Nicholas and I sat at Franck’s La Noisette. His shirt was open showing his gold chain over his white shirt. His blue jacket was open. His coloring shows his Lebanese heritage. His English was fine tuned at the International School on the Côte d'Azur.
‘How much should I offer?’
He named a figure as he stirred his café allonge.
I nibbled my spice biscuit. ‘Sold.’
I had notified my Danish friends of the availability of the apartment, but they haven’t responded. When I told my friends, they told me I’d be crazy not to buy it. Today I dropped off the signed paper. Now I have to wait.
The flat has been empty for years, because under the French law, the inheritors of a place are predetermined. In this case there are eight people that have to sign off on this. You cannot disinherit your children, something my daughter tells me whenever I threaten her with disinheritance (joking of course).
A couple of hours later Gérard, the Argelès workman angel who shows up when he says he will, does great work and is fairly priced, pedalled up on his bike to give me an estimate on repairs. We found beams under the ceiling that is falling down, but I have got it in my mind what it will look like fixed up.
I will rent it of course until I am too old to climb the stairs to this place and then will rent the top floor. This is assuming the inheritors agree to sell it. If they don’t I will go back to the idea of buying a place in Geneva.
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