The driver doesn’t move. Only his eyes follow me, imperturbably cheerful. When I’m in position and the doors can be opened, Harry says, “Take off your shoes.”
The youth glances back at me incredulously, but realizes he has no choice.
“Why are you wearing sneakers?”
“They put them out for me, I wear them.”
“They’re organization shoes?”
“They’re not mine… Wasn’t I wearing them last time?” He kicks off the shoes and tosses them over carefully so that they land in front of Harry the right way up. “Maybe they can’t afford leather anymore. Don’t ask me.”
Harry goes down on one knee and studies the sneakers, which are relatively unadorned and undoubtedly a good bit cheaper than our shoes. He sticks one hand inside them, then checks the heels. In the end he points a spot on the heel out to me. I suspect it’s the emblem, but I’m too far away to tell.
Humming, the youth levers his feet back into the shoes.
I wish it was over, that the doors would finally open, no matter what’s in the back of the van.
Harry and I are kneeling on our left knees, hunched close to the ground in case there’s a wild burst of gunfire. We’d never even register an exploding bomb; at this range there’d be nothing left of us. How I’m supposed to recognize one of the organization’s random checks is a complete mystery.
I say, “Stop humming.”
“Relax,” the driver says and opens the doors, clicking them into position. I establish that I am still alive, my heart beating harder than ever. Harry stands up, the pistol at the end of his extended arms twitching as it follows the movement of his eyes wandering over the load.
After a while the driver asks, “May I?”
Harry’s face is clammy with sweat. He nods, whereupon the youth starts whistling and bends over into the back of the van. I see plastic trays of various colors, each filled with a variety of foodstuffs. If there were more than just the two of us, our provisions would probably be in a tray too. The driver takes a cardboard box and fishes things out here and there. Finally he digs a carrier bag out from the side of the van and says out loud, “No crackers, but flour and yeast.” Afterward he stuffs the empty bag into his trouser pocket.
When he’s put the bottled water on the ground too, Harry orders him back into the cab. He keeps him covered while I take off with the cardboard box. But after a few steps I feel the bottom collapsing from the weight. Without slowing down I lower the box and slide my hand forward, but can’t prevent something from falling onto the concrete. I hear a dull bang with a sharp edge to it. Without looking back, I run to Number 22 and put the box in Mrs. Privalova’s garage. Panicking, Harry drags the bottled water back a couple of meters with one hand and screams, “Get out of here!”
Noise and light erupt again in all their intensity, unpleasantly familiar now and already less overwhelming. This time they accompany the departure of menace, their uproar dominated by the promise of peace and quiet.
11
When my eyes are used to the semidarkness of the basement, I see Harry taking cover behind the water. All his tension has drained away, his limp arm is resting on the bottles, pointing at the entrance.
Not a shot fired. A success.
Between us, on the ground, there is a dark spot. Still shaken by the events, I don’t have the energy to wonder what it could be. For the time being, I can only register its existence: a dark spot. I stay where I am, waiting for Harry to turn around and notice it. Then a strange smell reaches my nose, wavering, teasing. I feel like my legs are about to buckle after all when I suddenly realize that I am smelling strawberries. This knowledge is unbearable. I am drawn over to the spot. My cheekbones tingle and saliva starts gushing into my mouth.
Harry must have smelt it too. Without a word of consultation but almost simultaneously, we squat down on either side of the spot and stare in astonishment at the deep-red substance with the odd shard of glass sticking up out of it.
“I smell strawberries.”
“Let’s stay calm,” Harry says.
I don’t understand why he’s keeping his hand on his pistol.
“Get the spoon. I’ll wait for you. Promise.”
Walking to the room, I try to work out how long we’ve been here and how long it is since we’ve tasted sugar. I can’t think straight, my brain refuses to be distracted from the prospect ahead. I find the teaspoon, the only spoon we have, stained brown and seldom, if ever, used. I run back with it.
“I fished some of the glass out.” He’s licked the pieces off or used his finger to remove the jam: they’re lying neatly together next to his feet like the well-gnawed bones of a roast chicken. “That’s all,” Harry says. “Just the glass.”
Squatting opposite Harry once again, I ask, “How are we going to do this?” I mean, should we spoon the jam into another jar and save it for sandwiches? How much shall we eat a day? One spoonful, a spoonful each? They’re questions we need to consider, but I can’t put them into words right now because of the constant murmuring in my head.
Harry carefully scoops up some of the pulp with the teaspoon and raises it to my lips, presumably as compensation for what he’s already enjoyed off the glass. The moment the strawberry jam is in my mouth, I forget the danger of glass splinters, push my tongue up against the roof of my mouth and gulp it down. My mouth falls open as if shocked into numbness, there’s too much taste, I have to get rid of some of it. Like an overheated dog, I pant strawberry and sugar. Euphoria is already ringing through my veins as Harry takes some for himself. He looks me straight in the eye. We know what the other is feeling.
He scoops up another spoonful. Mine again.
Almost as a ritual, united in a sacred silence, we eat it all. A spoonful for Harry, a spoonful for me. The enormous basement disappears in its own emptiness. We have no trouble fending off the question of how the driver got his hands on jam. The very last mouthfuls, scraped together, contain dust and dirt from the concrete floor, but the grit doesn’t spoil it at all. It goes down easily with the sugary jelly and is completely tasteless.
12
As if sitting around a campfire, we slump on our backsides and stare at the spot on the concrete, which now really has become a spot. Daydreaming. Moved to reverie by the pleasant glow of the sugar. Feeling mild about our situation, although it hasn’t changed. I am so sated that I keep my thoughts about the possibility of there being more jam in the cardboard box in Mrs. Privalova’s garage to myself for a good five minutes before confiding in Harry.
“You think so?”
We scramble to our feet.
Wouldn’t it be fantastic to be able to eat bread with jam every day for a couple of weeks? After what’s just happened it doesn’t even seem like an insane longing.
Harry folds back the lid of the box and starts pulling things out. I see the familiar tins of corned beef appear in the half-light, boxes of chicken stock cubes, flour, yeast. It’s still possible. As long as he’s bending over the box, it’s still possible. It will happen without any transition. Harry will straighten his back while casually handing me a jar and saying, “Here. Cherry.”
Harry shakes his head.
He runs his hand around the four corners one last time. “No razor blades again either,” he says.
Rubbing and picking at our beards, which we trim fortnightly with a paring knife, we finally stroll back to the bottled water. We don’t say it out loud. If we say it out loud the chance of a second miracle will disappear in a flash. Or do we keep silent because we don’t want to admit to each other that we still have hope, completely irrational hope?