widows, babies, students and the mysterious Mr. H

It's been seven years since I moved into the  House of the Seven Widows  (described in this post and this one). Unbelievable.

There are not seven widows anymore, only about four or five. But the lovely one next door still smiles brightly at me over the balcony railing on sunny afternoons, and on cold winter days I sometimes invite myself into her flat for coffee. The other chatty one died tragically after a fall in her flat last year, and I miss having to hold the door for her every time I go through the main entrance. The suspicious-minded one on the second floor is still the busybody of the building. The other day I found her staring in disbelief at the board by the entrance door, where all the residents are listed. Somebody had taken great pains to pick out almost all the letters from the names, leaving only a few random ones. The rest lay in a neat pile on the floor. I found it rather funny, but the widow was trying to decide whether the guilty party was the student boys, a non-resident, or perhaps Mr. H on the second floor. At the last suggestion, the widow was hurriedly shushed by one of the lesser-known widows on the first floor, who had come to see what the fuss was about, but I gathered that all is not quite right with Mr. H. 

There are some new residents as well, and two young couples in the building actually agreed to switch flats. There is a baby one floor down, who has screaming fits at night. A strong-willed two-year-old next door who likes to shout in the stairwell because of the nice echo effect. A female student in the flat below mine with an incredibly shrill giggle on Saturday nights when she has her girlfriends over for drinks. A secondary school principal.

The three male students in one of the big flats are still there, only their faces and the names on the door seem to change every couple of years. They are all tall and athletic, go clubbing on the weekends and probably spend the rest of the week in the gym.

But the soft-spoken divorced man on the top floor is still there and shyly discusses the weather with me whenever we run into each other. And the sweet old couple who  "Sunday mornings go for a ride"  in their car, like in the Beatles' song. The mysterious individual/couple/family who owns a luxurious flat on the third floor but doesn't use it or bother renting it out. The chairman of the residents' association who once suspected me of breaking a window. The bearded bohemian who publishes explicit poetry. And the dentist and his wife who smile at me like we are old friends although we have never spoken.

Funny how you get to know people you never say more than "hello" to.