The Guard (4 page)

But Claudia doesn't look at all as if she's let something slip or as if her words were meant to make me guess a secret. Perhaps she assumes that his hands are warm because he has a good character. In her world the two things go together. Maybe she dreams of one day feeling his hands on her hip in the darkness of her room, while he sits on the side of her bed and gently whispers her name. In her dream his hands are always warm.

20

The entrance gate starts to move. Harry and I move over to the residents' elevator and assume the appropriate stance: feet apart, hands behind our backs. Although we serve the residents, we don't take orders from them.

It's Mr. Glorieux's Aston Martin. He is accompanied by his daughter, her blond hair catching the light behind the flat windscreen. The gate has now closed again. Vehicles have to wait a full minute in the sally port between the street gate and the building before the entrance gate opens.

A servant, a friendly youth who rarely stops to talk, steps out of the service elevator. He assumes a pose that is scarcely different from our own. He is wearing a white shirt and a black waistcoat over black pants.

The deep growl of the eight-cylinder engine creeps closer, a predator that can surge forward with all its power in the blink of an eye. The car stops and the servant opens the door for Mr. Glorieux's daughter. She doesn't deign to look at him. The oversized sunglasses on the top of her head are keeping her curls under control. In his brown leather pilot's jacket, Mr. Glorieux walks around the back of the car and says, “Thank you, Ben.” The servant nods and climbs in behind the wheel. With that same controlled growl, the Aston Martin creeps off to its cage, Garage 14. When the elevator doors slide open almost silently, Mr. Glorieux lays a gallant hand on his daughter's lower back and says, “Gentlemen.”

21

Arthur leans against the wall with one outstretched arm. He says that Mr. Glorieux was one of the founders. That the plan to sell luxury apartments with the service of a five-star hotel was his. There was clearly a market for it, because all forty floors were sold before the derelict factory on the site had even been demolished. A spinning mill the city had been ignoring for years. Red brick, of all things. Trees growing up through the roof.

He thinks back on it with evident pleasure. He is a twelve-year-old boy whiling away countless afternoons on the factory grounds. His secret spot is under the roof on a weathered rafter that looks out over everything, where he rules like a king and smokes cigarettes like his father. He lures a girl here. She walks through the weeds on long, pale legs. Her name is Els. It takes hours before she lets him steal a kiss. In the very spot where the three of us are now standing.

Arthur tells the story of the body and the colony of cats. That the body of a toddler was once found here, or what was left of it, because at the end there were 163 cats living on the factory grounds. Not one adult cat was unscathed, they all bore the marks of furious battles: sockets where eyes had been clawed out, scars where ears had been ripped or bitten off, bald spots and suppurating wounds. Despite that, the neighborhood always stuck up for the colony, especially when Mr. Glorieux displayed interest in the land and began developing his plans. Petition followed petition, there were demonstrations, the factory gate was picketed, a brick went through a stained-glass window at the town hall. Not long afterward they found what the cats had left of the toddler's body.

Arthur asks if we've ever heard the cries of a female cat on heat. He looks at Harry, then at me. “Just like a toddler,” he says. “A toddler having a terrible nightmare.” He says nobody in the neighborhood slept well after that.

Silently Arthur raises his open arms as if to point out Mr. Glorieux's building, as if to say that life can take strange turns. That a dead toddler can sometimes lead to something like this.

22

Mrs. Privalova steps out of the elevator on her assistant's arm. She inclines her gray head. It's a greeting, we know that, even though she doesn't speak or look in our direction. She is in her early
nineties. Her assistant is a balding man with pink, full cheeks. Taking small steps, he goes to Garage 22. Mrs. Privalova stands motionless on the short runner in front of the elevator, leaning on her walking stick. She is festooned with antique jewelry and a sable stole. From the corner of my eye, I study her profile, which shows indomitability more than anything else. This willpower must be at the basis of her wealth. It is the willpower of the victor.

Then the inevitable happens. It happens every time. How terrible must it be for Mrs. Privalova to suffer from flatulence? An ailment that announces its presence over and over. Her elderly body is no longer able to resist. What can she do except ignore it, pretending that the escaping gas isn't making the weirdest noises, as if her sphincter has degenerated into a fold of skin flapping lazily in the wind.

Harry and I look at her assistant as indomitably as Mrs. Privalova: he is not very skillful with the Bentley and invariably forgets to shut the garage door. I'm standing closest to her and take shallow breaths, only admitting the air that is already in my nose out of respect for this woman. Presuming, as I do, that she would find any greater intimacy unbearable.

23

Mrs. Privalova has just left when the signal for the residents' elevator sounds again. The elevator has been programmed to ensure that the residents are never forced into each other's company: it always completes a journey before answering the next call. It is extremely rare for one resident to immediately follow another. They could bump into each other in the basement.

Mr. Van der Burg-Zethoven has a weekend bag with him. His fiancée is carrying their hairless cat, a hideous creature wearing a black leather collar set with gems. He walks to his garage, some
ten meters from the elevator, too impatient, apparently, to wait for assistance. They only arrived from their country estate yesterday. Their faces are gray with seriousness, or from the unusually early hour. A death in the family, thinks Harry.

But the couple, coincidentally or otherwise, turn out to be the harbingers of a flurry of activity among the residents. Harry and I count ten exactly who leave with luggage in the course of the day. Perhaps an important event is taking place in their circle—a premiere, the presentation of a prize, an anniversary or a farewell—and later, in some other city, they will all be guests at the same gala event, where they will recognize each other in the crowd on the dance floor as owners in the same building and start to talk, settling on some obvious subject of conversation, exchanging experiences, assessing and desiring the other's husband or wife, agreeing to see each other again sometime soon.

24

It's the depths of the night. Harry is sound asleep when I hear the signal for the residents' elevator. For a moment I think I must have dozed off and am now dreaming that I'm sitting on the chair alone and hearing the signal for the residents' elevator because I have heard it so many times today. But I am awake. Quietly I tell myself that I am awake and I clearly hear my own words.

Mr. De Bontridder is wearing casual clothes I have never seen before. In this nondescript get-up, without the three-piece suits in which he leads a fabulously successful software company, he looks like an ordinary family man who has decided that tonight's the night to do a flit.

He comes up to me, talking as if he's obliged to answer the question he reads in my eyes. He is agitated: maybe he took something
to stay awake and overdid it. He tells me a muddled story about information he's considered, parameters, reports he's been following closely, all day now. The input is steady, the calculations precise, the reliability has never been higher, the margin of error is negligible. A man like him can't stay blind. No one can stay blind, no one, make no mistake about that.

I watch his mouth opening and closing to the rhythm of the words, so far it all makes sense. But I don't get any farther; beyond this point I seem to be lost in someone else's dream. I still experience the physical presence of all that surrounds me. I am in the middle of a stream of air issuing constantly from Mr. De Bontridder's body. I am sure of that much. I can mainly smell leek, but also fish. Salmon, I think.

At this hour, it's only natural that I lend a hand. After he has fetched the Mercedes coupé, I load his luggage into the trunk. The car is decades old but magnificently designed and, now that I finally have a chance, I can't resist the temptation to run my hand over its coldly gleaming silver curves while Mr. De Bontridder, sitting at the wheel, talks into his telephone in a hoarse voice. Not much later the familiar signal sounds, the elevator door opens with a sigh and Mrs. De Bontridder dives into the passenger seat as if it's raining cats and dogs.

25

The next residents appear early in the morning. We're on our feet all day in a basement that's as busy as a train station. Almost no one pays us any attention. Today we're a royal guard, constantly at attention, unable to be distracted from our official protocol.

Only Mr. Olano shakes our hands late in the afternoon before climbing in next to his chauffeur. A handshake accompanied by
a solemn nod and “See you later.” Although it's definitely not small or cold, his hand is neither particularly large nor particularly warm. His politeness, however, is most peculiar. Has Claudia told him about us in the darkness of her room? Has he ended up developing a soft spot for the two men in the basement who guarantee his security?

Peace returns in the evening.

Harry shakes his head. He's worked here longer than me and never experienced this before. There's nothing unusual about fluctuations in the occupancy rate: all of the owners have multiple residences at their disposal. But an exodus like the last few days', no, he can't remember anything comparable. According to his count there is only one resident left in the building. He doesn't know his name as he only goes out sporadically. A strange, withdrawn character in his early thirties, who keeps his head shaved and always wears black. Harry couldn't point out the staff who serve him either, not if they were standing right in front of his nose.

26

The signal for the service elevator, after three days without any sign of life. A group of staff—presumably they all serve the same family—step out of the elevator. They're in high spirits. The men laugh as one, teasing the women, who are made up and have let their hair down, tossing it over their shoulders or softly pushing back their curls. Their leave has started. They greet us casually and we give a cursory greeting in reply. Not one of them disengages from the group. Here, in the building, they stay close together as if lassoed with an invisible rope, walking as one unit toward the entrance gate and the outside world, where it seems to be quiet and where it is very likely that their relationships with each other will change rapidly.

Before the after-image of the daylight has faded from our retinas, the next carefree group emerges from the elevator. The staff are paid not by the families, but by the building; it's only logical that they should get temporary leave during the residents' absence. Gradually Harry and I discern the composition of the groups. We can definitely point out the
chefs de cuisine
and the chambermaids. We nudge each other, nod at this or that stranger and immediately agree with each other.

Even Claudia, in the end, doesn't step outside her familiar circle of equals. She blows us a kiss. She waves. She tells us we mustn't misbehave, no matter what.

She looks back twice.

27

At the first bang we both drop to the floor, pitch-darkness is tossed over us like a blanket, like a net, and we're caught, swearing, pointing our guns in all directions. At the second bang, which follows the first like an echo, the emergency lighting turns on. It's only after a few minutes that the tubes light up more than their own covers and the basement starts to reappear as a collection of shadowy patches.

Harry checks the entrance while I walk to our room. The two screens of the video monitoring system are dead; the cameras are aimed at the sally port between the entrance gate and the street gate. On closer examination, the screens are receiving electricity but no signal. The light bulb in our room is still on too.

Harry comes back, not having noticed anything unusual. He says he can't hear any voices or rumbling engines, nothing.

We spend the first few hours waiting anxiously, walking countless inspection rounds. It's strange that the cameras are no longer emitting a signal, though perhaps they are and it's just not reaching
the screens. A short circuit somewhere that's partially cut the electricity supply. We look for a simple explanation.

We adjust to the darkness, which gives us the impression that the emergency lighting is increasing in strength. We see everything as clearly as before. Nothing has changed. After a brief consultation, we decide that at night, as usual, we will each take five hours' sleep in turn.

28

Two days later we watch with drawn pistols while the entrance gate opens. We understand why a day has been skipped when the young driver explains that the organization will no longer be providing hot dinners. He hardly looks at us, he's in a hurry, there's a dark sweat stain on the collar of his blue shirt as he informs us that from now on we will be receiving varied rations. He makes it sound like a simple policy decision, an extremely awkward one as far as he's concerned, because now he's got a lot more work to do on delivery days. He's been in the basement every day for the last few months and shows no surprise at the emergency lighting. As if we have silently agreed that every one of us needs to adjust to the situation.

29

Harry rubs his stomach cheerfully. “They can't take that away from us now, Michel.” Sighing, he sits down on the chair next to the door. Dinner's over. Our intestines will digest the bread and the
canned meat, absorbing the nutrients and concentrating the waste. The taste—that delighted our mouths so much that we swallowed too quickly—will fade away and be replaced by the taste of our own empty mouths. The taste of the instrument.