Paranoid? Who me?

My preferred Sunday routine is simple, really: it consists of coffee,
The Economist and brunch with Jarmila.

Last Sunday we were on the third leg of this triad and I was feeling good. The sun was shining and the fresh bread I'd bought at the bakery was almost too warm to eat, even.

And then the doorbell buzzed.

I made no move to get up, so Jarmila went. No one was outside the door, meaning someone was ringing from the street.

Jarmila spoke German to someone through the intercom and then I saw her put on her shoes in the hallway.

"Where are you going," I asked with mild surprise.

"Someone is taking a survey. I couldn't say no to him, so I'm going downstairs."

I blinked. "We're eating."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I couldn't say no."

"But you're not bringing him in, right?"

"I'll just go down and see what he wants."

"Hmph."

I'm normally not a grumpus when it comes to such things, but I had just read an article in The Economist about identity theft.

It seems that more than 10 million (!) people have problems with it every year, and two big personal data firms recently had major breaches of security during which, among many other details, their clients' social security numbers were leaked. Hundreds of thousands of the people who had been compromised had to take precautions against the suddenly huge problem they faced.

Down the stairs went Jarmila, leaving me to scarf my bread alone before I got the idea that we were alone in the building. There are just three apartments in the old villa we live in, and I knew our neighbors weren't there.

What if the man thumped her?

I hustled out and eavesdropped from atop the stairwell.

I couldn't hear their words, but everything seemed fine and, relaxing, I started walking back to the apartment. Then I thought I heard them coming up the stairs. I returned and leaned over the rail and there they were, just one flight below.

"Why are you bringing him up here," I demanded in English, banking on the fellow not understanding my words.

"It's a survey for the UN," said Jarmila, somewhat taken aback by my aggressive paranoia.

"Why not do it out here, on these chairs?" (We have a couple of decorative chairs on the landing). She suggested this to him in German.

"But I need a tabletop for the computer," he said in German.

I turned on my heels and said, "I don't want him in our flat."

My paranoia was churning. I remembered the news article about the Iraqi man living here in our provincial town of Halle. He's wanted by the police and the army because he knifed a man and a woman.

We all came into the apartment, Jarmila trying not to look at me, and took off our shoes. The man was in his late 50s and had brought a pair of slippers with him. He stood up after putting them on and said to me in German, "I'm sorry. I don't want to cause a problem."

"Ok," I said.

I wasn't being a very good host.

Jarmila asked him if he wanted to have some tea and, disgusted, I went into the living room to park on the couch with a couple of mundane tasks. I eyed the man suspiciously as he came into the room and set up his notebook computer on our dining room table.

Jarmila came in with the tea and they sat down to work. I read the identity theft article again, then listened intently to the questions he was asking.

Some foreign organization now has the following information about us:

Names
Ages
Address
Education
Nationality
Marital status (how long together?)
Employment history
Renting or buying
Where we plan on moving next
Which language is spoken at home?
Do we plan on having children?
Can we be happy without children?
When did we arrive in Germany?
Who cooks?
Who does the dishes?
Who does the shopping?
The chores?
Pays the bills?
How often do we argue?
How often do we argue about money?
How often do we discuss decisions?
How satisfied are we with our home life?

And so on.

It went on for an hour and a half. By the end, I had calmed down and realized there was no reason to be meanly paranoid.

But still, I don't like that Jarmila let a stranger into the house. I thought her momma taught her better than that.

We talked about it after the man left because I wanted to know what she had been thinking. She said that after conducting her scientific survey last year in which she spoke to dozens of farmers for hours at a time, she felt obliged to help out other peoples' surveys.

It's a karma thing, she was implying, and just didn't agree with me about the dangers of an organization having so much information about us. Myself, the more anonymous I am, the better.

Sunday evening as she was preparing for the work week, she asked me where her wallet was.

"That surveyor took it, I bet."

"Stop it," she said. "Haven't you seen it?"

"It was by the door last time I saw it…"

I knew it was a mistake letting that guy in our apartment, I thought to myself.

The wallet wasn't by the door. We stood in the hallway, facing each other.

"You really don't know where it is," Jarmila asked, looking troubled.

"No, I haven't seen it," I said.

And then came her epiphany – "Oh, you know what? It's in my jacket pocket," she said, and happily fished it out from the coats.

Like a freak, I was half-disappointed it was there.