The Visitors

When I first moved into this apartment in Wiesbaden I had a rather odd experience. My flat is in an old building, which was divided up over the years, and hence the plasterboard in my living room, covering what was once an archway, and a jerrybuilt wall dividing my doorway from my neighbor’s. The result every time my neighbor enters her apartment is an uncanny feeling of invasion, which no visitor to my place escapes without a heart-stopping jolt. I quickly became accustomed to the crank and twist of the lock next door, the swinging open of the door and the footsteps; and during this noisy interference I could sip my coffee without making a ripple.

I should digress here a bit. About a year earlier, when I was living in Vancouver, I had rented a room with a friend from university. It was a living arrangement unique to Canada: I moved in, lived in a big wooden house with a view of snow-capped mountains, made myself at home, and eventually left without ever having had a key, because there was no key to the house—it was never locked! For an American coming from a city where windows are barred and homes have security system ads staked into the lawns, it took a while to get used to the relaxation of living in such an environment. But I adjusted, and by the time I reached Germany I believed the world was safe and kept the habit of leaving my door unlocked. 

Another habit I picked up in Canada was sleeping in the nude. I have no rational explanation for this; you may imagine the urge stemmed from a desire to feel the titillation of plushy sheets against my body, or a latent need to expose myself, but I suspect laziness played no less a role in it—laziness, and on this particular evening, exhaustion, because I have no recollection of turning out the lights and both windows in my bedroom were left open. It was one of those sultry summer nights when no more than a sheet sufficed, not so much for warmth, rather to provide a feeling of protection; but no sooner had I tumbled over the precipice of slumber than I was startled back into consciousness by the familiar crank and twist of the front door.

“Funny,” I thought to myself, still half asleep, “tonight, it really sounds like my neighbor is coming in.” The door was opened, footsteps could be heard and what sounded like scratching on the wall. “By gosh, it really does sound like she’s just outside my bedroom door,” I thought again, as the front door was shut and more shuffling could be heard. I no longer recall at what point it dawned on me that these noises in my foyer were too clear to be dismissed as normal. (It was like the time I was in my apartment in Berkeley in 1989 during the earthquake that damaged the Bay Bridge—there was a moment when my subconscious alarmed that this rumbling underfoot was lasting longer than I had ever felt, and, regardless of the fact that I was standing in my room at five p.m. in my underwear, it was time to get the hell out of there. I will never forget meeting my neighbor in the hallway—also in his underwear!)

All this transpired without the slightest presentiment of danger. I sat up in my bed, letting the sheet fall, and then ever so gently crept over to my bedroom door, trying to peek through the opening. There was someone in my apartment! I speedily tiptoed to my wardrobe, put on some shorts, and shot back to my vantage point. It was a woman, leaning awkwardly against the wall, her head hanging down like deadweight, grasping her dirty, white jeans. Before I had a chance to pull a T-shirt over my head, she grabbed the button of her pants and ripped them open. Then she took off her pants, letting them drop to the floor to reveal that she had no underwear.

I realize this is hard to believe, but it’s true. I also realize that certain readers will ascertain that I had found myself involuntarily thrust into an attractive situation. This was not true. Our lady in question did not inspire the feelings one might imagine: she looked as if she had been through the mill at least ten years prior to stumbling into my flat. Her hair was stringy and wet, her body worn and abused, and she stank; she stank like a sewer, ashtray and wet skunk rolled into one. Her white jeans were stained in a most distasteful manner, and as she turned her back to me and staggered into my living room, teetering and swerving with outstretched arms like a blind man searching for bearings, I feared she would at any moment release all the sickness clogged up inside her.

For reasons unknown, she thought she was at home, and it took no small expenditure of effort on my part to get her off my couch and back into her pants where she belonged. I should hasten to add that at this point in time my German skills were far from good and the conversation didn’t win any toastmaster prizes: “Please go,” I begged. “Max?” “No, I’m not Max. Please go.” I entertained the thought that she had occupied my flat years earlier, perhaps with a man named Max, and the alcohol had precipitated a flashback. Against my will I found myself in the role of “Max,” buttoning up her jeans, fixing her blouse, and pushing her out my front door where she collapsed onto the floor, her head propped against the wall and her torso curled up like a cat waiting to be let back in.

The following morning my visitor was gone. In the hallway I bumped into my neighbor (the one I thought was entering my apartment) and asked if she had heard the ruckus. She had. As a matter of fact, our visitor attempted the same thing in her flat—only her door was locked. By now the situation was beginning to look humorous, and I didn’t hesitate to include all the sordid details, as well as adding a few embellishments, which got wide eyes and a guffaw from my neighbor. I told her of my flashback theory and the mysterious Max to which she could only roll her eyes. Later that day I saw another neighbor downstairs and I learned that our visitor had called on him, too, although he was clever enough to ignore the drunkard. I told my story and got a few more laughs.

As I said, all this transpired without the slightest presentiment of danger. So imagine the surprise when a week later a knock came on my door—not a buzz from the street below, but a knock directly on my apartment door. I quickly threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, and went to see what was happening. I opened the door. Four police officers were standing there. One of them asked me if I had had any problems with a woman (he spoke some English and thus we were able to communicate—as I said, at the time I was still in “Deutsch 1a”, and the intimidating stare of these men didn’t help me to lighten up and try out my new language skills).

I told him: “No. There had been a woman trying to get into my apartment, but there was no trouble. She wasn’t violent or even unfriendly—just drunk.” I forget exactly what was said, but later, after the police had left and I was walking back to the kitchen, something struck me as odd: before he closed his black leather notepad and signaled for the others to leave, he told me to keep my door locked from now on. The request seemed a bit alarmist considering the pleasantness of this town and the benign nature of my unexpected visit, but I guess that is what people mean by correctness.

“Keep my door locked from now on…” Suddenly it struck me. How did he know I had left my door unlocked? I summoned all my wits to bring back that conversation in my mind. Why didn’t the cops visit my neighbors? Come to think of it, I didn’t have the impression they were there to inquire about what had happened; they were there to warn me, which led me to the conclusion that someone in my building disapproved of what went on in my apartment and—and this is the disturbing part—made his or her complaint not to me, but to the police!

On this day, my first real day in Germany, I no longer saw that cuckoo clock, garden-land that charms so many tourists. Henceforth, a tinge of paranoia crept into my life, and Canada slipped away forever.