It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the intercom rang at my apartment this Saturday on the eve of the prolonged holiday weekend to Tuesday. As I lie there comfortably in my splendid bed, I hesitated to answer.
After all, my colleagues are all traveling; my son visited last Sunday; friends always call before they show up and when my brothers come over, they do on evenings after work hours to be sure that they’ll find me at home.
I thought of that old man that I see from time to time with the same old litany as always, “here is an 83 year-old gentleman who has no home or relatives and is in need of your charity.”
I struggled to get up, put on my slippers, the only garb I use when I’m at home, and answered the intercom. Outside the building, I heard a gentle voice that, to my ears, had a sensual sound to it. “I’m an IBGE enumerator conducting a census.”
My imagination took flight. I remembered a beautiful intern of mine and who also conducts censuses and imagined her sweet little voice. I love that girl like she was my own daughter. Before opening the door, I splashed some water on my face, looked at myself in the mirror, sprayed cologne on my body, brushed the little hair I still have left on the sides of my bald head, put on a pair of well ironed shorts and a linen shirt. My imagination was still soaring at full speed, somehow making me believe that the unusual visit was going to resuscitate my libido. My mind at least was all libidinous at that moment.
I opened the door with a happy smile on my face.
Standing at the door was a frail and shriveled lady, very white, about 60 years old, struggling to speak and acting quite bewildered. Complaints ensued about the stench that she had to endure while waiting in front of the building, coming from the neighbors’ freshly painted gate on the opposite side of the street. I invited her to come in and have a seat and offered her a glass of water to minimize the toxicity of the paint. She thanked me and sat down directly beside the door. She then complained about how my living room was actually a heated furnace, and with a start, I opened the window to let in some soft and refreshing air.
In view of the jovial way I was treating her and the smile and mannerisms that complimented the arrangements of my clothing and appearance, I believe she must have imagined herself to be facing a dangerous conquistador of unwary young women. Involuntarily shifting back into where my imagination had carried me, I decided to keep up with the good manners and kindness.
The enumerator told me her name, which sounded like Inezita, didn’t ask mine and went ahead by asking how many bathrooms my home had. At first I actually thought that she as going to ask me if she could use my sanitary household component. A mental image of my bathroom flashed into my mind, and I breathed easy. It was squeaky clean and smelling pine sol which I used earlier as a disinfectant.
Prudently prepared, I had memorized the names of my thirty-three brothers, the year and month my father and mother died, the number of department dependencies, the total area of my home in square feet, average monthly electrical expenditure, how many computers, refrigerators, stoves, washing machines I have and anything else that might seem significant.
I wrote down the diseases that have been assailing me lately: hypothyroid, diabetes, hypertension, bipolar affective disorder (depression), diverticulitis, ear infections and more recently, labyrinthitis. I wrote down my long list of medicines: Lipitor, Giovan, Glibenclamide, Eutirox, Metiformina, Idapen, Citalopran, Carbolitium and Respidon. I recently vaccinated against H1N1 flu and no sign of sinusitis this year.
I mentally prepared myself to say how I’m still on active duty, working at a local authority office for almost fifteen years now; I have an older son; I am legally separated for almost twenty years now and still have not filed for divorce, in the hopes that my ex will someday want me back. I remained alert awaiting full on interrogation for a chance to retrieve my handwritten notebook in which I have made entries over the years as I recall information of statistical interest.
There was an extensive second question, whether the property was “owned or leased and if it was settled or if it is still being paid for. The third question was “how many people live in the household,” and when I replied that I live alone, she said that we could end the interview, but still asked me my first and surname and date of birth before getting up. He asked me to sign on the blank (sic) and hurried out, taking with her my imagination, my hopes, dreams and daydreams. Some confessable
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