The Night Watchman

The Night Watchman

By

Victor Buhagiar

Nb. This story was written in 1971 and read on BBC Radio, eventually published in the magazine The Commonweatlh.

After the winter rains, the valley was a riot of colors, medium large fields 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 covered with tarmac. On one side, almost in the middle of the valley, was one blot in the otherwise picturesque surroundings. A small, four-room tile factory was built on the side of a large yard where tiles of all shapes, sizes, and colors, baked in the hot Mediterranean sun. All around the small factory large pine trees camouflaged the unsightly cement droppings that lay around in 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 eight hours old. Martin looked around him in distaste. Eight 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 large 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-five days of the year when nothing happened to disturb the tranquillity of the surroundings. Yet despite his hopes he knew 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. 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 long brown 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 nearby. 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.

He was in the act of sitting down when suddenly he stiffened. He was sure he could see a movement in the field opposite the factory on the other side of the road. Perhaps it was the breeze. No, not with that kind of movement, surely. He could not be certain in the gathering dusk. But he could not let it be. He had to still his suspicions. He hobbled over to the low rubble wall on the other side of the road. There, sitting on the ground, resting against the hard-jutting granite of the rubble wall was a young woman. She hardly looked a day older than twenty.

Martin sighed. "I thought you were a..."

He stopped, shrugged and hoping that his confession could somehow expiate his sense of guilt continued, "...a thief! Funny isn't it! I thought you were a thief. I'm sorry!" Suddenly he was aware of the whiteness of her small breasts visible in the deep plunge of her yellow shirt.

The girl bit into a luscious fat fig she had just peeled, and with her mouth full, some seeds dribbling from the edges of her lips said, "Who said I'm not a thief?"

"I'd rather you were not!"

The girl got up and eyed him defiantly. "Well, I am. You'd better catch me!"

She climbed over the rubble wall and, her bare feet hardly making a noise on the tarmac, ran into the factory. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach the old familiar pain swelled up. Was it possible she did not know he was a cripple? Suddenly he heard her shout. The great Dane was barring her way. Growling, it was poised to spring at her slightest movement.

"Boy, come here boy, come" but the dog, sensing the girl was a friend, began to bark and jump around her. She responded to the animal and began to chase it up and down the road. Martin limped into the factory and sat down on the flat stone watching them from behind the iron bars.

Soon it was too dark to see as the road was badly lit. She came towards him and bid him good-bye. "So you're going then!"

"I have to. Besides I'm hungry. We have green peppers in tomato sauce today!"

He felt his mouth dry. He licked his lips. "Don't, please don't. You make me hungry!"

Her laugh rippled towards him in the stillness of the night as she vanished over the rubble wall running towards some buildings behind a clump of oak trees.

Suddenly Martin felt alone. The great Dane, its huge tongue dangling out of its mouth, settled down near him. All around was silent and now and then a solitary car rushed through the night, its headlights cutting tunnels through the darkness. Otherwise he was alone, the tiles his inanimate companions.

Suddenly, just as he had decided it was safe for him to get some sleep, he felt an icy hand covering his eyes. He turned and grabbed the intruder. It was the girl. "You gave me a fright. You shouldn't do that."

"l've brought you some food!" She offered him a plate she had hidden on a flat tile some distance away. "Not that you deserve it. You make a bad sentry. I could have bumped you off easily!"

He pleaded mockingly: "Have a heart!"

When he had eaten the green peppers she looked at him mischievously, "You liked it?"

"Thank you, yes."

"Well I must now demand payment."

"What do you want?"

"Give me a kiss."

Shyly he kissed her. He had never kissed a girl before. He felt he did it right, very much in the same way he had seen people kissing on the big screen. She clung to him and kissed him again and again. He stiffened and then quivered like a jelly. Silently she led him to his small room. The great Dane was left near the iron door to do his master's job.

It became a habit and every sunset she used to come and spend some time with him, first letting him eat the food she had brought, then making love to him. Her name was Carmen. Her mother had grudgingly allowed her to work on a farm nearby, but that virago was not happy with the situation because she never liked her to sleep away from home. "What would your father say!" she would complain; but father was far away earning a living in Australia, and every time he wrote he promised to return, knowing he had no intention of doing so.

Summer soon ended and the leaves on the trees turned to mellow brown. The nights grew cold but Carmen was there to keep Martin company. Until one day she failed to turn up. What could have happened? Perhaps she was sick! A week went by and she never came. Plucking up courage, Martin hobbled towards the farm and asked for her. The farmer smiled wryly.

"Her mother took her away. I heard they emigrated to Australia."

"Like that? Without notice?"

The farmer scratched his bald head: "Seems they took the place of some other family who could not go."

The night watchman limped back to the factory. Two small tears trickled from the edge of his eyes but he quietly wiped them away. His eyes had to be sharp and alert. After all was he not the guardian of the tiles?

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