I rang the doorbell. Zdenek came to the door.
       "Am I bothering you? I checked the bill and your call cost $43.25. If you want, I can return the $50 bill and you can pay me the equivalent in pesos."
       "Please, come in ..." he responded, ignoring my words once again. "Thank you, but I have a lot to do. In fact, I would like to ask you how to dial Prague. I want to call Abel and ..."
       He went down to the entryway and opened the door.
       "Come in."
       I accepted his invitation almost against my own will and went into his living room. I discovered that the walls were bare and, just like Mrs. Debeikis had predicted, there were balls of lint and dirt in the corners. There was nothing in the room except for all those boxes piled up everywhere, a jacket, and some airmail envelopes. There wasn't even a place to sit down. Such an unfriendly environment ... I felt obliged to smile.
       "Coffee or tea."
       I answered and Zdenek disappeared into the kitchen. I thought it was incredible that after five months he still had no furniture. I heard the rattling of dishes and the stove being lit. I went over to some boxes. The numbering on them was confusing. They were still closed with adhesive tape. I touched one.
       "Open it!" I turned around and Zdenek was leaning against the door sill.
       "Any one of them, it doesn't matter which," he added.
       He was playing with my curiosity. I got frightened. Should I obey him? And what if he's crazy? Something could happen over which I would have no control. I doubted my reasoning, but I thought: if I'm already in his house, it's probably better to see this through. I tore off the tape on No. 109, and opened it. Just as I had thought: there were packages of photographs, a book, articles of clothing, a pair of old sandals, an umbrella, a purse decorated with sea shells, and other things like the ones Zdenek had been using in his nocturnal performances. Looking into his penetrating eyes, I felt naked. The pot of water must have been boiling because he turned around and disappeared.
       "Are you an actor?" I yelled toward the kitchen.
       Another hearty laugh.
       Moments later the door to the kitchen opened. I saw him enter the room with two steaming ceramic cups, a pewter sugar bowl, and some napkins.
       "Do you mind if we sit on the floor?" he asked. "I don't have a sofa and every morning I get up telling myself to at least buy some folding chairs. I have one upstairs in the bedroom. If you would like ..."
       "This is fine, thanks."
       He poured me a cup of tea. Each one of us found a place to sit.
       "What's the purpose of so much old clothing?"
       "Old things speak to us, they attract and reject us. Besides, you have seen me sniffing these articles of clothing, losing myself in them. It's a memory technique."
       Once again, I was irked by his aloofness; thus, I decided to change the subject. "Should I give you the $6.75 change in Mexican pesos?"
       "However you want." He stared at the boxes. "I'm ill and Mexico has always represented the last frontier for me, it's a geography without a map. Perhaps I've come here to die ..." I was horrified. I told him not to talk like that, for he was still young. "I'm suffering from a curious, unexplainable, and incurable illness ... an unremitting illness."
       "What do you do?"
       "Right now? Recuperate lost memory, like Proust."
       "And in Prague?"
       "I was a professional in memory recovery, a mnemonist. Until 1968 ... Do you know what a mnemonist does? Have you ever heard of Ishihara of Japan, Irineo Funes of Uruguay, Vladimir Sharashevsky of Russia?"
       "No."
       "A mnemonist supports himself remembering, making his memory work for him."
       "Are you a Jew?" It was a stupid question and I corrected myself: "Jews have good memories. Abel has several Jewish colleagues in the orchestra."
       "I had a good memory. But amnesia has been eating away at it." Again he looked at the boxes. "They were full of photographs and memoranda."
       He stood up. He took a picture out of one of the boxes. He showed it to me. "Vaclavske Namesti, September 18, 1964. That's me. They paid me to participate in the Party's social gatherings. The guests gave me lists of 50 or 60 numbers. I would memorize them and then repeat them first in ascending and then in descending order.
       "Impossible." He took a pen from the lone jacket and looked for a piece of newspaper in a nearby closet. As he gave them to me, he spoke with unbefitting pride. "The most studied type of regressive lost memory," he said, "is the one in which the limbic system is most affected, including the temporal lobes. It's a delirious encephalopathy (it's called Wernicke's Disease) that is caused by a deficiency of thiamin or Vitamin B1. The doctors have a name for it: Korsakoff's Syndrome. The Russian neurologist Sergei Korsakoff was born in 1854 and died in the late 1800s. His diagnosis, in the case of alcohol abuse, was always correct."
       He looked straight at me. "This will be a free demonstration." He put the newspaper and the pen in front of me. "Write down 50 numbers. Each number can have up to four digits, let's say, 12, 1467, 255 ... Whatever you want. You can repeat numbers as well."
       I felt confused. I wrote down the following list of numbers:

754, 12, 548, 1003
7809,
989,
111,
54,
32,
2056,
908,
412,
101,
25,
9887,
139,
15,
873,
2003,
777,
5690,
89,
987,
101,
412,
5430,
28,
479,
5690,
909,
612,
98,
11,
7098,
887,
532,
82,
105,
7680,
431

       He asked me if I was ready. I said yes. He asked me to read them out loud at 3 second intervals. He also asked me not to pronounce any other words while I was reading the numbers, for he would remember them as well. I began. While I read, Zdenek leaned back and looked at the ceiling. He assumed the same horizontal position that he always took when he stretched out on the mattress in the master bedroom. When I had finished, he waited a few minutes and then looked at me. I'll repeat them in reverse order, he said. He did it without a single error and then he repeated them in the order that they were originally read: 754, 7809, 32, 101, 15, 5690 ...
       His feat left me dumbfounded, hypnotized. But when he got to 612, he stopped; it seemed as if he had become immersed in a cold sweat. He tried 857 and went on to 897. He closed his eyes again. he tried in vain to remember the number. His impatience became evident. He went on to the next numbers: 7680, 1003 ... but he erred in 777 and 98. Then he was finished. He was exhausted. He used to have a prodigious memory, he said, sighing. But I'm slowly losing it. It's Korsakoff's Syndrome, but an irregular type.
       I didn't know what to tell him, so I didn't say anything. "When I was a child, my mother Miriam was fascinated and proud of my vast memory. Before going to the market, she would sit me down in a chair in the kitchen. She would open the refrigerator door or the cupboards and name the things that were lacking. I would memorize them and at the market I would restate the list the way I had memorized it. She would purchase the items and when she believed she had everything she needed, she would ask me to repeat the list. My talent for memory is synthetic, it's based on photographic imagery. The numbers that you read to me were perceived as images in my mind, the same way I would see the items that my mother needed for the market.
       The tea was getting cold. I took a sip. I looked at him like a servant who looks at his master: captivated, possessed. He added that learning languages had been easy for him. He spoke Russian, Yiddish, Polish, English, French, Italian and, naturally, Czech and Spanish. He simply memorized dictionaries. His syntax, however, was clumsy. He had perfected it when he did translations and worked as a tourist guide. The Government gave him the position because no one else could remember the size of Czechoslovakia (49,370 square miles), the birth and death of the first presidents (Thomas Garrigue Masaryk and Eduard Benes), the date of the Munich Pact (1938), the ancient rivalries among Moravia, Bohemia and Slovaquia, the Second World War, the Occupation, the details of Maharal of Prague and his fantastic creature, the Golem, the total number of graves in the Hebrew cemetery, the architectural design of the Alterschule, etc.
       "I came because Mexico is the land of my maternal ancestors, it's true. It's the uterus. But also because its a Land of Promise and a Land of Oblivion. In Mexico history is cyclic: nothing ever vanishes; it's only eclipsed. Yesterday and tomorrow are one and the same and the present its eternal. This is a geography where the European and the American memories have clashed in an epic battled. I have followed what goes on here since I was very little and I feel I know the people. I am intimately related to this land." As he talked, he tore the adhesive tape from box No. 56 and removed a packet of pictures tied together with a yellow ribbon. He untied it and examined the images. He turned them over to look at some information written on the back. Then he closed his eyes and sighed. What were those photographs about? Why did he care for them so much? I thought of the many performances Zdenek had staged for me in the window. The content of the pictures was an inspiration. He had been acting for me in order to remember his past, to reenact his memories. I was his audience and he expected some sort of applause for the show. What was the real meaning of his stage acts?
       I suddenly felt I cared for him. Abel, his life, his music, were a part of my discontinued past. They lacked the feeling of passionate adventure. Our love was domestic, peaceful, routine. Zdenek, on the other hand... I restrained myself. My incipient disloyalty made me feel ashamed.
       I looked at my watch. One thirty-five in the morning. Tomorrow was Friday. My first class was at nine sharp. But some inner light, a hidden certainty, stimulated me to let Zdenek hug me, to lose myself in him. It might seem like nonsense, but I am at a loss to remember in any detail what happened after that moment. I've erased it from my mind, as if it never happened. But it did, there's no doubt about it. It happened, because, two, maybe three, hours later, I got up. I felt like I had been led astray, as if someone had erased from my mind any evidence that by just crossing the street . . . could I find No. 85, my own house? I had lost my will power. I was a puppet. Zdenek's epidermis, the warmth of his breath, were all over me. Inside me. I was dizzy and frightened. I saw my hand reach out and touch his cheek. I wanted to run away. His body and mine floated on an ocean of old clothes and yellowed photographs of strange people. We wallowed in memories.

* * *

       I was feverish. I hardly slept. I imagined that every minute the phone was going to ring. Abel would be calling and recognize the nervousness in my voice. Later on in the night, I returned in a taxi. I was afraid to cross the street with Zdenek. I had no idea what to do.
       I couldn't control my wandering mind. And what if Zdenek's story had been one big lie, a trick in order to hypnotize me, the magic of a madman? Undoubtedly, it was his story. He had captivated me. I felt . . . that I had been raped? I remembered Mrs. Debeikis. Why hadn't she asked the Czech for the rent money? It wasn't any concern of mine. I needed to relax. I was tired. I wanted to take a bath. I turned on the tap and the gushing water fascinated me. Thousands of millions of drops streamed past me. This would be the only moment that we would share with each other. I had a terrible headache. I went down to the kitchen and took an aspirin. I went back upstairs and got into the oceanic serenity of the bathtub.
       Unexpectedly, I heard the phone ring. I got frightened. Was it Abel? My heart was beating. And what if it was Zdenek? Impossible. He didn't have my number. I won't answer. Ignore it. My colleagues at school had noted my nervous behavior, and I shouldn't let Abel suspect anything. Maintain my composure. To discover my uneasiness could affect him and upset his musical concentration. The telephone stopped ringing and I waited. Mollified and drowsy, I was in reverie: the water was uterine and gentle. The silence was imponderable, supernatural, irrational. How much time . . . had passed? Half an hour? Less, perhaps. Now it was the doorbell. Someone was knocking. I became frightened again. A woman all alone in Mexico City . . . hardly the best situation. Who could it be? It had to be Zdenek. No, I'm not going to the door. I'm staying in the tub, motionless, in silence, for as long as it takes. What time could it be? It must have been close to ten thirty at night. It was late for someone to come to visit. The doorbell rang again, and again, and again. I waited a few more minutes. Whoever it was, they would have to give up. I was exhausted. I got out of the tub, put my robe on, and wrapped my hair in a towel.
       I laid down on the bed. Two hours later, I felt ponderous but more serene. I put on my pajamas and turned out the light.
       I was awakened by the deafening cry of an ambulance siren. I got the impression it was right in front of my house. I heard voices, people were talking. I saw a patrol car. Three policemen were talking while one reported the incidents on the car radio. I saw Zdenek. He watched everything from the other side with terrifying passivity. I looked for my slippers and robe. I passed by the mirror. I had gone to sleep with wet hair and it was uncombed. I looked like an ostrich. I dampened my hair in the sink and combed it.
       I went outside. Two ambulance attendants were preparing a stretcher in the ambulance. The door to Mrs. Debeikis' house was open and a policeman was hurrying inside. Perhaps it's a heart attack, someone murmured who saw me nearby. I couldn't believe it. Her brother-in-law had called 911, said his friend. I was astonished. Some attendants came out of No. 91 with a stretcher. Mrs. Debeikis was covered with a sheet. One of the young men, shouting that he needed something from the first-aid kit, carried the old cane in one of his hands.

* * *

       The wake was held at a funeral home on Churubusco Avenue. Her sister the florist, her husband, and her brother-in-law, who had helped her take care her properties, were there. Also, her daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter, who had grown considerably since the last time I had seen her, had flown in from Hartford, Connecticut.
       Death, its immanence, its leveling appetite, has always made me terribly afraid. To stand in front of Mrs. Debeikis' corpse was like falling into an abyss. I had just talked with her a few days ago and now . . . she was lifeless, absent of volition. Zdenek's mnemotechnic theories came to mind. Facing a loved one, he would have said, one's memory resists accepting that our mental movie of a certain person has to end.
       The wake was replete with a sad crowd. I offered my condolences. I felt loathsome, a secret accomplice to the death of the old lady. According to the police, Mrs. Debeikis had called her brother-in-law, who lives in Satelite, on the other side of the city. And, in turn, he had tried to call me. Could I have saved her? Perhaps. If I had hurried. Her brother-in-law had called other neighbors but no one answered. Abel is accustomed to saying that when it comes to emergencies, everyone is busy.
       I attended the funeral a few days later. People asked about Abel. I explained that he was on tour. We talk with each other from time to time, I added. I told them I missed him. It was a lie. I felt like I was talking about a stranger. I had changed. I was someone else. I was wearing a mask.
       "What's going to happen to No. 91?" I asked the old lady's brother-in-law at one point. He responded that he'd probably sell the property along with No. 58.
       The Czech still hadn't paid his rent and the lawyers will end up throwing him out. I inquired if he was inclined to sell No. 85. "I doubt it," he responded. "You people have been good renters . . . moreover, given that Nos. 91 and 58 are separated by only a wall, if they're sold together, they'll make a great piece of property for something else."
       As I walked along Taxqueña Avenue toward the bus stop after the funeral, I ran into the Copilco neighborhood watchman, the one who blows his whistle at three thirty in the morning like a soccer referee. He said he had been looking for me. It was that time of month to pay him. Without wincing one bit, he reminded me we hadn't given him a Christmas bonus like in previous years. I asked him to come around to the house later or another day. He wasn't friendly. Before leaving, he told me that the neighbor in No. 58, the foreigner, had been looking for me. Something about the telephone.

* * *

       The following week I went into seclusion. I felt bad, remorseful. I closed the windows and shut the curtains. I didn't want to know anything about the outside world. I read novels, listened to records, skimmed newspapers. I cooked only when I felt like eating. Abel called a couple of times, once from Moscow. I told him that Mrs. Debeikis had died. He was sorry. He said he would dedicate the next concert to her. Deep inside me I was pleased to have gone through all this without Abel. I enjoyed my solitude, but I knew that I had been hypocritical because an inner force, one against which I fought foolishly, propelled me toward Zdenek. I didn't allow myself to spy on him. I didn't even allow myself to talk to him. Every time I would go out, I devised ways to avoid being seen. Who had rang my doorbell that night? I thought that the mystery would be resolved if he would ring it again one of these days.
       He never did.
       One afternoon near the end of my seclusion, a dry, foul-smelling smoke filled the air as if someone in the neighborhood was burning plastic or garbage. Perhaps some vagrant had made a fire in the park, I said to myself. It happens when the street sweeper doesn't show up for work.
       My seclusion came to an end the second Sunday of March. I was tired of being isolated, so I decided to take a walk in Coyoacán Plaza. I couldn't continue to run away from Zdenek. As I was leaving for the market, I noticed that the door to No. 58 was open. Something had changed. The house was empty. A realtor was showing it to a potential buyer.
       An indescribable sensation overtook me; it was as if I had been made useless. Zdenek has left, I told myself. He's abandoned me. He left without saying good-bye. I remembered the night the movers were sitting on a bench smoking cigarettes while they waited to get paid. I remembered the scene, and a burning sensation, an immense feeling of rage, crept upwards from deep inside my stomach. I wanted to hit someone or something, destroy everything around me. I felt like vomiting. I went toward the door. What kind of buyers would be interested in this place? I heard the realtor say something about the mirrors in the master bedroom. They discussed the eventuality of a metro stop being constructed in Copilco, which would probably attract renters. I entered the house. I walked into the living room. Not a trace of the boxes. What had Zdenek done with his theater of memory? I went out into the garden and observed that the grass was covered with a thin layer of ashes. I went closer. The remains of the fire covered the area. In one corner there was a pile of burned remains: a lantern, a boot, a stethoscope, a piolet, an apron, etc. Impossible! Zdenek had burned the contents of the boxes! I remembered the penetrating smell of a couple of days ago. He had given up. And his book of memories? Would he finish it some day? It pained me to think that among the many millions of inhabitants of Mexico City, no one in this giant labyrinth was capable of making contact with this Czech. Once again, I remembered the similarity between Don Quixote and him. No one else will remember him, I thought. I smiled. He had chosen Mexico in order to erase the last traces of his memory. An excellent decision, I murmured. After all, this is the Olympus of Forgetfulness. Here, no one remembers anything. Everything is erased, nothing remains. With the thousands of daily abuses and atrocities, infinite, individual stories are devoured by an immense, monstrous, raging crater that is at the same time everyone and no one.
       I heard sounds. The realtor and the client had come down the stairs and were entering the living room.
       "I'm the neighbor from across the way," I said. "No. 85. I didn't know this house was up for sale. Well, I knew it was but I didn't think anyone would be interested in buying it. What I'm trying to say is . . ."
       "It was rented until recently," added the realtor.
       "Yes, I knew the Czech who rented it. A wise man but he was sick. The owner was Mrs. Debeikis. She lived . . ."
       ". . . in No. 91, the house next door," noted the client. "This gentleman is considering the possibility of acquiring both properties. Perhaps he will build . . ."
       I stopped listening because I wasn't interested. What kinds of new renters would invade Copilco? Will we have workers and builders in front? Abel's cherished tranquillity will be disturbed once again, not by rebellious, abusive young dental student but by jack hammers and saws. I remembered the times when the perfect housewife lived there before Zdenek. Perfect until she got divorced. What could have happened to her? My curiosity had been reduced to her life when she and her husband lived in No. 58. What happened to my neighbors once they had abandoned me? The Becerra family and their retarded child . . . what good was it to have known them? Was there any sort of mission in our encounter? Human history is replete with an annoying quantity of acts that serve no purpose whatsoever.
       I said good-bye, not without thinking that perhaps I should be the one to buy this house--an absurd idea, no doubt: whit what money? As I was walked out approaching the front door, I saw one lonely box. "A gift," I thought to myself. "Zdenek has left it for me." He wouldn't have left without . . . I became happy and, foolishly, opened it. It was empty, of course! I looked at it closely, saddened, trying to recreate a certain touch, a sigh.

Translated by Dick Gerdes

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