Abel made fun of me. "The neighbors have no intention of inviting you to witness their private worlds," he murmured. "Furthermore, to confine an individual experience to the stage is to suspend it in a vacuum, isolate it in a laboratory, convert it into an object of study, which does not happen in the real world. Theater commercializes life, converts it into a consumer product. Our neighbors don't act," he was saying with irritation, "they only live."
       I knew he was right. But, as when some defect or depravity eats away at our insides, I couldn't find a way to remedy it. And instead of dropping the issue, I would continue with stupid arguments. The universe is an immense theater, I would replay, and we, without ever desiring it, are simultaneously actors and spectators. "You have the mind of a novelist," he would conclude with resignation. I promised myself that I wouldn't open the curtains and spy on my fellow neighbors again, but I found it impossible. After getting home from school and whenever I had a little free time, I would find myself there, sitting in front of the window, like a meddler, obsessed with discovering other people's weakness. And the Czech, the mystery of whom we usually apply to extraterrestrial or foreigners coming from a remote, unknown land, was becoming my cup of tea, an entertaining pastime I was unable to avoid.

* * *

       The telephone rang: it was Abel calling from Budapest. I was pleased to hear his voice, asked him how he was, and if the initial recitals had been successful. He said he broke a violin string in the middle of Symphony No. 5 by Anton Dvorak. He was forced to stop playing and quickly replaced during intermission. As for the rest of the trip, the hotels and tourist attractions were splendid, but the weather was dreadful. Even if it was early November, it had snowed on four different occasions during three days. He added that a German friend of his had given him a novel, The Assignment o The Threat, I'm not sure which, written by a Swiss author, Durrenmatt or Jurguenmatt, aabout an assassination in the ruins of Al-Hakim in Egypt. The protagonist was a woman photographer that... I interrupted to tell him that long-distance calls should never be used to summarize plots of detective novels. We changed subjects. He had originally called to propose that we meet in Vienna during the third week of December. I would be able to join him for part of the concert tour and return home in time to begin the spring semester in early January. But I didn't feel like going and told him so. I preferred to wait in Mexico, periodically in touch with him. Disappointed, he tried to coax me into going. My excuse was that the school was going to hold some emergency teacher meetings I couldn't miss. Important matters, like future academic programs and scholarships were to be discussed. The meetings were around Christmas time--the dates still open. But Abel insisted: "I don't know if I can endure 35 weeks by myself," he explained. I set him at ease, telling him what he wanted to hear. "You must make sacrifices for your music. I will be celebrating your triumphs from here." We switched to another topic and before ending our conversation, I told him that one of the newspapers had published an article on the orchestra tour in the cultural section. The article included a picture of the orchestra director and another of him. He was pleased.
       We hung up. I was tired, it had been a trying day. Was the Czech still stretched out meditating on the mysteries of the universe? I was going to check to see if he was still there, but I became involved in something else. I was so tired that I felt dizzy. I also felt bad not only for declining Abel's persistent invitation to meet him in Europe, but also for having lied to him with the unlikely excuse about school meetings in December. How could I have come up with such a thing? Had he suspected something? Why did I do it? The only explanation, the only reason that comes to ... I was confused. In reality, his tour means a deserved vacation for me, I assured myself, a vacation for married couples. I had been missing him, it's true, but I was free, independent. And I have to admit that his tours have never been so prolonged; hence, in the beginning I felt like I had been deserted. But now I was inundated with happiness, and no responsibilities were pulling at me. I was enthralled with the solitude I had been experiencing those last few weeks. I did whatever I pleased. I would have breakfast alone. I read in bed with the lamp on as long as I wanted. The routine rhythms of Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, and Brahms, with their recycled scales that at times would pierce my eardrums, weren't spoiling my afternoons. I didn't have to pick up Abel after his practice sessions at the university or chat aimlessly with his friends at the Café Parnasso. And if I so desired, I could even commit the sin of opening the curtains and spying ...
       Forty minutes later, I slid underneath the covers and went to sleep.

* * *

       The following Tuesday I went out for a walk and to take care of some chores. I had to go to the paint shop, the tailor's, the shoe shop, and the bank. Then I took a taxi home. Waiting for the traffic light to turn at Copilco and University Avenues, I saw the Czech browsing at the magazine rack in the Salvador Allende Bookstore. He looked tired, as if he hadn't been able to go to sleep the night before. He looked unkempt: his clothes were wrinkled and his hair and beard uncombed. a fruit cart on the sidewalk blocked my vision (and his). He looked deeply absorbed in a text with illustrations. He seemed to be memorizing them and then rummaging over his errors of memorization.
       Memorization--that night I spied on him. At about 8:00 in the evening, he sat down at the typewriter. Then he got up and disappeared into the darkness. A mirror reflected his body from his waist up as he went down the stairs.
       Early the next morning, I saw him leave. Some time later I ran into Mrs. Debeikis. She told me she had seen him talking to the gardener and two policemen. She was sorry she had rented No. 58 to him. She sighed resignedly. "Now I'm going to have to deal with all those lawyers and accountants on Wall Street," the agency that had sent her brother-in-law the contract. "The foreigner's crazy!" she assured me. according to what she had heard, he had been in jail and in a psychiatric hospital. I couldn't believe it. The old lady had a tendency to gossip. He gave the impression of not being a hard worker; hence, it's possible that Mrs. Debeikis perceived him as lazy. I tried to calm her down.
       "A crazy person in Czechoslovakia is more sane than anyone else in the world," I told her. "In Communist countries, if someone embraced anti- government ideologies, the person would be considered demented." She wasn't satisfied and continued: "He's dirty. The house must be full of cockroaches and little balls of dirt and grime everywhere. While I was out getting some exercise this morning, I saw him practically sleepwalking as he went down Taxqueña Avenue. He was staring at the roofs of the houses. he was sweating. He made me sick!
       "Did he see you?"
       "No. Well, yes. He stared at my cane for a second, as if to examine it; then he continued on without recognizing me. I still haven't received a cent for the rent."
       I recommended that she be patient. Whatever the case, there hadn't yet been a better offer.

* * *

       The next time I had a conversation with my neighbor it was at noon on a humid, hazy November day. We ran into each other in the park. I was getting off the bus with a load of plastic bags. He saw me and walked toward me. "Hello. May I help?"
       Again, he seemed to be possessed by some strange interior force, an energy that consumed him little by little without mercy. I deeply felt that he was suffering from a perpetual pain in his soul. I handed him the bags and we walked together. I asked him if the telephone company had finally connected his phone. He said they hadn't, but now he didn't need it so much. He had found a telephone booth with folding doors at the Faculty of Dentistry about half a mile away. He wanted to write in the mornings and would arrive by 7:00 a.m., and it was convenient to call at that early hour because of the time difference in London and Prague.
       We talked about Mrs. Debeikis, who had given me her keys again and was off to the doctor with intolerable headache. The doctor was also located in the southern part of the city.
       "Coyocán is fascinating," he said before saying good-bye. "The plaza, the majestic colonial church, the restaurants... My grandmother had a home near Viveros. I've been told that the conquistadors had their estates in this area, isn't that right? In our park, there is a commemorative plaque near the fountain explaining that on their way to Tenochtitlán, Iberian horses grazed in Copilco. And I read that during the Vice Royalty the area was a vacation spot ...
       He marveled at the juxtaposition of historical periods, symbols, and the misery. He talked about how he has contemplated hours on end functional buildings of concrete and glass inspired by Le Corbussier and baroque churches whose exteriors are adorned with cherubim and mandrakes, as if the supreme architect, the designer of Mexico City, had deliberately played games with the intention of creating a rivalry. The past made him uneasy. He would stop people on the street and ask them questions, but very few had the answers.
       "What makes Mexico so astonishing," he continued, "is that despite its rich history and centuries of aging, Mexico is a country without memories. Humble people don't even have an idea who the heroes and the villains are. Sure, they know where a certain street is or how to get to some monument dedicated to a priest or an emperor; but, that's it," to which he added: "A perfect place to lose one's memory!"
       His ideas made sense. Mrs. Debeikis is wrong ... I said to myself. He's a strange bird, a hermit. But, is he crazy? I doubt it.
       He asked me what I taught at my school and if I was single. I told him that Abel was a professional musician. Then I seized the moment to introduce myself.
       "And I'm Zdenek ... Zdenek Stavchansky."
       The name of a pianist or composer, I thought. He took a laminated license out of his pocket to show me the spelling of his name. The accompanying picture must have been at least 10 years old. No beard, but he sported an affable grin that had disappeared with time. "This picture was taken in Bratislava on April 7, 1969." The precision of the date amazed me.
       We were at the entryway. I began to say good-bye and Zdenek asked if the telephone bill had come. "I have the feeling that $50 isn't going to be sufficient."
       I smiled. "Don't worry ... The bill will come soon enough."

* * *

       I went into the house and the first thing I did was check the mail. A card from Warsaw. I turned on the answering machine. No messages. I put on my robe and slippers, and I went to the kitchen to fix a snack. While I ate, I thought about our friendly conversation on the street. Suddenly, I remembered the numbered boxes and I was surprised that I hadn't seen any of them in the trash. What did they contain? Clothes? Zdenek was always wearing the same old pants and soiled shirt. Books? That must be it ... but, how many? Ever since the movers had come, I hadn't seen him read anything in his bedroom or at the park. At the first chance, I would ask him what they contained. I would never have guessed that almost a month would go by before the opportunity would present itself, nor would I know that by then their contents would have appeared right before my eyes. I was tired. I washed my face and before going to bed, I went to the window. As always, the first thing I saw was total darkness; however, this time a completely different banquet was waiting for me. Little by little, I began to perceive his silhouette in a horizontal position on the mattress. His outline hardly reflected in the mirrors. He was stretched out in a strange way, it seemed so uncommon that I imagined he was a giant mollusk with an unusual agglomeration of tentacles. He's in a ghost-like, Kafkaesque state, I told myself. The bizarre, bewildering part began when I saw him stand up. He left the bedroom and, after three or four minutes, he returned with something in his hands. It was a . . . What was it? Even in the dark, it seemed like a piece of cloth with a floral design on it. Yes, it was a dress. I remained motionless and attentive behind the curtains. Zdenek sniffed it, caressed it, and he nuzzled his face in it. Why was he acting that way? A few moments later he left again and then returned with another piece of clothing. A pair of pants. Then a scarf. A handkerchief. He examined them up close and from far away. He seemed to convert them into religious fetishes. He would lay down and then get up again. Minutes later, now somewhat more at ease, he sat down in front of the typewriter and began to bang on the keys. But Zdenek didn't rest for long; he grasped the dress once again, reached for the scarf, and then closed his eyes. At that very moment he swirled around and kneeled down. He looked toward No. 85. Was he aware that I was spying on him? I think so. He has discovered me, I thought. I quickly closed the curtains and hid behind them. My heart was beating. I waited two, maybe three minutes. I went back to the window but Zdenek was out of my vision: he had gone downstairs. I looked at the clock. I had been watching him less than fifteen minutes. I could have sworn that it had been much longer.

* * *

       I had a dream that night. A giant golden clock, surrounded by a dark cloud of ink, floated in the open space of my bedroom. Abel, wearing a long green tunic and a mask, appeared from behind a folding divider and he told me the clock belonged to Zdenek and I should return it to him immediately. I told him that I couldn't recognize him with the mask on. And if I couldn't see him, there was no reason to take him seriously. Mechanically, Abel repeated the directive. Doubtful, I decided that not to obey him would be an insult and I ran after the clock but I couldn't grasp it; each time I had it in my hands, it slipped through my fingers. I tried several times without any luck. My last attempt resulted in a fall into a swimming pool that opened up underneath the frame of the master bed. A policeman with a whistle was in the pool. When he saw me, he blew it hard.
       At that moment I woke up.

* * *

       An aunt of mine who lives in Guadalajara invited me to spend Christmas and New Year's with her. Although I wasn't up to traveling, I accepted. I bought a round trip ticket on the train. I notified Mrs. Debeikis that I would be gone for a week or so and I put a couple of novels, a magazine, and some letters that I should answer in my suitcase. I had a good time in Guadalajara, and from there I talked to Abel, who was in Luxembourg.
       While I was in Guadalajara, I was overtaken by a continual, ferocious appetite. My breakfasts were succulent and abundant. My aunt would fix lunches and dinners that in another era would have precipitated unbearable indigestion. Upon noticing how much I was eating, she asked if I was pregnant. Past unsuccessful attempts in my life made me say yes. My answer produced a pain that reached my intestines.
       I returned to Copilco in early January. I took a taxi from the train station to my front door. As the suitcases were being put on the sidewalk, Zdenek came outside to help me.
       "Welcome."
       He was very happy to see me and said that he had missed me. He looked even more emaciated, as if he had been on a rigorous diet or were sick with cancer. His appearance was ghost-like, atrocious. Dark black circles surrounded his eyes. As usual, he hadn't combed himself. His shirt was unbuttoned and his shoes were untied. If Mrs. Debeikis were to see him now, I said to myself, she would honestly believe that a crazy man in Czechoslovakia and another in Mexico look one and the same.
       "You look frail, Zdenek. Have you been eating properly? Has something happened to you?"
       "Yes, I have been feeling bad. My illness is slowly getting worse. It shouldn't affect me physically, but as you can see, that's what has happened to me over the past few days. There's nothing I can do."
       "What illness?"
       He smiled without replying. An intuition ran through me. And what if he's really crazy? Perhaps I was wrong, but I should be careful around him.
       He picked up my suitcases and carried them with the same sureness that one's permanent partner exhibits. I thanked him. I opened the door, went in, and saw that he was following behind.
       "Thank you very much. I'm very tired, Zdenek. . . We'll have an opportunity to talk another time."
       He apologized and left. I got the sensation he was behaving like a servant or a butler. How strange! It occurred to me that he was a convalescent who had come to Mexico City to die. From the window that night I saw him stretched out again. I decided that he wasn't meditating. No. Zdenek was concentrating on a precise, particular point in space; hence, I eliminated his possible Buddhist affiliation. Later that night, as on other nights, I discovered that he had perfected his nightly theatrical routine; his libretto was detailed and meticulous: first, he dressed up in miner's gear (boots, piolet, and lantern) and pretended to beat on someone; then he'd make a fire and be a Boy Scout with a Sir Baden Powell cap, ruffled shirt, and camping equipment. His performances included mimicking a cook (with apron) and, finally, imitating a male nurse (with gown and stethoscope) who saves a drowned person or a boxer. I guessed that the major part of his wardrobe and props came from the cardboard boxes. Between presentations, he would spend hours sniffing pieces of cloth or examining photographs that he would take out of other boxes. He would show peculiar expressions and act incomprehensibly. When he would mimic the chef, he would also argue with some stranger, mix some kind of liquid, or take a bite out of an apple. Each change of clothes represented a distinct change in Zdenek as he enacted diverse scenes in different contexts. And at the end of his routine, he would sit down at the typewriter and, although he didn't seem capable of producing more than a poor, unfortunate paragraph, he would make an effort to write a text, explain something, or narrate something imaginary.
       I confess that as the nights went by (and there weren't that many), I felt afraid. Mrs. Debeikis was right: he'd lost his marbles. Should someone call the police? How should I act when I'm around him? Was he aggressive? Dangerous? But there were other more immediate questions: What did he live on? Perhaps he would receive checks in the mail. What was he doing here in Mexico City? To lose one's memory, I remember he had said. Abel in Europe and me here alone ... the loneliness and the freedom I was enjoying turned sour.
       If he is crazy, I said to myself, he still has certain habits that are not typical of someone who has gone loony. According to the way he behaved, to imagine he was suffering from some abnormality was not very convincing. Our conversations were friendly and pleasant. Zdenek was inoffensive, sane, and sensible; perhaps his past included some unbearable tragedy or depraved romance. With so much mystery, I felt I had become an integral part of a detective adventure whose clock-like mechanisms were about to overtake me. The only thing I knew with any certainty, it's true, was that something profound yet unidentifiable attracted and exasperated me about my hermetic neighbor.
       It occurred to me suddenly that he must be an actor, a failed one at that. I remembered an old story by Juan Carlos Onetti, a Uruguayan writer, about a spurious businessmen who goes crazy a long ways from Buenos Aires and is hired by a rich, bourgeois female to present a happy dream she had experienced years earlier. Zdenek must have been an actor who was possessed by the costumes of his past, the roles he played, and the characters he represented on the stage. His part was to be theatrical; mine, to be his audience. Yes, he knew I would watch him. He performed for me. He amused himself with me. He knew I was there watching and he took advantage of the opportunity to show his talent. He was the puppeteer-the creator--and, simultaneously, his own puppets; he was the owner of a Guignol Theater inside of which I had become trapped. I got frightened, I became furious.

* * *

       Near the end of January or at the beginning of February, Mrs. Debeikis called to say she still had not received any rent money for No. 58. "What I would give to have more renters like you people!" she said. "The Czech is a charlatan." Since she wasn't on the best of terms with her brother-in-law, she hadn't had the opportunity to notify him of what had happened. She decided to wait a little longer.
       On an afternoon off from work, I took a walk. I sat down on a bench at the park. Shortly thereafter, I heard footsteps. Zdenek was practically on top of me. We greeted each other. He sat down next to me. "For some months now, I've been watching you spy on me," he said. No answer would have been equally disconcerting.
       "How embarrassing!" I responded, cheeks turning red. "A lack of discretion ... Really, I'm quite inhibited. But I sleep lightly ... Abel calls it 'susceptibility'." I had to lie to him. Any kind of noise wakes me up: snoring, a squeaking door, or dripping water ... I don't know what to do during those long hours of insomnia.
       "Some time back I was offended. I have grown accustomed to having you as a spectator."
       Zdenek had taken me by surprise. Better to assume a position of honesty and simply contend with it. "I spy on you very little... Moreover, you hardly ever turn on the lights." "Darkness is perfect for the memory because it's free of the upheavals of daytime madness."
       "What do you keep in those boxes?" I asked. "Clothes? Photographs? I've watched you take out things that look sentimental."
       "Exactly," he said. "Sentimental and memorable."
       "I apologize," I responded. "I shouldn't have stuck my nose into things. While Abel is away, I'm going to sleep downstairs. That way I won't be tempted to ..."
       Zdenek wasn't paying any attention to what I was saying. "Your husband, where is he now?"
       "Prague. He'll be on his way to Vienna in two days. Perhaps on Monday ..."
       "It's almost an unbelievable place: it belongs less to its millions of inhabitants than to the restrained Jew, Franz Kafka. And tell me, is this the first time he ...?"
       "No," I smiled. "His tours take him to Czechoslovakia every two years. Sometimes, even more frequently."
       "I lived north of Vaclavske Namesti. Quite far from the Hebrew cemetery. I'm from Karlovyvary, a tourist town located between Vienna and Prague that's famous for its sulfur hot springs, a place where in times past the noble class took medicinal baths and enjoyed themselves by relaxing."
       "What brought you to Mexico?"
       He laughed heartily. "I already told you: to lose my memory..."
       Given that he was perhaps dangerous, I didn't want to insist. "The telephone bill arrived several weeks ago."
       "How much did the call cost?"
       "I don't remember offhand, but I'll let you know."
       After that we about other trivial topics. Then we said good-bye.

* * *

       I prepared my class, turned on the TV, and tried to correct some exams. It was 8:30 in the evening. The temptation to go to the window swelled inside me. No, resign yourself. Abel. Shouldn't he have called today? And what if I try to get him in Prague? I opened the telephone book and looked for the country code. I flipped feverishly through the pages. No luck. My mind was on other things. I decided, then, to cross the street and ask Zdenek himself. It's a ridiculous excuse, I know, but the telephone bill would be a stratagem.

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