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To Claudia for opening our eyes to what we see

The story I’m going to tell you began when Claudia saw that person standing between the laundry sink and the fig tree, wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans and carrying a black backpack. My neighbour can’t remember seeing any feet. She called me so that I came out to see who had said to her, “Good afternoon.” We found no one. We looked in the courtyard, down the stairs, to the rooms at the end, in the small, run-down bathroom, up the tree, but nothing. Nobody came out of the big door, but someone had definitely been there. We had that strange feeling of being watched, but of not seeing anyone.

The tenement block we live in is very old, comparable to any you might find in the city. Because of the rain, the walls are green with moss, and lack a fresh coat of paint. There are age-old cracks, caused by the many tremors, and a large, quite unkempt courtyard. In short, it is falling apart. No one really knows who the owner is. The person who rents it to us says that the owner is a widow, who must be very rich because this isn’t the only tenement block she owns. Digging deeper into the origins of this place, someone once told me that where we live now, many years ago, something bad had happened, but they didn’t give any further details.

Life in the tenement block remained the same, busy, people coming and going at all hours. It was quite common to see new people who only came in to visit someone or have a look at what could be stolen.

Another neighbour told me that just yesterday she had invited her friends over to have a few beers - a common occurrence. There were five friends gathered in her room: three men and two women plus my neighbour. She has only been living here for a month and therefore does not know all the neighbours yet. She still hasn’t settled into the pace of life, because the majority of us who rent here are from the middle of the country and we arrive alone to the city, looking for a totally new life.

They were already several beers in when one of their friends went to the bathroom which was only a few steps away. He found the light on, a sign that someone was inside and waited for it to go out, wanting whoever was inside to hurry up. The light went out and a slim young man with big eyes, short, straight, black hair, light skin, and wearing a white t-shirt and jeans, said, “Good evening”. The one who wanted to enter answered mechanically because he couldn’t wait any longer. He found the toilet lid as if it had recently been lowered and the water from the flush was still running, but while he was waiting, he had heard no noise.

When he came out, he bumped into the young man who was still standing there, his face thin and pale as if he had not seen sunlight for many months. He said nothing, just looked and the man who had just relieved himself said to him, “Want a beer?” and to that, he said he did. They entered the room and the friend who had returned from the bathroom raised his voice and told everyone that he had invited the young man. They asked for his name, but no one heard because his voice was very low, the music was very loud and everyone was drunk, so they didn’t take much notice.

The party continued, the beer flowed, and very little notice was taken of the newcomer, aside from the fact that he was also frightened and so kept himself to himself. When he finished his beer, he got up, said goodbye to everyone and left. Later that night, my neighbour’s friends asked her if she knew him, but she had never seen him and didn’t know if he was a neighbour or a visitor. My neighbour finished telling me her story and then I told her what had happened to Claudia. She said nothing but turned very pale.

A few days later, on my way to the bathroom, I bumped into the block’s drunk who appeared to be speaking to himself. This was not entirely unusual since he is always high on something, and perhaps already so much so that he was at the point of hallucinating, causing him to converse with his imaginary friend. My other neighbours told me that on several occasions they had also seen him speak to himself, at the same time as he had in his hand a cleaning rag soaked in paint stripper.

When I saw him, he and I spoke a little about the weather, the sudden downpours, and the suffocating heat, but then he took me by surprise by asking me about his friend… He didn’t know what room he lived in, but he had already chatted with him many times and they had already drunk together. Taken aback, I asked him who was talking about and he replied that he was a skinny boy, with short, straight, black hair, and light-coloured skin and that he always wore a white t-shirt with jeans. I broke out in a cold sweat and my mouth dried up. I said I didn’t know anything and bid him farewell.

I couldn’t believe it, several had seen the boy, but no one knew who he was. Maybe it was someone who came into the block and left without us having noticed or he jumped the fence and here he was, but for what or why? What I know for certain is that he did not live here.

Of all the neighbours, I was the one that was most bothered by this, because I wondered what would happen if I found him? What would I do, could I speak to him, at least? They had told me about their experiences, but what would my own experience look like? I was getting worked up about meeting him, because I was convinced that he was not real.

I didn’t know how to explain what was going on. One sleepless night, I sat in the old armchair in my room, just thinking. I didn’t know if I was asleep or awake. I left my apartment to go the bathroom and found him there, standing silently, with the same clothes as always, and the same expressionless face. I had finally seen (or dreamt about) him. He said nothing to me. He was as they had described; there was no doubt, it was him. I composed myself and entered the bathroom, but when I came out there was no one, as expected.

Time passed and I began to investigate who or what it was. All I knew was that this land on which the tenement block was built was once a milpa, a cultivated field used to plant various crops at once, and then it became the famous Albarrada estate. I asked the older neighbours, but they had nothing bad to say, and it was like that until I asked the landlord.

When we were alone, with great caution he told me about the great mystery, but even he could not make it fit with his beliefs. He asked me not to tell the other neighbours what he was about to reveal to me because he did not want anyone to be frightened. He finished with a sigh of nothing happens around here.

On one occasion, the landlord called an urgent meeting because a dimmer switch had been stolen. Of course, it was forbidden to steal things used by the whole community. That afternoon everyone came, including the widow. After listening to the main agenda of the meeting, I steeled myself to talk to her. In secret, I told her what had happened to my neighbours and without looking at me, she said, “Well, let's see where he is.” She went towards the laundry sink and the fig tree and I followed her. I asked some neighbours to accompany us. Upon arrival, the old lady pointed and with a shaky voice said, “There he is.” We all turned around but saw nothing. “Yes, there he is,” she continued saying, “He’s called Carlos. Many years ago, he died.” That was not the strangest thing; what my neighbours told me was worse…

Claudia said she had never told me to go and see if someone was hiding between the laundry sink and the fig tree. Someone else commented that the block’s drunk never existed. They said that no one saw the widow, and the one who rents the apartments to us said that she does not exist. Everyone told me that I was talking to myself, that I was in the middle of the courtyard babbling and pointing toward the fig tree and laundry sink and there was no one there either.

Iztapalapa, Mexico City

8 February 2009