Castle
I
I am going to tell you about the most interesting person I have ever met. At the end of 2004 I rented a small apartment on Avenida Chapultepec, almost level with Sonora, in a narrow six-story building with two apartments per floor. Like the rest, mine was infinitesimal: a shoebox with a tiny living-dining area, a toy kitchen, and a room where the old single mattress I bought from a friend for three hundred and fifty pesos barely left space to reach the bathroom. Its luxury was a small balcony over the avenue with an enviable view of Chapultepec Castle. I arranged everything with doña Teresita, a petite woman of about sixty who helped the owner show apartments, rent them, and handle administration. She herself rented on the first floor. “I moved down there after ’85; I no longer wanted to live high up,” she said. Mine was on the sixth. Across from it lived the owner, so I had better make little noise; parties were forbidden because the building housed almost only older people and families.
Don Alberto first appeared when he knocked to introduce himself: a thin little old man, shorter than me, with hearing aids in both ears and enormous bottle-bottom glasses that made him look like a cartoon. An accent sometimes emerged which, together with his ruddy face and blue eyes, immediately revealed a foreigner. His formality distinguished his every manner. He always wore one of many three-piece suits, a fedora or beret from an ample collection, a cane more stylish accessory than support, and impeccably polished black or brown shoes. Nobody ever saw him untidy. His elegant clothes, eloquent speech, cordial tone, and respect demanded respect in return, whether he addressed an eminent academic or a girl selling marzipan on the corner. His gentlemanly habits could seem gallant, although he only meant kindness: removing his hat for women, rising when one left the table, opening doors, walking on the traffic side of the pavement —“especially with a girl, Jorgito, otherwise it looks as if you’re giving her away”— yielding the way, greeting passersby, saying please and thank you, carrying grocery bags for women half his age, and offering any woman or child his seat. Don Alberto was a walking jewel, the embodiment of the bravery, elegance, integrity, and extreme chivalry of Golden Age film heroes. I did not know all that when he introduced himself, but sensed it within minutes. He said that, first as owner and landlord and second, no less importantly, as neighbor and friend, he was at my service: neighbors must know and help one another or this dissolute city would swallow everyone whole. He addressed me formally until one day asking, “Jorgito, would it be too familiar if I used tú? I feel we have begun to be friends.”
He was born in 1933, “a son of the Maximato,” as he put it. He considered speaking too much about himself impolite, but from facts scattered through our conversations and a few direct questions I assembled his life. Curiously, this “son of the Maximato” had not been born in Mexico, nor was Alberto his name. He was Albrecht von Österreich, born in Vienna. I learned least about his family’s ordeals in the Second World War, the subject I most wanted to hear, perhaps morbidly. When war began, the large family split: his branch ended in Spain, another came to Mexico, and some relatives he never mentioned, I suspect, were Nazis. At thirty-two, Albrecht traveled to Mexico with his wife Anna and informally became Alberto, “easier for Mexicans.” He joked that Anna’s change was easier because she only had to remove one n. An uncle who had emigrated during the war asked him to help run a prosperous shoe company now that age made the work difficult. The promise of better finances and an exotic, beautiful country convinced the couple. The moment he set foot in Ciudad de México he fell in love: “Anna, you will always be my wife and I love you, but this city will always be my mistress.”
Don Alberto was more Mexican than most Mexicans. He adored folk art and folklore in every form and knew each region’s crafts, cuisine, costumes, dances, celebrations, and customs. Mexico was paradise and the best place on earth. “Mexico lacks nothing Europe has, Jorgito. Why insist on going there when you still don’t know this place? Know Mexico well first and Europe will disappoint you.” Behind his huge lenses I glimpsed bitterness, perhaps memories of wartime horrors whose proximity he never revealed. After years managing the uncle’s business, he inherited it, only to face reversals. It failed because, he said, they did not adapt quickly enough to changing fashion and because he negotiated poorly with debtors and suppliers. He and Anna then tried a stationery shop, a grocery, and a downtown shoe-and-belt store supplied by a colleague in León. Just as they regained stability, Anna developed cancer and died in 1983 after two terrible years. His only consolation was that Anita did not see the city fall in the 1985 earthquake; she loved it and was too sensitive to bear the tragedy, “a soul of God” whom he wished I could have met.
I knew her through many old portraits: always serious, elegantly beautiful and solemn like a princess or queen, with a slightly round face, slender body, abundant chestnut hair, and white skin. She must have drawn every eye. Don Alberto recalled the jealous looks men gave him at theaters, cinemas, and concerts and marveled that such a beauty had submitted to his ugliness for thirty years. His voice broke as he added —forgive the vulgarity, Jorgito, gentlemen do not discuss it— that his wife had endless legs. His watery eyes disappeared into memory, and the sadness was unbearable. I learned to change the subject by asking about the past: cars, shops, or streets altered when the ejes viales were built. In short, caring for his sick wife caused him to neglect his businesses until they closed. He never detailed what followed, but I understood that with the money left he bought our building and lived from its rents.
II
Watching the castle from his balcony seemed don Alberto’s greatest pleasure; I imagined he had bought that building precisely to keep the forest and castle in view. Perhaps his obsession with it was simply part of his larger passion for history. The first time he invited me for coffee, entering his apartment felt like entering an old bookshop on Donceles. Two walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves packed full, but books also covered tables, chair arms, floor corners, even the kitchen. The rich smell of old paper filled the gloomy museum-like space. Magnifying glasses lay here and there among portraits of doña Anna on book piles, old photographs, small pre-Hispanic pieces I assumed were genuine, traditional masks, clay and wooden figures, postcards, artifacts from other eras, and still more books.
He liked coffee on a stool on the narrow balcony, the castle behind the multicolored sunset. “There was a time people pointed and said, ‘The president lives there, but the man in charge lives opposite,’” he told me. Seeing my blank face, he explained Plutarco Elías Calles lived in Anzures. Historical facts and anecdotes erupted like that. Given my ignorance then, I sometimes could not tell whether he had witnessed something or read it in his countless history books. History was his obsession, passion, and delight. He described battles, wars, and revolutions as if present among swords, cannon, and gunfire, knowing every person, place, and even the terrain. I listened for hours over balcony coffee, gazing toward the castle. He would rise to show maps, portraits, or photographs: four huge Casasola volumes with innumerable images of the Mexican Revolution; first editions of Daniel Cosío Villegas’s ten-volume “Historia moderna de México”; and an entire first-edition shelf including a signed “El Laberinto de la Soledad” by Octavio Paz. He remembered exactly when, where, and how he acquired each book, from ordinary shops, fairs, and old-book dealers. Acquiring and preserving knowledge seemed the motor keeping him active and lucid.
Most days followed the same routine; I accompanied him more than once. He walked early to Chapultepec Castle and sometimes climbed. “They know me, so they don’t charge me”; he would slowly take the great ramp, though sometimes staff pitied him and drove him in a cart. On our first visit he contemplated an enormous portrait of Maximilian of Habsburg for a long time. “Like looking in a mirror, isn’t it?” a guard joked, adding that the frequent visitor resembled the portrait. I had not noticed, but younger and with a golden beard don Alberto could indeed have passed for Maximilian —Austrian genetics, I thought— and perhaps regarded him as an ancestor or compatriot who had also come to Mexico. Then a portrait of Maximilian’s wife, Charlotte of Belgium, froze me: her face was the living image of doña Anna. Alberto and Anna seemed exact replicas of Maximilian and Charlotte. Was that why he felt nostalgia for the portrait, castle, and Second Empire, his favorite historical period? Perhaps he identified with the old couple, as I might if elderly and Mexican in France, visiting Porfirio Díaz’s grave.
Don Alberto guided me through the castle, recounting events and intimate details of palace life gathered from period testimonies yet narrated as if he had lived there. On days he did not climb, he walked briefly through Bosque de Chapultepec, then collected the reserved copies of El Excélsior and El País from the same newsstand and took them to a café on Cozumel, where they served his coffee and pastry. He devoured the papers, rested, then walked through colonia Roma, studying old buildings as if imagining the lives lived there, or stayed on the balcony telling me history. For farther outings he called Erasmo, a taxi driver he had known for years, who would collect, wait for, and return him at any hour. Erasmo opened the taxi door and treated him like a head of state, admiring his stories. “That man is a treasure,” he told me. “Learn everything you can from him.”
In the historic center, don Alberto explained the Catedral Metropolitana: the original cathedral’s location, reused pyramid stones, successive architects, remains of caudillos, sacred art, and altarpieces. Every place produced dates and stories: canals carrying goods into La Merced; the Zócalo from the Parián market through park to concrete expanse; Alameda Central; palaces that became museums or tenements; the old Calle de Plateros renamed Madero by Francisco Villa; La Ciudadela and the Decena Trágica’s cannon fire. Every corner and stone façade, colonial or French-inspired as in colonia Juárez, yielded information. We visited Tlatelolco, Coyoacán, Tlalpan, and San Ángel, lingering in Parque de La Bombilla for humorous facts about Álvaro Obregón. He knew the streets as thoroughly as the biographies of their namesakes: their direction, crossings, neighborhoods, and former names, and delighted in giving directions. When tourists with rudimentary Spanish asked for the Museo de Antropología, he recognized their accent and answered in fluent French. Besides native German and remarkable Spanish, he spoke French, English, and Italian. “Romance languages are very similar, Jorgito; once you get one, the others are easy,” the shameless man said, as if five languages were child’s play. Once I swore before him and he replied, “Profanity unmistakably signals a limited vocabulary. Language offers infinite ways to tear someone apart without staining one’s honor. Remember, the tongue is the sharpest sword.”
I remember his first birthday invitation: doña Teresita would serve cake and coffee the following Tuesday and he hoped I could come. What does one give such a man? After anxious thought I decided on a book worthy of his collection. Knowing little history or literature, I went early Sunday to La Lagunilla and asked stallholders for help. Nothing seemed worthy or capable of showing my admiration and affection. I found a good second edition of “Ocho mil kilómetros en campaña,” but doubted it. At a stall of old flyers and newspapers I found an El Excélsior front page from 1933, his birth year. It was not his birthday —that would have been incredible— but no book convinced me. Though expensive, I bought it, then begged a frame-shop owner on Monday to mount it by Tuesday in sober dark wood. I wrapped it in pages from that day’s El Excélsior.
I had never felt so out of place at a gathering. I was the only twenty-something; next youngest was Erasmo at about forty-five, followed by elderly neighbors and friends, with doña Teresita hosting. Only she, Erasmo, and I brought gifts, perhaps because we were closest. Her mahogany shelf clock received an elaborate compliment; Erasmo’s archaeology magazine prompted delight at its Monte Albán subject. I sensed —or hoped— neither entirely pleased him, though he worked hard to satisfy each giver. Nervously I joked that he might prefer my wrapping to the gift. He unwrapped and studied the page in silence. Beneath the masthead read “México D.F. — Wednesday 25 October 1933.” Headlines announced academic freedom as a principle of the Universidad Nacional and called Roosevelt’s financial plan inflationary. Before I could explain or apologize for not finding the correct day or a better present, don Alberto turned with watery blue eyes behind enormous lenses and embraced me without a word. The long, heartfelt embrace showed he understood exactly: the gift expressed my affection and how deeply I valued our friendship. “How wicked you are, Jorgito, making a man my age cry.”
III
By the end of my second year in the building, work left fewer afternoons and morning walks with don Alberto. He remained active and lucid; I did not fear he was going anywhere, and we would catch up. Life turns quickly. One Thursday morning I realized I had not seen him for three days. Though we spent less time together, we usually met in the hallway or —suspiciously— at the entrance when I returned, as if he were waiting to suggest coffee. Tired or rushing elsewhere, I kept postponing it. My heart lurched. I knocked at his door, hoping and begging for an answer. Nothing. It was too early for his walk; could he have gone elsewhere? Erasmo had no news and no call from him in five days. Doña Teresita, whom I hoped had a key, was away visiting a sister. Nervous and out of options, I called Locatel.
A patrol arrived half an hour later. I explained that don Alberto was over seventy and might be ill, so perhaps they should call an ambulance and open the door. The officers could neither enter nor request an ambulance without known injuries and said to wait for Jefe Omega, the sector commander. Thirty anguished minutes later he arrived: if I accepted responsibility for damage, his men would break in. Kicks finally split the frame. I waited while they searched, preparing for his body among the books and wondering how to bury him. He had said he had no living relatives. Did he want burial or cremation? Was Anna buried somewhere, and would he want to lie beside her? The police emerged: the apartment was empty, without evidence of harm.
I tried to report him missing, but increasingly absurd bureaucracy intervened. Without an exact time of disappearance they could not calculate the required hours; although I had last seen him three days earlier, I could not prove nobody saw him later, so I had to find the last witness, as though investigation were the complainant’s task. After two days visiting the public prosecutor, doña Teresita returned and somehow, apparently by scolding them, obtained a missing-person report.
Days and then weeks passed. Authorities clearly had no intention of searching. Knowing his routine, I asked the castle police, news vendor, Cozumel café waitress, and the boy who sometimes shined his shoes at Durango and Salamanca. Several people saw him Monday, and the last sighting was entering Chapultepec Castle Tuesday morning. Guards and museum staff remembered him, but nobody saw him leave. Nobody saw him Tuesday afternoon, Wednesday, or before I noticed Thursday. I gave these facts to those assigned the case; they did not take me seriously or care.
Doña Teresita called a tenants’ meeting. Until don Alberto returned, we would share the building’s services and maintenance equally, save our rent to pay him later, repair the forced door, and leave his apartment intact. She would administer the money, as she already helped him. Tacitly, everyone thought he would never return. An ownerless building might leave us homeless, so we should keep everything unchanged and live there as long as possible, hoping no distant relative appeared to claim it.
I stayed another five years, the last two more from duty to the other tenants than desire, since anyone leaving created a problem and nobody new could enter. We formed a close community and gradually felt like owners. Some did leave, so fewer shared expenses, but without rent we managed. I helped doña Teresita and became close to elderly tenants, for whom a young man nearby offered unforeseen advantages. At the end of 2011, a job offer from an important magazine gave me the perfect reason to move to New York. We had cake and coffee at doña Teresita’s and invited Erasmo. The old people hated losing their youngest neighbor, jokingly “the grandson.” I left.
After nearly seven years away, I returned happily to Ciudad de México for a good job and with longing for my city. Among the first things I did was cycle from my rented apartment in La Condesa to visit the old building and perhaps doña Teresita. It stood abandoned and neglected, windows broken and walls covered in graffiti. Damage on an adjoining wall surely came from the 2017 earthquake; I imagined the tenants had been evicted. Across the street I studied the façade, especially my balcony and don Alberto’s, remembering our afternoons, conversations, jokes, his eloquence and patient teaching. After his disappearance we had repaired the door and vowed to preserve his apartment. I am sure it remained intact, frozen in a faraway time of paper yellowed by years. Behind that sixth-floor window must remain the books, figures, masks, photographs, maps, doña Teresita’s shelf clock, Erasmo’s magazine beneath a stack on the side table, and my framed Excélsior front page proudly hung on the only living-room wall not covered by shelves or books. All remain under dense dust, silent witnesses to sunsets over Chapultepec Castle.
I will never know what became of the old man, but I can imagine his last visit: standing before his portrait, a past life frozen in eternity, concentrating, trying to enter it and return to when doña Anna was named Charlotte, he Maximilian, and together they lived in Miravalle Castle. I wonder whether anyone noticed that day when an old man admiring a portrait suddenly disappeared.