The neighborhoods

The man climbed the stairs with difficulty. From what we knew, he even peed in the communal stairwell's mop bucket, which the cleaning staff hid in the basement under the first flight of steps. And he smoked, always carrying a cigarette butt in his mouth, and getting to the second floor—a third if you count the main floor—would take him a long time, snoring and snoring. People from Social Services would come to his house to clean it, or to help him cook, wash his clothes, or take a shower.

But it happened on more than one occasion that Social Services personnel went to his house and he didn't let them in, and they thought he had died inside. We, as neighbors, saw how the entire staircase was filled with firefighters, who ended up entering his house through the interior courtyard, expecting to find him dead in bed. I witnessed this scene at least twice; but the man wasn't in the apartment: he had gone to the bar and had forgotten his cell phone at home, and it was also the day Social Services personnel were coming to carry out the work. But waiting for news from the firefighters made me sad and nervous, and filled me with a dark expectation. The firefighters hadn't even fled before he was returning to his house, cigar in mouth, slightly drunk, and all the neighbors climbing the walls.

All this came to mind following the news circulating in many newspapers this week: a man died more than twelve years ago in his home, and so far he hasn't been missed, or rather, his apartment hasn't been destroyed due to a leak in the downstairs bedroom, caused by the rains of the last few days. They found the mummy, of course, buried under an already hardened layer of pigeon droppings, which had entered through the window; all this in Valencia. Mr. Famoso—curiously, it was his name—continued to pay the community fees because, since he was administratively alive, he was still collecting his pension; there was enough cash in the account to cover the bills. (Will the state claim that money from the heirs now? Yes, I have no doubt.) Famoso had two children, a policeman and a nurse; it seems they weren't the best of friends. Stories like these can fill us with sadness. We are alone, and love is fragile. Life is uncertain and cruel. Cities are full of strangers who will never miss us. As long as there's money in the account, a person will seem alive, because in the end, they are, above all, a consumer.

A lot of time has passed, so it's not easy, now, to know what kind of death that lonely person suffered: whether it was painful, peaceful, or even violent at the hands of another. We are nothing, often, and for no one. We have created such a cold and mechanical world where things like this can end up happening, something impossible in other, more clannish times. We no longer live in communities but in associations of lonely people, where each one goes their own way. Neighbors' stairs. Here we have failed again, as a tribe: no one should be alone, even if they want to be. And I know that for many elderly people who die, they don't even hold a funeral, the heirs, because in the end no one goes, or those who could go are already dead. We all rest in peace and solitude.