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The Night Watchman. l

Autor Ryan

The valley was a riot of colors, large fields that stretched from end to end, immense carpets of red clover, yellow ears of corn and green beans swaying in the summer evening breeze. A narrow road wound its way along one side of the valley, its surface freshly tarmaced. On one side, almost in the middle of the valley, was one blot in the otherwise picturesque surroundings. It was a small tile factory, four rooms built around a large yard where tiles of all shapes, sizes, and colors, baked in the Mediterranean sun. All around the small factory large pine trees camouflaged the ugly cement droppings that lay all around the yard, in the passage, and in front of the large iron door of the factory.

The distant chimes of a church clock informed listeners that the afternoon was seven hours old. Martin looked around him in distaste. Seven o’clock was the time people left their flat-roofed houses and made their way to the sea-side promenades, scattered here and there on the tiny island, where they could enjoy the pleasant sea breezes and lick vanilla-flavored ice-creams or bite into the large pizzas that had become so popular. The seaside promenades were meeting places for lovers and friends, but Martin had neither lover nor friend that is why he preferred to work at night, alone, watching the tiles.

He opened the large iron door and prepared to make his round of the factory, making sure no one was lurking in the vicinity. For a moment he stopped and breathed in the sweet smelling breeze that wafted its way up the valley. Then he whistled and a great dane came bounding from amongst the tiles and barked its delight at its master. Martin sighed and hoped it was going to be a peaceful evening, a lonely, peaceful evening, one of those three hundred and sixty-four days of the year when nothing happened to disturb the tranquillity of the surroundings. Thus he hoped, knowing that after all nothing ever happened to him.

He shrugged his shoulders and began his beat around the factory, walking slowly and silently like a cat, one foot after another, one long leg dragging after a short one, hobbling silently, his tall lean figure like a ship’s mast going up and down as if in a storm. All around was peace. The storm was inside him and at times it welled up threatening to engulf him in a whirlpool of self-pity. However, the peace of the countryside helped him to ignore the pain that gathered in the pit of his stomach. He concentrated on the surroundings, his sharp, hazel eyes piercing the gathering darkness, on the alert for the slightest movement.

Martin was thirty-three years old and was all alone in the world. At the age of seven he had contracted polio. It is rare for a grown man to remember in detail his worst childhood experiences, but Martin remembered everything; the white uniforms, the pungent smell of surgical spirit, the poker-faced doctors running around like ants, prescribing, observing, feeling, helping and vanishing into the obscure corridors of the hospital: but most of all he could never forget the deep-lined, worried-looking faces of his parents. Their red eyes, that peered at him over the iron sides of the bed, their cold hands that caressed his forehead and stroked his brown long hair, cuddling him to sleep, reassuring him of their love whatever the outcome. Somehow he pulled through–only to leave that foul-smelling hospital a cripple never to play as other children played, never to walk as other men walked, and somehow he felt that this condition rendered him so different that he could never love as other men loved.

Yet notwithstanding his limp he could move with agility. He trudged around the small factory, his faithful dane bounding in front of him. The beaten track was as desolate as the fields around. He tramped over the aromatic fragrant pinkish flowers of the wild thyme, oblivious to their beauty amongst the hard granite that jutted out of the ground and spread into the adjoining fields before getting lost in the rich soil of the valley.

For a moment he stopped, mesmerized by the echoes of past days when as a young boy he used to join his classmates and go in search of the small honeycombs that bees built amongst the trees growing in the crevices of the rocky fields. Wherever the thyme grew one was sure to find bees. Those days should have been happy and carefree. When he left hospital he hoped his classmates would find his limp interesting, his friendship a thing to covet; but it was not to be. His classmates could not be bothered with him. He was a nuisance to them.

They would shout: “Come on Martin, run!” never thinking for one moment that he could not. And when the teacher recounted the adventures of the Pied Piper, he felt somehow that the story was meant for him. Like the poor limping child he was always to be left behind, alone even amongst a crowd, a cripple whom no one loved. He became introspective and suspicious of anyone who tried to help him.

When he grew up it was very difficult to find employment. School had been a formality and he had never bothered to learn, not even a skill. He had only his limp and that was hardly an asset. By the time he was twenty-two years old his parents were both dead, interred under the cypress trees in the family tomb. For a while he lived on social assistance until someone suggested he should register as a disabled person. He tried his best not to feel the pain in his chest. It was like an insult to him. Finally he did register as disabled and was surprised when three weeks later he was offered employment as a night watchman. It was a job he could do easily, hobbling around a deserted factory, guarding the tiles.

And now, tonight, on his rounds, the silence was so perfect it could almost be heard. He came back inside the factory again and peered into each of the four rooms. There was very little to see. In the two big rooms there were the machines, the heavy bags of cement, the tools and stores. One of the smaller rooms was an air-tight, air-conditioned, tastefully decorated office and the other one was his room, not air-tight, not air-conditioned and not at all tastefully decorated. Its paint had long since peeled off the limestone, but his small bed was comfortable. It was all Martin needed.

When he had made sure no one was lurking anywhere in the factory, he limped towards the iron door and sat down on a flat stone near the door. It would not do for him to let a thief get away with anything from the factory. Not that there was anything to steal, but one never knew. The factory had been broken into once since he had taken over the night watch ten years previously. Everyone knew who the culprit was. It was a young man from a nearby village. One morning he had been found loitering by the boss. It was a hot day and the quarrel grew out of all proportion. The young man got the sack. During the night someone entered the factory and partly dismantled one of the machines, stealing a vital piece that could not easily be replaced. The police soon pounced on the young man and took him to their headquarters. But he had a strong alibi. During the night he had been with his friends, he said, and they all swore he had been with them. They had gone out fishing, not returning until the early hours of the next morning. The police could do nothing and the boss was beside himself with anger. Poor Martin became the butt of his wrath.

The boss sent for him in the air-conditioned, tastefully decorated office. He was not asked to sit. He was merely bombarded with endless questions. Where were you? Did you report for work? Were you asleep? Were you under the influence of alcohol? And so on and so forth. Finally, he was fined a week’s pay.

So now he was always extra careful lest something out of the ordinary occurred. He could never be sure. So his sharp eyes were always on the look out. Those were his assets, his eyes. He could spot a movement in the fields even in the dark. He had to be alert, watchful, the protector of tiles.
to be continued…