So it turns out that the deal wasn’t dead. The two realtors rushed to convince the seller’s attorney to reopen the negotiations and to convince Scott that he could still find a way through this. I was surprised he was even open to it, since his last communication to me about it after the seller terminated the contract was, and I’m quoting here, “Fuck them.”
The seller, whom I’ll call Igor because that’s actually his name, is like the best negotiator in the world. Our conversations go something like this:
Us: Could we have you modify the specs on the house so that there’s some kind of awning over the back door?
Him: No.
:::
Scott and I agreed that we could live without some of the things the attorneys couldn’t come to terms with, but dealing with Igor was less than satisfying. Scott and I both come from the advertising industry, where you make your client feel like you’re happy to be around them all the time. I know one client who got a standing ovation just for walking into the boardroom. Literally, all she did was walk into a room.
I don’t need a standing ovation, but a little give would have been nice.
While we were waiting for our attorney to get back from court or sober up or whatever was keeping him from returning my numerous calls, I decided to call a guy I’ll call Hans. No. I’ll call him Seigfried! Oh! Oh! Wolfgang!
Okay. Whatever I’ll call him Frank because that’s actually his name. He’s German, complete with the accent, and owns a house built by Igor. He was provided as a sort of reference. And he was both blunt and loquatious.
I told him that we were trying to negotiate the contract and found Igor to be rather abrupt and unbending.
We talked about contract negotiation for a minute or two.
“That’s not really why I’m calling,” I said. “Do you, you know, like your house?”
“Oh, yes!” Frank said.
“It doesn’t, like list to one side or have demons in the basement or anything?”
“Oh, no. It’s not a money pit.” Frank laughed. “It’s really energy efficient, too.”
“Well, that’s good,” I said. Germans are into efficiency.
We talked about his energy bills, how much easier it is to buy a house than design your own, which he had done once, that when you have construction guys over at your house you have to watch them like hawks.
“Igor’s a good guy. His big problem is that he’s Russian. Russians are—” Frank hesitated, searching for words. “They resent anyone who isn’t Russian.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
“I mean, I’m German and we have our own issues. But some of Igor’s men can be brutes, you know? They lack finesse. Also, they say they’ll be at your house at 8 and don’t show up until 11 or 12.”
I wondered if I’d wandered onto the set of a Tarantino movie. Here I was talking to Christoph Waltz about the deficits of an entire population. On the other hand, Frank was trying to provide me with a philosophical way to explain Igor’s communication style. Brutish and without finesse, indeed.
Frank told me that he’d had exactly one problem with the house, that Igor had fixed it, that he was overwhelmingly happy with it. He described an elaborate and, according to Frank, very expensive Kohler medicine cabinet he’d had installed by Igor’s guys that apparently involved rerouting some plumbing.
“It’s exquisite,” Frank said of his medicine cabinet. I would imagine that it’s something like this.
I thanked him for his time, and told him that we would likely be neighbors. He invited me to come see his house, and if you think I’m not going to take him up on that invitation, you’re crazy.
I hung up the phone, satisfied with what I needed to know—that the house wasn't likely to fall apart and that Igor was going to stick around and fix anything that wasn’t right, though he might not show up at 8 am.
I called Scott and told him about my conversation with Frank.
“I'm not sure any of that makes me feel better,” Scott said.
I reminded him that we could still back out.
My phone vibrated then. The attorneys had finally worked out their differences.
:::
So it’s done. We’ve written a check for the rest of the earnest money and there’s no backing out now.
All that’s left to do is sell the old place. I think we should take some negotiating lessons from Igor. And when this is all over, I want to have a beer with Frank, and ask him if he has ever seen this.