TE20 Migrant Mosaics

The Sad Guest

run shops and bars I was accustomed to fromour neighbourhood were lone islands between cafés, wine merchants and a Greek restaurant on the corner. House number 17 was on a quiet side street with a road that narrowed every fifty metres. At these narrow spots, miniature planted peninsulas edgedwithcobbles protruded into theasphalt between rows of parked cars. I rang the doorbell. The intercom remained mute for some time but then crackled into life, and a voice that sounded higher than on the telephone said my surname and first name. Once I’d confirmed, however, nothing happened. I hesitated for half a minute – who knew what was stopping her from pressing the button to release the door. But just as I decided to ring again and had raised my finger to the bell, the lock buzzed and the heavy entrance door gave way. Sorry about that, she said in the doorway on the second floor. I had to finish writing an urgent email. She opened the door fully and took a step back to let me into a hallway that creaked beneath my feet but made not a sound under hers. In the doorway of one of the adjacent rooms, she asked me to remove my shoes and take a pair of fabric slippers from the shelf next to the front door. Standing in that hallway, I inhaled and felt a surprising expanse of space. The flat smelled of something familiar. I thought it was the scent of old books, their paper manufactured and flicked through in times long past. Behind the architect was a walk-through roomwith a desk placed 35