The other day, while I was doing something important, like watching the TV, there was an unexpected ring at our doorbell. I opened the door and there stood a large man with a melon-shaped face, tousled hair, sweating somewhat, wearing a tight, light-blue checkered shirt and tan trousers with brown sandals and holding a piece of paper. He spoke to me in Hebrew and I didn’t fully catch what he said, but it sounded like “do you want to sell your apartment.” This is not unusual since we have had at least three people knock on our door and ask that same question, although strangely all the previous ones spoke French. I told him “no” and he asked “are you sure?” and I repeated “no,” so he took out his cell phone and called someone and said something like, “this is not it.” So I closed the door and went back to what I had been doing.
The next day my daughter Miriam was visiting and her Hebrew is much better than mine. I asked her to call El Al for our carer Sahlee to find out when they were going to deliver her missing suitcases, that had been left behind in Hong Kong when she returned from the Philippines the other day. She was anxiously awaiting them because they contain all the stuff she bought for her Philippino friends. So Miriam called and they said they would try and deliver it that afternoon and later the driver called and said he was on his way and asked for directions. Then he called and said he was downstairs and Miriam and Sahlee went down.
I looked out of the window and saw that there was a taxi parked on the corner of our street and it was packed with suitcases on all the seats and two tiers on the roof rack. When Miriam and Sahlee reached downstairs, the driver got out. He was a large man with a melon-shaped face, tousled hair, wearing a tight, light-blue checkered shirt and tan trousers with brown sandals.
When they got upstairs with the suitcases, Miriam said “it’s strange, but the driver said that he was here yesterday, but the man who answered the door said it was the wrong address.” “Really,” I replied, “must have been the wrong apartment.” “No,” she said, “he had the correct apartment number and he said the man had a small white beard, like yours.” “Must have been some other idiot,” I muttered.