what’s the organization going to do? You think they’re going to give them a lecture on company policy?”
He rests the spout of the plastic bottle on his lower lip and lets the last bit of water glug into his half-open mouth. In a flash he’s screwed the bottle up into a ball. Returning from the crusher, he paces to and fro for a while in front of the empty chair with his hands in his pockets.
“And what of it?” he says. “So what if the organization kicks up a fuss? So what if they politely but firmly inform the client that they alone decide who guards what, with all the accompanying explanations? A client like one of the residents in a building like this will just slide a few extra notes over the table, won’t he? Simple.”
75
Harry says he hopes Mrs. Rosenthal won’t requisition us. For five days now the requisition scenario has had us in its grip. Harry is in bed and still drowsy. It’s 5:30 in the morning and he has only just woken, which makes his announcement about Mrs. Rosenthal come across as the end of a nasty dream. The bunkroom door is ajar and I ask him through the crack if she was the elderly woman on the thirty-second floor. He says the Jewish bag lived on twelve and must have been around forty-five. A real face-ache, she’d never give you so much as a smile. He says I must know her son, a skinny little guy with an undersized hat and a patchy beard. A permanent grin on his stupid mug. Begging for a beating, according to Harry. He daydreamed about itoften enough: whacking him over the head as if he was a naughty boy, just slapping him smack on the cheeks. After which the Jew would undoubtedly grin even more, now that he had tempted him into physical violence, which would almost certainly lead to Harry’s dismissal. After which Harry would then punch him full in the face, smashing that big schnoz of his. He’d like to see him grin with blood all over his mouth. It would make things a lot more bearable. A little later Harry says he wouldn’t be surprised if Junior begged Mommy to requisition him specifically, as his plaything, in the sick hope of one day being worked over by him in reality. He probably can’t keep his hands off his pee-pee just thinking about it. Yes, Harry says, that gets the little twerp hot alright, Sabbath or no Sabbath.
While getting dressed, he asks if Jews are allowed to keep dogs. He thinks it’s the kind of thing I’d know. He says he’s never seen a Jew with a dog. I think about his question. The combination of Jew and dog is hard to picture for me too, but I’m not sure why. I’m not even able to come up with a reason why the Jewish religion would prohibit the keeping of dogs. Harry says, either way, we should hope for a post where they don’t have dogs. No matter how good you keep your eyes peeled on patrol, sooner or later you step on a turd and get to spend quarter of an hour scratching the orange shit out from the tread of your shoe. As depressing as it gets. If it’s up to Harry, preferably no dogs. Anyway, despite their masters’ claims to the contrary, dogs always stink.
76
The residents’ names come and go. Day after day they visit us in the basement offering us panoramic views of fabulous gardens in which we can move freely, in which we can breathe and live freely,providing security under the very best of conditions. We’ve got plenty of choice.
Some names emanate an intoxicating perfume as if someone, hidden behind a pillar, presses an atomizer the moment the name is spoken. I’ve stopped going over to sniff the residents’ elevator; it was foolish to expect the door seal to smell of anything except, vaguely, rubber.
77
I try to explain that both Mr. Toussaint and Mr. Colet had white cars, but Harry won’t listen. He thinks I’m trying to put him in his place. I clarify my position by saying that I’m not correcting him when he says that Mr. Colet drove a white car. He’s right. Mr. Colet did have a white car, something American. But
He rests the spout of the plastic bottle on his lower lip and lets the last bit of water glug into his half-open mouth. In a flash he’s screwed the bottle up into a ball. Returning from the crusher, he paces to and fro for a while in front of the empty chair with his hands in his pockets.
“And what of it?” he says. “So what if the organization kicks up a fuss? So what if they politely but firmly inform the client that they alone decide who guards what, with all the accompanying explanations? A client like one of the residents in a building like this will just slide a few extra notes over the table, won’t he? Simple.”
75
Harry says he hopes Mrs. Rosenthal won’t requisition us. For five days now the requisition scenario has had us in its grip. Harry is in bed and still drowsy. It’s 5:30 in the morning and he has only just woken, which makes his announcement about Mrs. Rosenthal come across as the end of a nasty dream. The bunkroom door is ajar and I ask him through the crack if she was the elderly woman on the thirty-second floor. He says the Jewish bag lived on twelve and must have been around forty-five. A real face-ache, she’d never give you so much as a smile. He says I must know her son, a skinny little guy with an undersized hat and a patchy beard. A permanent grin on his stupid mug. Begging for a beating, according to Harry. He daydreamed about itoften enough: whacking him over the head as if he was a naughty boy, just slapping him smack on the cheeks. After which the Jew would undoubtedly grin even more, now that he had tempted him into physical violence, which would almost certainly lead to Harry’s dismissal. After which Harry would then punch him full in the face, smashing that big schnoz of his. He’d like to see him grin with blood all over his mouth. It would make things a lot more bearable. A little later Harry says he wouldn’t be surprised if Junior begged Mommy to requisition him specifically, as his plaything, in the sick hope of one day being worked over by him in reality. He probably can’t keep his hands off his pee-pee just thinking about it. Yes, Harry says, that gets the little twerp hot alright, Sabbath or no Sabbath.
While getting dressed, he asks if Jews are allowed to keep dogs. He thinks it’s the kind of thing I’d know. He says he’s never seen a Jew with a dog. I think about his question. The combination of Jew and dog is hard to picture for me too, but I’m not sure why. I’m not even able to come up with a reason why the Jewish religion would prohibit the keeping of dogs. Harry says, either way, we should hope for a post where they don’t have dogs. No matter how good you keep your eyes peeled on patrol, sooner or later you step on a turd and get to spend quarter of an hour scratching the orange shit out from the tread of your shoe. As depressing as it gets. If it’s up to Harry, preferably no dogs. Anyway, despite their masters’ claims to the contrary, dogs always stink.
76
The residents’ names come and go. Day after day they visit us in the basement offering us panoramic views of fabulous gardens in which we can move freely, in which we can breathe and live freely,providing security under the very best of conditions. We’ve got plenty of choice.
Some names emanate an intoxicating perfume as if someone, hidden behind a pillar, presses an atomizer the moment the name is spoken. I’ve stopped going over to sniff the residents’ elevator; it was foolish to expect the door seal to smell of anything except, vaguely, rubber.
77
I try to explain that both Mr. Toussaint and Mr. Colet had white cars, but Harry won’t listen. He thinks I’m trying to put him in his place. I clarify my position by saying that I’m not correcting him when he says that Mr. Colet drove a white car. He’s right. Mr. Colet did have a white car, something American. But
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