A few nights ago I woke up in a cold sweat. I’d dreamt our landlord had given us notice. We were on the street with all those things from Germany still in their original boxes in the garage.
Two days later our landlord calls. He wants to discuss something with us, preferably in a few hours. I rush to the front yard to mow the lawn. Keeping up appearances. After a few laps the motor starts smoking and the mower throws sparks. The power cord plug has burnt through. But I’m happy it stops at sparks. Because a fire in the front yard doesn’t go down well here in bushfire-plagued Australia. And certainly not with our extremely uptight neighbour who watches us suspiciously anyway.
The nightmare, the mower—a sign? Maybe a good omen? Like when you dream of loose teeth and it means impending wealth is coming (or have I got that mixed up?). My wife says our landlord sounded somewhat reserved on the phone. Maybe he’s sick and has to sell? We’ll know soon enough. We’re nervously excited.
The landlord comes round in the afternoon, asks for a beer and tells us about his financial plans and the returns he’s achieving with his various houses. Show-off. When he met his wife, at their wedding they didn’t just say “I do” but also “…and we want to grow our wealth together.” How indecent. At least uncomfortable.
He had a good job with Lake Macquarie Council and retired at 55. Good for him. Am I jealous? Somehow, yes. I glance at my wife. She’s trying to keep the conversation light and breezy. But her legs, like mine, are tightly crossed under the table. We don’t feel comfortable on our own terrace. Maybe because we realise the terrace doesn’t belong to us. And we won’t be sitting here much longer.
We want to know why he’s here now. And we already suspect what’s coming.
Our house only yields 4 percent return, he calculates. And that’s not enough. So he’s had the house valued. He can achieve seven percent. Therefore he must act. In short: we have to go, have 90 days to leave the house. Bang. Trouble in Paradise. Keeping up appearances is bloody hard when a déjà vu of a father sitting on the street with his family comes charging at you.
Wait a minute, we’re desperately searching for a house in this overheated market right now. Won’t he sell it to us? No chance. We can move out, wait until he’s fixed it up a bit, then make a bid. Thanks. It’s about the numbers for him, his ROI, not about people’s lives. And it doesn’t help when he says it’s good news for him but not so much for us.
And it doesn’t get better when he repeats it several times: “Like I said, good for me and not so good for you. But sometimes that’s also good. Maybe for you too. But I know, rather good for me than for you.” Oh, stop it already. Thick swollen veins press against my fontanelle, blood rushing through under high pressure. I’ve heard enough. I’m done.
But he stays, keeps talking about his plans. He won’t change much in the house, paint a few walls, new floors. That should be enough to achieve a record price for the neighbourhood. I don’t even try to negotiate. He won’t sell to us.
We have to go, time’s ticking. Buy, rent or hit the street. All very difficult. Strange times just now. The dream, the mower. Tonight there’s already a new opportunity for a sweeter dream and the broken mower is already disposed of. Onward, simply onward.
This started life in German on reinergaertner.de, my blog since 1997. The English version was AI-assisted. My German-trained eyes may have missed a few things along the way. She’ll be right.