Tzigane

I live in the Old Town. Everything is old over here. The streets, the smell, people, buildings. Those crumbling buildings are the worst of it. Still, our city draws tourists in droves. While most head for the polished centre, our shabby district receives its own peculiar share of attention, thanks to its gloriously marginal architecture. That’s what we are known for. Travel brochures describe the Old Town as an authentic gem in the heart of a vibrant modern city, celebrated for its historic buildings and fierce devotion to tradition. If only they knew the truth.

Once a year, the authorities restore our façades to preserve the illusion. The so-called restoration consists of little more than slapping a fresh coat of paint over the old.

If not for these decaying ruins, life here would almost be bearable. Every day we breathe air heavy with the spores of black mould lurking behind cupboards and family portraits. Chronic exhaustion clings to us all. The walls are so thin and tremulous that every sound from the street, every footstep above or below, every sigh of the exhausted building reaches us clearly.

Yet for all its intrusiveness, the house has never managed to divide us. Quite the opposite. It has forged a bond between us. We stand united against its creaking floorboards, broken windows, leaking pipes, and peeling paint. We are the dream team of communal living. None of us has the strength or the heart for petty accusations. The building has infected us all with its weary atmosphere, draining our life force drop by drop. Even I, perhaps the strongest and healthiest resident here, feel it pulling at me.

Let me introduce you to my neighbours. We live in a five-storey building erected in 1897. It is considered exceptional in the district because it still has a lift and electricity. The lift, however, is purely decorative. I doubt it has worked since the turn of the last century. Despite this distinction, several apartments remain unoccupied.

On the first-floor lives Signora Salerno, our delightful Italian janitor and unofficial alarm system. Her office window in the lobby overlooks both the lift and the stairwell, so no one enters or leaves unnoticed. Herr Anders once told me that thirty-five years ago Signora Salerno was the fiercest femme fatale in the neighbourhood. To be honest, she still turns heads. My pulse quickens whenever she knocks on my door bearing plates of her excellent homemade Italian food. She looks after me. Everyone in this little house of horrors does, in one way or another. I’m the youngest resident, and according to Signora Salerno, far too skinny. She is forever trying to fatten me up and set me up with one of the many Italian girls she knows. I have hinted a few times that I prefer her and don’t care about the age difference, but she simply plays the charmingly clueless foreigner and changes the subject.

On the second-floor lives Mr Astley. A good, decent hypochondriac who lives alone. Whenever I come home from work, he opens his door to greet me. We chat about his health, my health, and Signora Salerno’s impressive cleavage. According to Herr Anders, the two of them had a brief but memorable fling ten years ago.

Every Sunday we gather at Mr Astley’s for coffee and cards. He loves to speak about his brothers, sisters, and their children, describing their lives as though he sees them regularly. None of us has ever met any of them. His former students, however, visit him often. He taught English for decades. He is particularly fond of my accent and often asks me to read aloud to him — books, newspapers, anything. I don’t mind. I enjoy it. I continue reading until he drifts off, then slip out on tiptoe, locking the door behind me and sliding the key underneath.

On the third floor live the Claudie twins. They share the same haircut and wear matching outfits, but they aren’t the usual sort of twins. They never finish each other’s sentences. Instead, they create mischief separately, yet always in perfect coordination, as if two arms guided by one mischievous brain. Herr Anders once confided, rather dramatically, that the sisters were suspected of espionage in their youth. Their identical appearance, he claimed, was a deliberate weapon to confuse the enemy.

The twins frequently “break” things in their flat and summon me to repair them. Just as I’m about to leave, something else mysteriously fails or my keys disappear, ensuring I stay for tea and conversation. Despite their harmless little schemes, I’m very fond of those sharp-witted ladies.

Herr Anders, his lovely wife, and I share the fourth floor, our doors facing each other. Every morning, we step out at the same time on our way to work. He runs an antique shop and serves as the building’s information desk. He knows everything about everyone. We often have lunch together in the Old Town, where I’m treated to the juiciest local gossip. Herr Anders is endlessly curious and talks a great deal, but never with malice. His social skills and prodigious memory have resolved countless disputes. If not for him, someone in this house would surely have died or taken their own life by now. He has persuaded the authorities to address the building’s many failings — something almost unheard of in the Old Town.

When Signora Salerno’s water tank produced scalding water for nearly a year, it was Herr Anders who forced the company to replace it at their own expense after the tank finally exploded. A few years ago, when Mr Astley was bitten by rats and lay delirious in his bed, it was again Herr Anders who organised a full building inspection and extermination, all at the city’s cost.

Then there was the hole between the Claudies’ ceiling and the Anders’ floor. Frau Anders discovered it while moving furniture. Herr Anders later admitted, with a sheepish grin, that he had been in no rush to repair it — he had quite enjoyed the unexpected view. His wife, fortunately, insisted on proper restoration. Again, at the city’s expense.

I live alone on the top floor. There is little remarkable about my life, though I suspect Herr Anders has gathered plenty of observations about me. You should ask him. As for my apartment, it has its own personality.

One night I woke to rain falling directly onto my bed. Big, heavy drops struck my forehead every few seconds. Until then I had been spared the worst of the building’s torments. I had grown used to the cold draughts, the failing heating, and the nocturnal groans. But a leaking ceiling felt different — shameful, final, the very embodiment of the marginality I had tried so hard to escape. I have the means to leave. I could buy a decent house elsewhere. Yet I can’t bring myself to go. I have grown attached to these people. I don’t know how long I will stay, but I intend to remain by their side until the mould claims us all.

Signora Salerno and I climbed to the empty fifth-floor apartment the next morning. It had become a refuge for pigeons. Heavy winter snow had collapsed part of the kitchen roof, leaving a jagged breach. The snow had melted and found its way down to my bedroom. Herr Anders, of course, sorted it out. My ceiling no longer leaks, though the roof is still under repair. With luck, it will be finished before I turn forty.