Manuel's Mess-Up

Last Saturday evening, an Indian guy approached me at the gate of my house. He was asking if I knew where “Martin” or “Marvin” lived. I told him I had absolutely no idea. Then he asks “¿Hablas tu Espanol?” as he thrusts a piece of paper under my nose. I see Manuel’s handwriting and mobile number and assuming the guy is a colleague of Manuel’s from the Spanish embassy, I invite the guy upstairs. Manuel seemed a bit surprised to see him but they immediately began chatting and I thought nothing of it.

Soon, I was getting hungry and needed to make dinner. The problem was, the guy didn’t seem to be ready to leave anytime soon, and I did not have enough food for the three of us. On top of that, he seemed to be naturally aromatic in the most non-inviting kind of way. At one point, Manuel asked me what time my friends were coming over and being clueless as I am, I said that nobody would be stopping by. After all, I was trying to accommodate Manuel and his embassy friend.

Some time later, the guy finally left and the story comes pouring out of Manuel. A few evenings earlier, Manuel had gone to a play with some friends from the embassy and after the play, they were all standing outside speaking Spanish. A guy walks up and says he speaks Spanish too and asks for Manuel’s mobile number. Manuel didn’t want to give it to him, but didn’t want to be rude, so wrote the number wrong by one digit. Then, for reasons I shall never be able to explain or understand, he suffers a temporary yet highly debilitating brain freeze and gives the guy our address. Our real address. So what happened? The guy calls Manuel and can’t get through and so shows up at our gate. Why he gave any address at all is beyond me, but to give our correct address? He may as well have given the guy rickshaw fair and a map. Anyway, Manuel mentions none of this to me in advance, so when I see this Spanish speaking guy asking for Manuel, no alarm bells go off.

Two days later Manuel receives an SMS from the guy that reads “I love you” which means now that Manuel most likely has a stalker. That is at least how all my stalkers here began – except the one I had originally hired as a driver who turned out to be a sociopath. Fortunately for us, we are moving to a new flat over the next couple of weeks, so he will not know where we live, but I have a sneaking feeling we have not seen the last of him. He has Manuel’s number and he knows Manuel works at the Spanish Embassy. And apparently, he’s in love.