The House Number Three
Israel woke up early every morning. Not that he had anything particularly important to do, but he preferred spending most of his day outside the house. Both his and his quarrelsome wife’s day went more smoothly when he wasn’t home. The elderly man usually headed to the nearby park after his coffee and buttered bread in the morning.
The others, his friends, stood around the pétanque court, waiting for Israel to arrive. Those whose backs could still handle it played the game, while the rest cheered from the benches. Later, everyone joined the domino tournament—there was no skipping that. Mornings were spent loudly, filled with shouting and arguments. Someone always thought they spotted cheating. The group then had lunch at a small restaurant across the street. By the afternoon, most of the group was usually tired. They’d chat over coffee for a while before slowly heading home.
Ludmilla didn’t mind that her husband spent his days with his friends. The fire between them had long gone out—if it ever burned at all. Back in the day, Ludmilla simply wanted to get married and live in the Canary Islands. She’d had enough of Germany, of winter coats, and warm boots. Israel had been flattered by the haughty, wealthy German woman who never questioned where he went or what he did with his friends.
Since moving to the new complex, Ludmilla had been entirely preoccupied with observing the residents of the other seven houses. She knew everything about everyone. No secret could escape her notice, like Heidi sneaking out to smoke by the pool at night or Ted, Ludmilla’s neighbor, picking on the four-year-old child of the Franco-American couple next door. She had figured out what the Dutch residents in house number six were hiding and found the man in house number eight rude for always ogling his young female neighbor’s breasts whenever he got the chance.
Ludmilla didn’t socialize with the others. Their babbling in all sorts of languages annoyed her. The elderly woman only spoke Spanish and German—and even then, only with certain people. The complex was home to owners and renters from all over the world. For some reason, they all seemed to believe they were one big family and that everyone had to get along with everyone else. Well, Ted certainly didn’t feel that way, but he was a jerk. The others, however, couldn’t stop chatting with one another, whether it was necessary or not. They constantly addressed anyone who passed by, attempting to communicate in English, Spanish, or some other language. What annoyed her the most were the young parents. They acted as if they could speak every language in the world and spilled out words indiscriminately. Could they just pick one, for heaven’s sake, and stick to it?
The residents in house number one were German. She might have been willing to talk to them occasionally, but she didn’t feel particularly compelled to. The man was always puttering around in the kitchen like a woman, while his wife was always rushing off somewhere. And don’t even get her started on their two awkward-looking teenagers. That girl ought to decide already whether she feels like a boy or a girl. And that ridiculous frizzy hair! On top of that, the cheeky brat had stuck her tongue out at Ludmilla one night while smoking because she’d noticed Ludmilla watching her. And she should chat with these people?
The only person Ludmilla held in any regard was the caretaker. At least he, lazy as he was, kept the complex in good shape. She might even have struck up a conversation with him about what needed to be done, but her housekeeper, Juannita, always beat her to it. That woman could read Ludmilla’s mind. Whenever she finally resolved to lecture Pablo a bit, Juannita would appear at his side. She would have loved to fire her, but finding another housekeeper would have been much more trouble than tolerating her meddling. Besides, Juannita had learned by now that she couldn’t just speak to Ludmilla. The elderly woman mostly communicated with her through nods.