We bought it
We did indeed. Well, we haven’t actually bought it. We signed a Compromis de Vente, a contract which says we’ll consider buying it.
And they can’t sell it to anyone else.
We have until January 12 to change our mind. This we can do with no consequences, and we don’t even have to give a reason. Sweet.
I took the afternoon off to sign. We drove to Chamonix, to the notary’s office.
There is one notary in Chamonix. Actually there are two, but the first one holds all the original documents as he has been there longer. If you decide to go with the other one — who has a reputation for being more efficient — I am told the first one will screw you by refusing to hand over the documents on time and other wily lawyer tricks.
This, I believe, will be a recurring theme — local Chamoniards working the system for their advantage…
The lawyers office is right in the middle of town. Walking in we are introduced to an attractive Irish blond, the interpreter, who’s business card dubs her The Wolf, after Harvey Keitel’s character in Pulp Fiction: “I solve problems.” Nice. I think the Wolf is likely to come in handy as this project progresses.
The Wolf sits with us as the solicitor reads through the entire contract, clause by clause. She jokes and flirts.
The process is complicated somewhat by the fact that the sellers aren’t there. The sellers aren’t there because the house is owned jointly by a father, who is 92 and sick, and lives in Nice, and a daughter, who just wants out. She told the agent she would sell it to us, but the condition was that she would never have to set foot in the place again.
So we sign the contract, which will get sent to the old man who has to sign and send back. Only then does the seven day cooling off period begin.
I ask what happens if he dies before he signs. “C’est la vie,” says the lawyer, and shrugs. The house goes into some French probate hell and fageddaboutit. If he dies after he signs though, no problem, his heirs have to complete.
The whole thing takes about 40 minutes to read through, and another 10 minutes to sign everything, take copies and complete the getting out the door thank yous and pleasantries. The estate agent looks like the cat with proverbial canary, and no wonder — his commission, stated in the contract and payable by the sellers, is enormous. He offers to take us to the house. Claire is keen. Me, not so much.
We go. It is a dreary, rainy, December late afternoon. The snow has yet to arrive. Chamonix is ratty. I’m ratty. The house looks ratty. I don’t want to go inside.
We go inside. Its cold. Dirty. Dark. The light switches are greasy. And they don’t work. We go upstairs. There are about 12 dirty dressing gowns hanging in one of the hallways. Dishes in the sink. The carpet has stains from the 1950s.
I lean against a wall in the corridor. Its wet. Like, really, dripping with water. Sweating.
This is what I wake up thinking about that night. Sweating walls. Cold. Dirty dressing gowns. What have we done?
Nothing yet. We have until January 12. Ha!
