More problems. Who introduced the client? Who showed the property first? The agents may be obliged to collaborate, but the competitive streak is barely hidden, and nothing brings it out in the open faster than a little misunderstanding about the division of the spoils. Accusations and counteraccusations, heated phone calls, pointed remarks about unethical behavior—even, as a last resort, an appeal to the client to act as referee—all these unhappy complications have been known to upset liaisons that started off with such high hopes. That is why the cher collègue of yesterday can turn into the escroc of today. C’est dommage, mais …
There are other, heavier crosses for the agent to bear, and these are the clients, with their unpredictable and frequently shady behavior. What is it that turns the outwardly trustworthy and respectable minnow into a shark? Money has a lot to do with it, obviously, but there is also a determination to do a deal, to haggle up to the last minute and down to the final light bulb, which is not so much a matter of francs and centimes as a desire to win, to outnegotiate the other side. And the agent is stuck in the middle.
The tussle over the price is probably the same throughout the world, but in the Lubéron there is an added local complication to muddy the waters of negotiation still further. More often than not, prospective buyers are Parisians or foreigners, while prospective sellers are paysans du coin. There is a considerable difference between the attitude that each side brings to business dealings, which can cause everyone concerned in the transaction weeks or months of exasperation.
The peasant finds it hard to take yes for an answer. If the price he has asked for his grandmother’s old mas is agreed to without any quibbling, he has an awful suspicion that he has underpriced the property. This would cause him grief for the rest of his days, and his wife would nag him endlessly about the better price that a neighbor obtained for his grandmother’s old mas. And so, just when the buyers think they have bought, the seller is having second thoughts. Adjustments will have to be made. The peasant arranges a rendezvous with the agent to clarify certain details.
He tells the agent that he may have neglected to say that a field adjoining the house—the very same field, as luck would have it, with the well in the corner and a good supply of water—is not included in the price. Pas grand chose, but he thought he’d better mention it.
Consternation from the buyers. The field was undoubtedly included in the price. In fact, it is the only possible place on the property flat enough for the tennis court. Their dismay is communicated to the peasant, who shrugs. What does he care about tennis courts? Nevertheless, he is a reasonable man. It is a fertile and valuable field, and he would hate to part with such a treasure, but he might be prepared to listen to an offer.
Buyers are usually impatient, and short of time. They work in Paris or Zurich or London, and they can’t be coming down to the Lubéron every five minutes to look at houses. The peasant, on the other hand, is never in a hurry. He’s not going anywhere. If the property doesn’t sell this year, he’ll put up the price and sell it next year.
Back and forth the discussions go, with the agent and the buyers becoming increasingly irritated. But when a deal is eventually done, as it usually is, the new owners try to put all thoughts of resentment behind them. It is, after all, a wonderful property, a maison de rêve, and to celebrate the purchase they decide to take a picnic and spend the day wandering through the rooms and planning the changes they’re going to make.
Something, however, is not as it should be. The handsome old cast-iron bathtub with the claw feet has disappeared from the bathroom. The buyers call the agent. The agent calls the peasant. Where is the bathtub?
The bathtub? His sainted grandmother’s bathtub? The bathtub that is a family heirloom? Surely nobody would expect a rare object of such sentimental value to be included in the sale of a house? Nevertheless, he is a reasonable man, and might possibly be persuaded to consider an offer.
It is incidents such as this that have led buyers to tread warily along the path that leads to the acte de vente when the house will officially be theirs—sometimes behaving with the caution of a lawyer approaching an opinion. Inventories are made of shutters and door-knockers and kitchen sinks, of logs in the woodstore and tiles on the floor and trees in the garden. And in one marvelously mistrustful episode, even multiple inventories were thought to be insufficient protection against last-minute chicanery.
Fearing the worst, the buyer had engaged a local huissier, or legal official. His task was to verify, beyond any shadow of legal doubt, that the seller was leaving behind the lavatory paper holders. It is tempting to imagine the two of them, seller and huissier, jammed together in the confined space of the lavatory to conduct the formalities: “Raise your right hand and repeat after me: I solemnly swear to leave intact and functioning these fittings hereafter described …” The mind boggles.