I didn’t find the last resident.
The last resident found me.
184
I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is astonishing how much a hand on a shoulder can say. This one is as self-assured as the guard’s bearlike paw, but lacks — despite the complete, breath-taking surprise — all semblance of hostility. It is as if the hand, through its purposeful touch, is conveying its apologies for the intrusion circumstances have compelled it to make. It pushes me down on the spot, not wrenching the joint but forcing me to think for a second without moving, so that I judge the gesture correctly and relax again immediately, at the very start of this imposed reflection, because I am not being overpowered at all — I mustn’t think that — on the contrary, I am being invited to turn around calmly, without fear or aggression, to face someone who has emphasized their lack of malice.
Even before I’ve finished turning my head, I encounter the wave of air the resident has set off by moving in my direction and which now, with a delay, washes over me. The air is tinged with his cologne, a multi-layered scent, which is elegant and discreet, but as strong as an opiate: after a single breath it has reached my toes, intoxicating me, forcing me to surrender. Ginger first, followed closely by citrus, with pepper and, finally, wood adding an unfathomable depth.
I look into grayish-blue eyes without any particular expression. They are framed by heavy, angular glasses. Judging by the modern lines of the interior on the edges of my field of vision, the glasses are deliberately old-fashioned, maybe even genuinely old, vintage, dating all the way back to the fifties or sixties of the previous century. That impression is strengthened by his gleaming bald head and pitch-black, tight-fitting turtleneck sweater.
“I’m Michel.”
The words tumble out of my mouth, bouncing like marbles on the concrete floor, and it’s only when it’s completely quiet again that the resident lays his hand on my shoulder for the second time. What this hand is saying, I don’t know. I have no idea. I notice that the resident is slim but nowhere near skinny. His face is sharp, without protruding cheekbones or sunken cheeks. He hasn’t been going hungry.
He looks remarkably healthy.
“Are you alright, Michel?”
He lowers his head a little to look deep into my eyes. He’s about ten years older than me. Concern, that is what the hand on my shoulder is now conveying, clearly. He is concerned. He is taking pity on me.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
If I let myself go for a moment I would, finally, burst into tears. I would be inconsolable and unable to speak. Nothing would help. He would hug me and not know what to do. I would embarrass him as no one has embarrassed him before.
“Would you like a glass of water? Are you thirsty?” Without waiting for an answer he turns and disappears around the corner. “Come in,” I hear him say.
He is inviting me to enter his apartment. But I am already inside. I am standing in a kind of lobby, which I suspect also contains the elevator doors, a bit farther along. At the narrower hallway through to his apartment, there is an invisible line; beyond that line are his living quarters. It’s a line I won’t cross. I know my place. I’m on duty. Without my duties I would never have met the last resident. I pull the knot of my tie tighter and pat my shoulders, arms and chest. I straighten my jacket. Not wanting to be rude, I shuffle up a few steps until I’m at the start of the hallway.
A large bright space extends before me, enclosed on all sides by glass walls: blue sky and white clouds. The full-color print to the basement’s negative. It seems to me as if this space no longer belongs to the apartment building, but is a part of nature. The ceiling is tightly strung sailcloth to protect against the rain and sun, although the bare interior seems designed to easily withstand the elements. The kitchen section in the far corner is gleaming stainless steel and looks more like a laboratory. There, in that same corner, I see green plants swaying on a large terrace. I see a crop and a long row of sticks, and on the ground I see plants coming up.
He is growing his own food!
Unlike Harry and me, he hasn’t been living off supplies.
He brings me a glass of water which is undoubtedly purified rainwater. It tastes better than the best wine I have ever drunk. I feel it flowing deep into my belly. Glancing at the embroidered insignia on my chest, he asks, “Are you still here?”
I nod, foolishly. “We came to make sure you were alright.”
“I thought everyone left long ago.”
I would like to check the time on my watch. I know that later I will want to recall this moment as precisely as possible. I look into the last resident’s grayish-blue eyes. I smell his cologne. He talks to me, he exists.
“Harry and I stayed. In the basement.”
“You must be the last ones then. As far as I know, everyone else is gone.”
The idea that we should take this man downstairs to lock him up in the storeroom and guard him is too insane for words, a delusion of the highest order.
“Harry kept count,” I say. “He was certain that thirty-nine residents had left. He knew you were still here. That’s why we were looking for you.”
“Well, that wasn’t necessary,” the resident smiles. “I never go anywhere. I’ve been here the whole time.” He gestures at his home. In that instant, as if the two things are related, there is the sound of someone flicking a wine glass with a fingernail, once only. On a long white sideboard, three stylized monitors flick on. Graphs appear: a mountain range, a young mountain range with sharp peaks and deep valleys. Above the mountains, outside behind the glass, a cloud hangs in the sky. This is the highest point of the city. He lives up above everyone and everything, as if in a watchtower.
“Your colleague, Harry, is he coming too? I can offer you some soup. Would you like some soup?” the resident asks with half an eye on the screens. “Pea soup. I made it yesterday so it should be at its best.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to delay you.”
“The computer can wait. Fifteen minutes here or there won’t matter.”
Pea soup. The words don’t set off any reaction in my mouth. I think I no longer know what pea soup tastes like.
Another ting on the wine glass. A window opens above one of the graphs. On the other screens the mountain ranges make way for scatter plots and three-dimensional histograms. They are moving.