The Foreigner

Chapter 5

I ring her bell. I ring again. Nothing. I ring the third time. I give up. She must not be home.

As I walk down the first stair, I hear the door open. I turn and look. There she is. In her nightwear. The swollen face is just awake. Hair is messy too. But she stills beautiful.

-Hi. - The voice clearly shows that she is still sleepy

I turn around. - Hi! Good Morning! Uh ... Do you remember me? I'm your next door neighbor...

-Yes. What do you want? - She shakes her head impatiently for my delay in getting to the point.

-Well, I received these correspondences and I think they are yours. - I hold out the letters to her. - The postman must have been mistaken. I don't know how much here, but where I came from it was terribly common...

-OK. Thanks. - She reaches out and takes those papers from me a little abruptly. And she closes the door.

-You're welcome. - I answer the door. I turn and in slow steps return to my house.

&&&

Here I am again trying to write. The paralysis that I see myself in this moment is interrupted when I start humming the song that is in my head:

-I'm your pain / when you can't feel, / Sad but true...

It's the chorus of the song that was playing at the last party she had given. I remember the parties she gave. The excitement, the loud sound, seeing her there. It is not possible that I am feeling this. Am I really going crazy?

I try to ignore these thoughts and focus on what I'm doing. I cannot.

At night it seems that my involuntary wish comes true. Again there is movement in the next house. Loud sound, young people, disturbance. Everything is there again. And this time I feel satisfied. It's as if my source of inspiration is back. I don't understand, but I like it.

I go upstairs and peer out the window. I take the binoculars and stare.

I lie down smiling. Amazingly, I'm enjoying the loud sound. Knowing she's there and well reassures me. It's a good night sleep for me.

The next morning I follow the routine I developed here in Cape May: hot coffee on the porch, newspaper and the expectation of seeing Heidi.

I will look at the mailbox. This time, I check the recipients of the mail before taking it home. And again there are letters addressed to her.

Indoors, sipping some more coffee, I carefully separate the papers with her name from mine. I drive resolutely to her house. This time I won't play the clown, I think.

I ring the bell.

-Good morning- I say dryly.

-Good morning- she replies. This time she is different, radiant. Maybe because she's wide awake. Or maybe she's happy for some reason. Already has changed the nightwear for her usual: shorts and black tank top.

-Sorry to bother you, but again the postman made a mistake and put his mail in my box. Here it is.

-Thank you. -She reaches out and takes them.

-Have a nice day. -I turn to leave, and as I start down the porch steps I hear her voice.

-Mr. Whitman! - I turn in surprise.

-Yes? Any problem?

-Actually yes. I think I owe you an apology for the way I have treated you.

I get dumb. Honestly, I don't know what to say. I didn't expect that from her. I stand waiting for what she will say next.

-You seem to be a nice guy, and the only time we have had contact I think I was a little rude.

-Uh ...- I babble- I think I also have to apologize to you- is the only thing that comes to mind at the moment. -I was a little impolite to you too.

-Do you want to come in for a while? - Again she catches me by surprise.

-Oh ... - and again I babble- I don't know ... Your boyfriend may not like...

-Nope. It's all right. Come in. -She opens the door wider. And I come in.

Good housekeeping and silence would keep me from recognizing the house. It doesn't look like the place where those drunken youth parties were held.

She throws the mail on the coffee table and sits on the couch.

-You can sit, Mr. Whitman. - She points to the armchair in front of the couch. I sit there and watch her as she checks quickly the mail.

After, she heads to the kitchen counter.

-Do you want something? Coffee?

Impulsively I follow her and accept the offer, intrigued to see this other side of her, apparently sweet and affable.

-What's up? What do you do? -She asks looking at me as I drink coffee.

-I'm a writer.

-And what kind of stories do you write? -Her gaze straight into my eyes makes me seem to know the answers to her own questions. And that starts to get me intimidated.

-Romances, short stories, poetry.

-Wait! So you are the writer Albert Whitman?

-Yes I am.

-So I live next to a famous?

-It's a little. Do you like to read?

The noise of the telephone keeps her from answering me.

-One second. -She goes to the phone to answer it. What she says on the phone is incomprehensible to me. It's very fast and in a language I don't know. It sounds like Dutch or maybe German.

The conversation goes on. I feel left over. I leave the cup on the counter and wave to her that I'm leaving. She waves back at me and continues on the phone.