Page 40 of Tattooed Sweetness
“We…” I laugh over my uncertainness, having cut him off. “Go ahead. You first.”
He looks at me without blinking. Then he points toward the steps down to Old Town. “Ladies first. What were you going to say?”
At his side, I hop over the inevitable potholes in the parking deck’s bitumen ceiling. I recap the sentence that was on the tip of my tongue. “We can weigh the pros and cons of the real estate offered to you best once we’re there.”
As if it were a matter of course, our arms touch as we move together and walk side by side down the winding staircase to the Lower Mill Road.
I stop at the side of the road because one of the inevitable hellbent drivers is speeding through the eighteen-miles-per-hour zone. Not without reason, according to the vernacular, the license plate MOS stands for Motorized Odin’s Forest Sow. Although it isn’t necessary, Philipp grabs onto my sleeve to hold me back, concerned.
“Fucking idiot,” he hisses after the speed demon before turning to me with an apologetic shrug. “Sorry for the language. But what else could I say?”
“Since we are in Mosbach…” I recall a play we once attended in our school days. It was about the quarrels of theknight with the iron handwith the once-free imperial city. The retired teacher who played Goetz von Berlichingen took a thieving pleasure in throwing out the insult full of emphasis. “…I would tend toward the Swabian greeting.”
“Uh, I hate to admit it, but…” Philipp looks down at me from the side with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t get it. As you know, I’m not from around here. But as far as I’ve noticed up to now, the people of Mosbach, Hassmersheim, and Neckarzimmern really don’t want to be mistaken for Swabians, right?”
“Good attention,” I praise him. “But we do still sayKiss my ass.”
“Holy shit!” He laughs out loud. “I can’t believe those words just came out of your mouth. I’m almost speechless.”
“But only almost,” I tease, and he winks at me.
“Only almost.” He gestures with the exposé folder in his hand toward the square which opens before us as we step out of the winding alley. “All right, we’re here now. Here’s the dream home.”
Oh, dear.My silent fears come true. For he steers across the marketplace to the half-timbered ensemble of Palm’s house and the building leaning against it.
“What do you say?” He points to the nested house, which seems to have escaped from the scenery workshops of Harry Potter with its bowfront, the annexes and attachments that seem to be stacked on top of each other, all the roof surfaces intertwined…
…if only it wasn’t the ground floor, which was probably fully glazed in the second half of the last century. Its windows are also covered with dingy-dusted transparent film.
“This one?” I ask, trying to buy time.
“The location is absolutely perfect, isn’t it?” Philipp beams at me, his almost palpable enthusiasm touching my heart. “Well, the parking situation in the Old Town is notoriously shitty. But the potential walk-in customers will more than compensate, won’t they?”
“Have you signed yet?” I cautiously grope my way forward. “Or put down a deposit?”
“Without asking you first?” He pretends to be offended. “Me? Never!”
I join in his laughter, but then feel compelled to strike serious notes. “In its own way, the place looks charming,” I begin. “You’re absolutely right about the location, too; it couldn’t be better. But still…” I tap my knuckle against the glass. “Single pane glass, window frame made of… is this brass? It’s got to be from the ‘50s.” After a cautious glance to either side, I take five or six steps back to look at the facade. “The paint is crumbling off along with pieces of wood, and the plaster needs to be replaced completely, too. I don’t want to know what the windows look like behind those decrepit shutters up there. The ones you can see…”
“…need to be replaced?” Philipp uses my pause to make a guess.
I nod. “If you’re unlucky, your dream home is listed as well.”
“Why bad luck? Doesn’t the public sector give grants?”
“There are,” I admit. “But there are also lots of regulations to comply with for. And even more, details are to be followed, which will drive up the price of a renovation.”
“Really?” He sounds dejected. “I mean, I’m not saying I don’t think you know what you’re talking about
“My aunt’s partner was a real estate agent for forty/fifty years before he went into well-deserved retirement,” I explain.
“Ahh, yes. That makes sense.” Philipp sighs. “It’s just… standing here, I can almost see the house with the tattoo parlor in front of me.” His right hand lifts, and with his fingers spread, he paints a billboard in the air.Desert-Ink—Tattoos by Sandtmann. He turns to me, his dreamy expression melting into thoughtfulness. “What do you see?”
Oh my God! What am I supposed to say in response?“Honestly?” I ask back and he nods, chin thrust forward ready to attack. I’m probably blowing all his sympathy now, but it’s for his best. After all, it can’t be healthy that normal, business-like interaction with one of my clients should produce such irritating flying insects in my stomach. “Really, truly, honestly?”
He nods again, and I take a breath.
“A black hole.”