3.
Agent immobilier
“Alors, Monsieur, you desire to sell your apartment?”
Bart took off his eyeglasses and fixed his eyes on on the small French man seated across from him, whose lips pressed into a thin smile. A transparent glass wall separated the real estate broker’s conference room from the main office where agents sat at desks talking to clients. On the wall hung photos of the Eiffel Tower, the Champs Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe.
Bart puffed his chest. “Yes, we’re moving back to America and I don’t want to be burdened with too many properties. We can always stay in hotels when we return to Paris.”
The broker rubbed his hands. “I think we can help you, but you realize the market is still not good. We are not recovered yet from the crisis.” The broker whistled the word, so it sounded like kreez.”
“Our building is classic, and landmarked. It’s very desirable.”
“Monsieur, all of the buildings in your neighborhood are classic and landmarked. That is no longer a distinction. The -– how do you say, top end? – of the market is no longer active in Paris. All of the buyers are looking for bargains. When the price of oil fell, the wealthy Russians stopped buying. We could never attract the Chinese. And you Americans.…” The realtor paused, as if the rest of his sentence were distasteful.
The French man continued to smile at him from across the table. Bart shifted in his chair, and wondered why real estate people everywhere say the same things. If you’re selling, they say the market is bad. If you’re buying, they say it’s a seller’s market. “And this guy seems to enjoy it, the bastard”, he thought.
Bart wanted to sell the apartment fast, get the cash, and find a way to break the news to Faye without upsetting her. That would come later, close to the end when she had to sign the sales contract. It would be best not to give her too much time to be upset. He dreaded telling her. He didn’t want to think about that.
The broker placed an oversized leather folder on the table and removed a sheath of printed agreements which he placed in front of Bart. Even with his scant French, Bart could see that the terms of the listing agreement were bad for him. “Exclusive agency”. “Guaranteed fee to broker”, who would get his commission even if Bart found the buyer with no help at all from the broker. He knew there wasn’t a multiple listing service in Paris. Each broker kept its properties a closely held secret.
He leaned forward. “I’m not prepared to give an exclusive to your agency. I will pay your commission and maybe even a little bonus if you move quickly, but only if you produce results.”
The real estate broker clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Regrettably, that is not possible. Our fees are fixed by law. We make great efforts for all of our clients, for which we must be compensated, though of course we cannot guarantee a sale. And we do not take on a client who also works with other brokers. That is not the usual custom in Paris.”
A pause. He smiled brightly. “Perhaps you would like to consider further and make an appointment to speak to me some other day?” He pushed his chair back and began to stand up.
Bart felt a cold draft from the transparent glass wall. He thought of the unpaid bills piling up on his desk and saw the busy realtors at their desks. He needed to sell the apartment fast. He knew that the other real estate agencies would demand the same terms.
When you need money badly, your stench of weakness attracts every wolf in the forest. He knew from his days of being a lawyer that an elegant office is as good a killing ground as any.