The Foreigner

Chapter 1

I cannot sleep. The sounds from the party in the next door penetrate trough the wall and they seem like go straight into my brain. I think that several years ago I wouldn't annoy me with these decibels, but now they irritate me. I guess I'm really getting old.

I've been living in this town for only two weeks. I'm a writer. I've done this my whole life. But lately I have not been able to write a bunch of lines that makes sense. So I came here to seek the peace I had lost in my old home. But I think the beginning is not very promising.

I take the pillow and with it I cover my ears. It's no use. The last thing I want is to have to knock on the neighbor's door and ask her to reduce the noise. But I know how young they are. Today may not seem like it, but once I was one of them. They certainly will not give a damn about my request and I will still become their night joke.

Anyway, I give up sleeping that night. For someone with light sleep as I, it will be impossible.

I do not know what happen to me, but I decide to peek at what happens next door. It's wrong, I know. I'm not voyeur or some kind of pervert. But despite this I get up from the bed and look for my powerful binoculars I use to observe birds. No, that's not a lie. I really watch birds. And that was the second reason that led me to move here. Cape May is one of the best places to observe these beautiful creatures across the United States. In addition, it has beach, which is my favorite place to relax taking a walk. And it's not far from either Philadelphia or New York City, places where I can go to when I miss the urban excitement I had in Chicago.

My binoculars are really great. Magnify vision ten times. I point them to one of the neighbor's windows. What I see is a typical teen party scene that we use to see in American Pie movies. Boys and girls drinking who-knows-what in colorful plastic cups, dancing, talking, kissing. Typical.

Let's see another window. Pretty much the same scene I saw in the previous window. I could give up looking and go back to bed, read something, try to write, a thousand things. But the temptation to watch the window where I'm sure is her room is stronger. Perhaps I could see something that inspires me to write, I try to rationalize myself.

I raise the binocular towards the second floor. I get excited about what I see. No, I'm not a voyeur, I think. But I will continue to look. The neighbor takes the boy's blouse and pushes him, probably to bed, I cannot see. She wears only black lace lingerie that contrasts with her very white skin. Her tattoos are visible. What will happen next is predictable. She will throw herself at him and have the torrid relations typical of her age. For me, that was the obvious, and it would be great. Since it was impossible to see anything, I would give up this rather bizarre and dangerous game of observer.

But suddenly, she turns her face to the window and looks straight at me. No, she does not see me, I'm sure. I am hidden in the darkness of my room. But somehow she saw me. Yes, she saw me and turned to face me at that distance, as if looking at me in an intimidating way. A few times in my life I have not known what to do like now.

Then she moves towards her window. What will she do? Is she going to yell at me? Scold me? To me, the indiscreet neighbor, the pervert? What will she call me? And how should I react? With some ragged excuse? Retracing with the annoyance that her party is causing me?

Of all this world of possibilities that my mind generates instantly, none of them materializes. She simply closes the curtains, still continuing to stare at my window.

I put the binoculars on the bedside table and sit on the bed. In the rest of the night my mind is occupied by the memory of what happened then and what I should do the next day. Pretend nothing happened? Since maybe nothing happened at all. Or try to apologize to her for what I did, say it was a terrible coincidence? Who knows, until I get close to her?

Calm down, I do not have neither sexual nor love interests in this girl. My daughter is older than her. And I know my place. But my profession is writing stories, and people are my raw material. With all modesty, I am a Michelangelo of words that takes the lives of others and tries to turn them into works of art. And this girl seems to be a beautiful raw material, without double meaning.

The memories of the day I first saw her stimulated me to write. I sit at my desk and open the notebook. I begin to create a story of what happened to me that day.

I had just moved here. I was in my porch drinking coffee and reading the newspaper when a shout broke out at her house. Suddenly, the front door opened and a disjointed boy emerged, finishing to dress his trousers. Soon things began to fly towards him, who was trying to dodge. The T-shirt, first, and finally the cell phone. One of the sneakers hit his head. She appeared at the door screaming, I think cursing him in another language, because I could not discern the words.

She turned to her left and looked at me, who was a little scared. Her face closed. He went inside and slammed the door. The boy, who seemed to try to explain himself, also in a language unknown to me, knocked on the door insistently. He gave up after a few minutes and grunted. Before getting into his truck, he also looked at me angrily. Then his car sprinted.

He must have done something very serious. And now they're both in her room. Holding on.

I woke up with the head on the right arm and this on the desk. The notebook is in standby mode. I do not remember how I have been out like a light here. And I do not know what time the party is over.

I get up and look out the window at the house next door. Nor does it appear to be the same place where that pandemonium had taken place the night before.

I take a shower to finish waking up. I walk downstairs and have my breakfast. I still think about the events of the night before and I do not know what I'm going to say to the neighbor. If I'll say something. I feel ridiculous just imagining what she must be thinking about me.

I open the front door and pick up the newspaper on the porch floor. Still with the coffee mug in hand, I sit to read it and observe the drive of the neighborhood.

I nod to the neighbor who lives on the left side of my house, who is trimming the grass from the garden:

-Good morning, Mr. Thompson!- He's a middle-aged man, a little older than me. Gray hair, flushed cheeks, cultivates prosaic habits along with his lovely wife. In short, a typical inhabitant of the American interior. He's a great neighbor.

In an instant I get frozen. Turning to my right is the neighbor, stretching herself on her porch. She wears a short jeans and a black tank top. She is a young woman with a very singular beauty. Her hair is light brown with blond tips. The big blue eyes catch as much attention as her fleshy red lips.

She walks down the steps from the porch. Impulsively I get up and decide to go and talk to her. Luck is on.

I approach her and stammer:

-Good Morning. I ... I ... I'm ... Your new neighbor. Uh ... from the side. -Those big eyes paying attention to me make me more nervous.

-Heidi! Je moeder aan de telefoon! A male voice shouts from inside the house.

- Would you excuse me for a minute?- She tells me and runs in, leaving me standing there on the steps, not knowing if I'll wait or run to my house.

I choose the second option.

Although it was quick and I was embarrassed, I enjoyed this first contact with her. It was juvenile. But, I liked it. What's happening to me?