We went to see my mother. As soon as we entered the building, a fiveyearold boy was weeping loudly.
Why are you crying? I asked.
He answered, I came to visit my grandmother. I played in the garden and, when I returned, she wouldnt open the door.
I tried to comfort him: Dont worry, she probably went to the supermarket and will be back soon.
He kept sobbing, the poor thing.
Whats your name? I asked.
Roódigo
And which flat are you from?
Flat eighteen.
The residents of flat 18 were new to us, so I didnt know them. I rang the bell, but there was no answer. I couldnt leave the boy standing on the staircase.
Come on, Rodrigo, youll be my guest. Ill leave a note on your grandmothers door.
We reached the house. While my husband kept him company, I wrote a slip that read, Rodrigo is in apt. 28. I went downstairs and slipped it under the door.
Back at our place, Rodrigo was already playing with my sons toy cars. Everything seemed fine.
I wiped his face and asked, Do you want some vegetable soup?
Yes, he replied, and he gulped down a bowl in an instant.
For the second course, we have meatballs. Want some?
Yes. He ate two meatballs in one bite, showing a hearty appetite.
Would you prefer jam or juice?
Tea. I was surprisedat five, I would only drink tea if jam wasnt available.
We sat down for tea with a biscuit cake while Rodrigo and my husband chatted about important topics like car brands and their speeds.
My mother arrived home, and I explained that we had a little guest.
Thats odd, she said. In flat eighteen lives a woman your age.
I didnt find it strange; a fortyyearold can easily be the grandmother of a fiveyearold. She accepted my reasoning and joined the fun, bringing a box of toys that lifted the partys spirit even higher.
About an hour later the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a woman about my age standing there.
Good afternoon, she said. I just got home from work and found this note. Could there have been a mixup with the apartments?
It seemed strange that she came from work and that the name Rodrigo meant nothing to her.
Did you lose a grandson? I asked.
No, I dont have any grandchildren yet, she answered. Something didnt add up.
I returned to the living room. Everyone was busy: my mother was stacking blocks into a toy van, my husband was tying a rope to a toy, and Rodrigo, the boss of the operation, was giving orders.
Rodrigo, I called, sitting beside him, where exactly did you come from to visit your grandmother?
Lisbon.
Do you know your home address?
He recited street, number and flat.
And your grandmothers address?
He gave the street name, and everything clicked.
During the play he moved from one patio to another. When the other kids left, he thought he should go home too. The houses looked the same, and instead of his grandmothers building he ended up at ours.
Someone knocked on the door, but no one answered, and he panicked, starting to cry again. I handed him a toy car, lifted him onto my lap, and we went looking for his worried grandmother.
In the neighboring patio we heard a voice call, Rodrigo! Rodrigo! We rushed toward it and saw a woman my age, clearly distressed.
Is this your grandson? she asked.
Yes! she replied, hugging us with relief.
We explained what had happened and all of us laughed. The grandmothers laugh was a bit nervous, since she had been genuinely frightened. For Rodrigo, the whole episode was just funhe now had a new car.
She thanked us profusely, and we left before she could continue crying. As we stepped back, we heard, Rodrigo, come to lunch, you must be hungry.
Ive already eaten, he answered, sliding his car across the floor.
Hes already eaten, I confirmed, turning aroundfirst soup, second meatballs, then tea.
What a surprise! she exclaimed. He never has an appetite; we can barely get him to eat soup.
I raised an eyebrow, remembering how much he ate at our house. He waved his new car and shouted, See you tomorrow! Ill be back!
