The Mexico City Reader

“Who’s There?”

Many years ago, we lived in a four-apartment house on Avenida Chapultepec. The entrance was virtually impregnable. There were two identical cast-iron gates: the one on the right opened onto a little staircase leading down to the cellar and was labeled Concierge; the one on the left led to a little staircase going up to the front door. This door had a safety glass window, so during the daytime we occupants could make out quite clearly, without being seen, who was ringing the bell. At night, however, when there was more light inside than out, the reverse was true: before being identified, the visitor could see that someone was coming down the hall to open the door unless—this house was pretty well thought out—unless the occupant had taken care to surreptitiously slide the window open, lean out, and assess the bell-ringer by examining the top of his or her head. The initial hesitation between two identical gates, compounded by the prospect of ascending a staircase to reach a door with four buzzers, added up to a first-rate deterrent. It had to be a very hungry—or a very pushy—beggar who would dare to surmount all these obstacles just to 227 “Who’s There?” The Art of Opening and Closing the Door   ask for some spare change to buy a taco. Besides, in those days there were no foot-in-the-door salesmen and no polling teams. We lived in bliss. The hassles were of a different order. If someone, too plain lazy to climb the stairs, went down to the “concierge” to ask for me, that person was almost certainly told: “He’s not in,” “He moved away years ago,” or “I never heard the name.” Why? Because the super was convinced that anyone who came looking for someone was here to place a tax lien, make an arrest, or carry out some other evil deed. To my knowledge, these denials never caused me any great loss, except that of a typewriter. I’d applied for a loan to buy it, and one day the manager came to interview me; since I wasn’t home, he asked the super about my finances, who obligingly told him I hadn’t a cent to my name. That’s how things stood when a doctor opened his office in the downstairs apartment and put up two signs outside: one read Suchand -Such, Skin Diseases, and the other Such-and-Such, Medical Diathermy . From that day on, every drug company agent with a suitcase of samples invariably rang my bell, too stupid to notice that the two signs bore the same name and assuming there were two doctors, one upstairs and one down. But since the house was so well thought out, I could see them from halfway down the stairs during the day, or from the upstairs window at night, and I never opened the door. After that, I got lucky and moved to my present abode, which I own, but it does have the disadvantage of a front door that for some reason attracts beggars, maids looking for work, raspberry vendors, people inquiring after my vacuum cleaner, discount salesmen, pollsters, street musicians demanding “a contribution” after making a racket on the corner, and so on. What amazes me is not the abundance of visitors, but their way of getting to the point. For instance, someone buzzes. It’s two thirty in the afternoon. The door opens to reveal a man with a piece of stuffed chile hanging out of his mouth. Is this a way to start a conversation? But the caller is undeterred: “If you don’t mind, could you call your maid? I have some lovely dresses for sale.” Another day, the bell rings. I open the door and two youths clutching clipboards and pencils pipe up in unison: “Good afternoon, are you watching television?” “No, I am not. I am opening the door.” Another day, the bell rings. I open the door and there’s a young lady carrying two suitcases. “Good afternoon, sir. Could I ask you a few 228   questions about your cultural interests? We’d very much appreciate your opinion about a new program . . .” If I don’t slam the door she’ll try to sell me a recorded English-language course—at an outrageous price—and if I tell her I speak English already, she’ll...