Who’s waiting on the other side of the door? In this week’s Translation Tuesday offering, a darkly comic short story by Mexican author Guillermo Fadanelli, the anxiety of being seen overwhelms our narrator—even when there’s no one else around. It’s for that reason that the threshold, the thin barrier between inside and outside, becomes a sacred space, protecting his tranquil sanctum. From a safe distance, he surveys his surroundings with a mixture of fear and curiosity. But when a neighbor comes calling, he must cross that boundary and confront the bewildering, savage world outside. Translated from the Spanish by Helena Dunsmoor, this story examines what it costs to exist alongside others.
When some person comes to my house and knocks on the door with their knuckles, my heart suffers a strange tremor. Suddenly paralyzed, I can’t move at all or answer out loud that yes, I’m in here hearing your knocking. Then I start thinking about the possibility of opening the door to find out who’s on the other side waiting for a reply, at least. I’d love to own a dog whose bark would let intruders know that things aren’t so easy in here. But the gaze of dogs is unbearable, and it would be hard getting used to looking him in the eye every day. So many times in my life I’ve had to call something off just because a damned animal is watching me.
Yesterday, while I was writing a letter to the director of a charity, three blows—flat, dry, free of reverberations—slammed against my apartment door. I tensed up right away. My spine lost its usual curvature and my fingers curled like seashells. I always nurse the hope it will be a mistake. The individual standing just feet away, separated from my person by nothing more than a thin wall, looks up to confirm the error. The metal figure on the door is quite clearly the number 5. It could look like an S, but I truly doubt anyone would come into this building looking for an S. Things never go that way. Instead, further knocking ensues, irritable and unseemly. I’ve been tempted to answer with barks, but I’m no good at imitating animals. When I was a boy I could moo like a cow, bleat and even trumpet, but those days are gone.
Normally when I decide on something I’m in the dark as to any real reasons that got me there. I choose to open. In just three paces I’m at the door but won’t risk using the spyhole, convinced that if I peek through, the intruder will notice the gleam of my scrutinizing eye. I turn the handle abruptly and pull the wooden plank toward me: an unreasoned yet necessary decision for a man who needs stimuli to fling himself once and for all into the void. The truth is, when I open the door I expect the worst. The intruder wears a coarse smile that should not be taken as sincere for any reason. He has no special traits, he’s just a neighbor who’s volunteered to let us all know about community decisions. He is the president of all residents of this building, including me, of course. He informs me that during the most recent neighbors’ meeting, it was agreed that two trees right in front of the building will be cut down.
“What do you want to cut down two trees for?” I ask. I have no objection to the decisions of my neighbors, but if I hadn’t asked a question I think the tenants’ president would have taken offense. It’s best to show a little interest.
“They block the building’s facade. They’ve grown a lot and now they get in the way of the facade.”
“What do you want to see the facade for?” No longer feigning interest, I’m truly curious to know why these people want to see the front of the building.
“We want to paint the facade, but there’d be no point with those two trees there.”
“There’s nothing special about the facade. It’s ugly,” I say.
“Sure, but we mustn’t forget this is our children’s home.” It’s understandable that people think their children are also the children of others. But to me this is outrageous. I refuse to consider those kids I see every day in the stairwell or running around the courtyard as my children.
“We need your signature. After all, you live here too,” he says, without hiding his discomfort.
The young man has the look of a tortoise about him, sturdy as a wardrobe.
“I’ve signed so much. Why haven’t you learned to copy my signature? You’d save yourself having to come find me on the third floor,” I add.
“That’s a crime.”
“It’s also a crime to cut down trees.”
“That’s why we want every tenant’s signature. We’re applying for a municipal permit today.” His voice has become a little friendlier. Maybe he thinks I’m accusing him of doing something illegal. He is completely wrong. I’m not an argumentative man. If they needed my signature to hang my own mother, they could count on it. Even so, I ask another question.
“Will you use a saw for the trees?”
“No, not a saw. I have an axe that belonged to my father. It’s so sharp I could shave with it,” he says excitedly. Owning a weapon makes the world seem less inhospitable. I would have liked to brag a little too, but I have nothing to show. The memory of the axe has bolstered my neighbor’s confidence. “So, would you come with me to sign the sheet? The truth is I never thought I’d find you here at home.”
“Of course not. No, I won’t step foot beyond this door,” I say. The man opens his mouth but doesn’t say a word. He’s hoping my refusal to go with him is a joke. Since it’s not, he keeps talking.
“Sir, I’ve come up three floors to notify you. I’m not a bird. Climbing stairs is tiring,” he says in an energetic tone.
“Do what you want. Cut down trees, paint facades, or blow up the gas tanks. You have my authorization. Goodbye.”
This morning I woke up to new, impetuous banging on wood. I walk over to the window. From my third-floor apartment I learn it is the sound of two men chopping away at an increasingly wobbly tree trunk with their axes. I see my neighbor in shirtsleeves bringing his blade down on a resinous wound as he snorts raucously into the air. The other man’s axe is more modest, yet he shouts heatedly with each blow to the defenseless tree. I am afraid. I walk to my door with the sole intention of locking it. It’s not a conscious act. Nor is it premeditated when I try out several barks in the direction of the door to scare off possible intruders. Sometimes I surprise myself with irrational behavior. It must be that scorpions—I was born in the month of November—don’t do so well in February.
Translated from the Spanish by Helena Dunsmoor
Originally published as “Un escorpión en febrero” in © Compraré un rifle (I will buy a rifle; Anagrama, 2004)
Guillermo Fadanelli was born in Mexico City and has published over 30 books of fiction and non-fiction. He is the co-founder and director of Moho, an underground cultural magazine and publishing house. Fadanelli is a columnist for various newspapers and magazines, and regularly contributes stories and articles to anthologies and art catalogues. His work has been translated into seven languages. He was awarded the Premio Nacional de Literatura, the Colima Prize, and the Grijalbo Novel Prize. In 2019, Fadanelli received the Premio Mazatlán de Literatura.
Helena Dunsmoor teaches high school French and Spanish in Calgary, Alberta, and holds a PhD in Latin American Literature. Her daily experience with multiple languages continually deepens her understanding of how language shapes perception and thought. She has published literary translations of contemporary Mexican authors, including Guillermo Fadanelli and poet Minerva Margarita Villarreal, in Latin American Literature Today. Her academic work has appeared in Literatura Mexicana and Revista de la Universidad de México.
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