrance gate starts up.
56
We jump as if hit by a surge of electricity and immediately we’re ourselves again, no longer hungry, no longer sleepy. It turns out to be nighttime, as Harry predicted. After just a couple of steps I get tangled in the beams of the headlights, apparently swinging my arms around because I swipe Harry’s head, his cap. He shoves me and shouts over the racket, “Position!” His push was in the right direction. Taking the source of the scorching light as my point of reference, I quickly reach the spot near Garage 3 that I have spent long hours staring at from my prison on the stool, goaded by its terrible proximity. I spread my legs slightly, stretch my arms out in front of me and aim my service weapon just above the thundering engine, which is slowly approaching. Through the soles of my feet I feel the massive weight of the gate descend on the concrete. The engine turns off. My ears are ringing.
Gradually I regain control of my eyesight. The familiar emblem on the hood, large, presumably designed to be recognized from the sky. Again, spotless bodywork lavishly reflecting the basement’s frugal emergency lighting. The driver says, “Here we are, then.” He’s lowered his window all the way down into the door. It’s only when he gets out of the van that I recognize him. He’s wearing the same clothes as last time: the blue sweater, pants without creases, sneakers. The clothes are loose on his body, like normal clothes. He is tall and scarcely twenty. Does the organization choose underprivileged, foolhardy youths to work as drivers in the radioactive zone? Is his inflamed skin a first sign of contamination? Do they simply neglect to inform them about the conditions and the dangers? Is that the easiest and cheapest solution? I can’t see any adjustments to the van. There’s no oxygen tank mounted on the roof. It’s an ordinary van.