The return of Pablo the doorman

My blog entry about the weirdness of Pablo, our portero, must have telepathically spooked him — after I wrote it, I didn’t hear from him for awhile. He didn’t buzz me. I never even saw him at his post.

Then this week arrived. A few days ago: BZZZZZ!

“Can I come in to water the plants?”

Part of me didn’t want to let him inside. But he was carrying two buckets and looked normal enough. (The deer-in-headlights look had apparently taken a vacation.) And, the flowers in our front window-box did belong to the building, and they were starting to resemble sticks. (Yes, I suck at watering plants.) So I let him in.

A few minutes later, he stood on the window-box ledge on threw water around. I started to worry. Maybe this was just an excuse to come inside and case the joint. Maybe any minute, he was going to fling his 90-pound frame on me and pull a switchblade out of his back pocket.

I waited until he finished, then said “Adios!” and quickly shut the door.

“Wait!” he protested. “I need to come back with another bucket.”

Another bucket?

I didn’t know what to do, so I said okay. But when he buzzed again a few minutes later, I gathered myself and confronted him.

“It’s that — no one told me the porteros need to come inside and water plants, and I just feel… uncomfortable. I’m a woman here all by myself.”

He looked confused.

“You know? I’m by myself? And if you would just let me know when you’d want to come in, just give me some advance notice, maybe we could work something out… or maybe you should just come by when my husband’s here….”

He looked even more confused.

“I just feel uncomfortable,” I said.

Now he looked wounded. But whatever: The guy needs to let me know when he’s going to come inside my apartment! Is that too much to ask?

After he left, lugging away a full bucket, I called our landlady to ask whether this “watering the plants” thing was normal. She said it was and then added: “They haven’t stopped by to water the plants? Are the plants dead?” I ignored that part and mentioned how Pablo looked so confused.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said. “Es tonto, el pobre.”

Now Pablo, when he wants to talk to me, communicates via the building’s intercom system. He buzzes me from downstairs as if he were a visitor, and we communicate through the fuzzy speaker. But he never introduces himself. The phone buzzes, and I pick it up and say, “Sí?” Pablo says: “Sí?” I say, “Sí… Pablo?” Him: “Sí, soy Pablo.”

Sigh.