I press my nose against the gap, sniffing the cool breeze. The weather conditions are neutral. Smells carry better when it's hot or raining. I turn around and lean back on the wall. Again I get the creeping feeling that what I see from here would be the very first image of the basement to confront an intruder. I try to imagine the situation. His brain will most likely soak up the visual information like a sponge, immediately comparing it to the floor plan he has studied in advance. Or just trying to work out the direction of his next step if he's seized the opportunity unprepared. He mustn't get much farther. The instant following the intruder's first observation of the basement should see him flat on the ground. Preferably dead with a bullet to the head.
I continue my round slowly, feeling confident. It's foolish, but rather pleasant. I could just as easily be walking in a park with my hands in my pockets. Enjoying the trees and bushes, sitting down on a bench. Closing my eyes for a moment.
8
I can hear it clearly, not over the noise of the emergency lighting as I first thought, but seeping through under it. I am sure I know what it is, that the knowledge is buried somewhere inside of me, that I've heard it before. It's a question of training my ear to it,
being confident and not thinking about it. I suppress the urge to turn my head toward it; I can hear it well enough, I don't want to lose it. All at once, as if from the effort of resisting that impulse, a membrane inside me bursts and, as if it could never have been anything else, the answer presents itself. I can hardly believe I didn't recognize the sound of a leaking cistern. To be precise: the whistling sound of the toilet which, because of the leak, continues to draw water from the pipe.
9
I put my hands together behind my head and stare at the bottom of Harry's bunk, at the grid of crinkled wire, gleaming in the pale glow. I am immediately wide awake, my mind fresh and open.
When I groan loudly and swing my legs out of bed, Harry looks around the corner. Lit from behind, his face is black and impossible to read. Of course, he's trying to see if I'm properly awake and ready to get up.
“I'll just have a wash,” I say.
“Excellent.”
He pushes the door to our room almost shut.
I walk over to the washbasin and turn on the light, washing myself thoroughly and quickly; hot water is a luxury we can scarcely remember. After wringing out my flannel and laying it over the edge of the basin, I feel Harry's. It's still quite damp. Although there are only slight fluctuations of temperature in the basement through the year, it is now clearly growing colder. After five hours, the flannel is usually as stiff as an old chamois.
I put on my uniform: dark-blue pants, leather belt with leather hip holster, light-blue shirt, black tie with a simple knot, black lace-ups, jacket, cap with a stiff peak and an embroidered emblem.
I look in the mirror. My beard doesn't need trimming yet. I pop a piece of bread into my mouth, more for its cleansing effect than to still my hunger.
Harry is holding his pistol, his hand resting on his lap. He looks up; his cheeks are tense from constantly gritting his teeth and he blinks several times in quick, irregular succession. “I've already heard the gate start up ten times. You know what it's like when you're sitting here alone waiting.”
We both look over at the other side of the basement. The gate is on the right, tucked in behind Garage 1. The walnut smell is so pungent I take a step away from Harry. Although, according to my watch, we have at least three hours to go before we can expect the van, I already feel the tension, whereas Harry relaxes a little now that I'm here to keep him company. At any rate, he holsters his weapon and lets out a deep breath.
“You think that guy's awake yet?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Not if he works in the daytime. They'll probably wake him up about an hour from now.”
“An hour.”
“Something like that.”
“But it could be earlier?”
“It could be, definitely, that's possible. But I don't think so, to be honest. Not from what I remember from the period before they brought me here, no. I don't think so.”
“So that guy's still just snoozing away.”
“Most likely.”
Five minutes later I raise a finger up next to my ear. “Hear that?”
Harry jumps. “What?” He scans the basement.
“That noise. Just under the sound of the emergency lighting.”
Harry looks like he's pondering something deeply, a riddle. He's sitting on the chair, I'm on the stool, the door of the bunkroom is between us. On the edge of hundreds of square meters of emptiness that will soon come to life. We keep our uniforms neatly brushed, every day, because regulations are sacred. Harry and I
are in complete agreement on that. After all, it's the uniform that makes the guard. The uniform and the weapon.
10
I keep my legs slightly spread; they're drained and wobbly. I feel as if the opening of the gate will be enough to knock me over. The moment the gate comes up off the ground, I'm blinded: as if it's been piling up against it since the last resupply, the sunlight floods in all at once. I take the blow front on. It knocks the breath out of me. I feel like turning away, my closed eyelids glow. I bow my head. I stretch the arm holding the pistol out in front of me. It might not look impressive, but it helps to keep me on my feet.
The van is driving into the basement. I know because the diesel engine is thundering between the walls and cramming the empty space with its presence. I resist this new assault on my senses. I can still hear the gate, but only vaguely; the movement has already reversed, it's getting dark again. The engine turns off with a clunk, having approached close to my knees. I blink, patches appear on my retina. The gate touches the concrete, the heavy segments press down on each other. Then it goes quiet. Quieter: under the hood the contracting metal clicks. I can also clearly hear the driver whistling and Harry panting as if he's been screaming at the top of his voice.
I recognize the van: it's the model the organization always uses. It does me good to see the familiar emblem in self-confident dimensions. We're members of a large, widespread family that boasts years of experience and has managed to survive through restless times. The bodywork looks newly cleaned and shows, as far as I can tell from a first glance, no signs of serious damage from the conditions outside. No traces of violence or anything like chemical fallout.
Gleaming like an alien vehicle that has just landed unsuspectingly on earth, the van sits in the basement.
“What have we here?” the driver says after swinging the door open. “The welcoming committee. Everything okay, guys?”
“Can it,” Harry says from his position at the back of the van. “You know damn well what's expected of you. Keep your mouth shut and unload.”
The youth resumes his cheerful whistling while Harry's still talking and gets out of the cab, holding up the pass around his neck and the one in his other hand simultaneously. To my surprise he is once again out of uniform. I almost say something to Harry, but he's noticed it too, of course. Last time it was the middle of summer and it seemed plausible that he was in his shirtsleeves because of a new rule, unknown to us, that permitted drivers to remove their jackets during heat waves. But now, although they are both the official shade of blue, I can't think of any logical explanation for his baggy top and unpressed pants, and his sneakers least of all. Is it even the same driver? They're all gawky and spotty, you can hardly tell them apart. They all start on resupply.
I don't like those sneakers. What's more, they're squeaky clean, without a splash of mud, and that for a driver who has to go to the most unlikely places. My hands squeeze white around the Flock 28. I aim right between his shoulder blades as he walks to the rear of the van. Right between the shoulder blades, in the center of his body, so that I'll still hit him if he makes a sudden movement. In my thoughts I tell him that he definitely shouldn't make any sudden movements.
I see Harry looking at me. A dark red flush is rising from his neck to his face. “What are you hanging around there for?”
“He's wearing sneakers,” I say.
“You. Wait!”
The youngster has a hand on the rear door handle. Harry gestures with his pistol for me to move to the back of the van as planned. In the meantime I'm wondering whether I need to intervene: never before have I seen someone from the organization in sneakers. This is a situation Harry could misjudge.
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.