I suppose it’s strange to hear me use an expression like that: a sound that ties a knot. But it does. You have to realize that, since I live alone, everything that surrounds me strikes me in a singular way. Other times, instead of turning back, I stop at the first landing. I hear the phone ringing even more intently, almost desperately. It implores in the solitude of the empty rooms. I go down a few more steps, and now other calls from neighbouring apartments layer on top of that one, all of them blending into a single plea, almost as if they’re asking to be freed from the device.

When the cleaning lady’s here to tidy up my place in the mornings, she’s the one to answer the calls. Coming back home I find, written on a pad, the name of whoever has asked for me. It’s almost always people I don’t know. Maybe because the cleaning lady mangles the names. I wouldn’t know how else to interpret certain phenomena: certain people, a man or a woman, declare that they urgently need to talk to me, they say they’ll call back; but no one ever does, or almost never. So, what’s the hurry? I’ve noticed that this sort of thing tends to occur on specific days, on sunny days, for example.

It doesn’t only happen with people who call me on the phone, but also with those who show up at my door. I’m often told that someone who absolutely must see me came by in a great hurry, and that he’ll come back, as usual; and as usual, this person never turns up again. I must say that under other circumstances – were I to live in a small town, for example – such things wouldn’t matter. But certain mechanical devices, like the telephone, have lent life a certain drama, and someone who calls you on that piece of equipment is nothing but the shroud of a man – his soul, his essence, all of him, reduced to that beseeching voice. As for why I care so much about who’s been trying to get in touch with me, and even feel a bit anxious about it, that’s another matter.

It stirs up memories of when I was younger, when people asked after you not to get something, but rather, to give. You might say I’ve gauged my life with this device. Once they were people who augured kindness, unknown women who proposed a walk, given that it was a pleasant day. It didn’t matter that, later, they laughed at me. Not all of them, though. Others uttered scalding words into that tube, with brazen voices. Not to me, naturally, but to a stranger, to the unknown, to hope. Then, imperceptibly, the situation changed. Typically, the person who now calls asks for something. I’ve become a man. I expect nothing from others. I’ve got to give the little I can.

And yet the wishful thinking of those days remains. And every time someone calls and then doesn’t show up, I remember that ancient longing. No, it doesn’t only happen to me. In my salad days I saw old men who’d already gone grey, nearly falling over, anxiously waiting for someone who’d called once to call again; and they, too, would wait in vain. A man never tires of waiting.