I lived it: I spoke to my neighbour in Luxembourgish and now I’m her pet

Her eyes were like those of a puppy dog, if the puppy was 75 and not a dog but a woman.

Photo: Anthony Fomin

It was a typical Luxembourg Sunday in June: the sun was out in full force, while the rain fell gently on Bonnevoie, reminding me of an Indian monsoon. I offered to make brunch, because we could no longer afford to eat out, because my girl friend and I were saving up to buy our own place. 

But we had run out of milk and eggs so I offered to stop by Cactus. This was good timing because my girlfriend’s podcast apparently didn’t record and she was having a meltdown. 

Also I needed a cigarette, even though I had sort of quit smoking to save money because, as I mentioned, we wanted to buy property in Luxembourg. So I snatched up my phone and umbrella and because the lift was out of action, I skipped down eight flights of stairs. As I opened the front door to our apartment block, I could practically taste that first drag of cigarette. In fact it wasn’t my imagination. But the second-hand smoke of Madame Mehlinger, who lives in the flat directly below ours. 

She looked like a ghost, albeit a wet one, wearing a red Jack Wolfskin raincoat. And lipstick. On her teeth. 

“Moien Madame Mehlinger,” I said.

“Moien,” she replied, sighing heavily, and dropping two full Bags for Life onto the marble floor. That’s when I made my first mistake. I’d forgotten to bring our Bags for Life. But I couldn’t face dashing back up eight flights of stairs and seeing my girlfriend’s smug face when I told her why, so I figured I’d just buy new shopping bags and hide the old ones. I guess I paused too long because Madame Mehlinger continued speaking in Luxembourgish.

“Unbelievable, the lift is out again. We pay a fortune to that building management company and what do we have to show for it?” She said, from what I could gather from my A2 Luxembourgish, half of which I missed because of after-work drinks. 

“Yes,” I nodded. “The lift people very very bad.” I said.

I was impressed that I’d remembered the word for lift. And perhaps she was too because then she turned and looked at me with something like warmth. Her eyes were like those of a puppy dog, if the puppy was 75 and not a dog but a woman.

She continued speaking but the words tumbled out so fast all I could make out was “bags” and “back”. She pointed to the staircase. For a split second I considered fleeing into the warm, moist June morning. But I’m not just some heartless tax advisor. The climb with those bags could give her a heart attack. I couldn’t have her death on my conscience. Also, she has the heating on full during winter which acts as free underfloor heating for our apartment. So there was that. 

I knew it was time to step up. I lifted the two shopping bags and began to mount the first flight of stairs. They were so heavy that the handles cut into my palms. How had Madame Mehlinger carried them home? And what was in them to make them that heavy? As she chatted in Luxembourg ahead of me on the staircase I tried to look at the bags’ contents. I could make out a packet of smoked salmon, a couple of bottles of champagne, and a ginormous pack of that expensive golden butter which we never buy because my girlfriend prefers margarine, which tastes like sadness. 

Madame Mehlinger’s apartment was identical to ours except for her furniture, which was expensive and classy and not from Ikea. A huge flat screen television hung on one wall opposite the kind of sofa you see on Bridgerton.

“You must be hungry after that climb”, she said and shuffled off to the kitchen. Within minutes she’d brought an entire breakfast buffet to the coffee table. There were butter croissants, Irish coffee and a full English breakfast. I’ve no idea how she managed to knock them up so quickly. Then Madame Mehlinger offered me a cigarette. I dozed off on her sofa where I have remained, rent-free for the past 3 years.

I get two big meals a day and regular belly rubs. Sometimes Madame Mehlinger takes me out for walks but I don’t miss the outside world. Especially the rain. And I definitely don’t miss tax advisory. I sometimes wonder what might have been had I not stopped to carry Madame Mehlinger’s shopping to her flat. I could be married with kids. As it turns out my girlfriend and I have remained close—she still lives in the flat above. We don’t talk but occasionally I hear her, cursing about her podcast. As for purchasing a home, I’m no longer bothered about that. Madame Mehlinger has promised to leave everything to me in her will.

All that to say, help a neighbour today. You never know where it might lead you!