This morning, we were told, the appointment would be arranged for the afternoon. We would have to go to the bank to arrange payment, pay the taxes and turn up at the appropriate government office, hand over the payment, attest that we did indeed intend to buy this specific property at this specific price, sign a document, and take the keys. Then, we had an expensive half-bottle of wine waiting to be opened tonight, though I must say mostly a gesture towards what ought to be done.
So we got the call, collected our documents and spare masks (the guidelines said, for some reason, ‘double-masking at government offices’ and this would be a stupid reason for everything to fall through). Off we went, through the rain and icy wind – summer is definitely over, though winter is yet to come – to Taksim square. There we met our agent and went off to the bank to get the payment sorted.
A bit of a kerfluffle here as suddenly everyone – the agent, various bank staff – started talking to each other in Turkish over our heads, enraging me thoroughly as while I am fairly confident in their goodwill, I found it really disrespectful and unprofessional. Eventually someone turned around and said we would change the method of payment. By now infuriated, I said ‘that is not what we agreed’. Everyone started talking at once but eventually the one sensible person in the room, the seniormost bank person seemed to twig on to our discomfort and swept them out. We agreed to make the payment as originally planned.
Eventually I calmed down with the help of a glass of cay, and we proceeded. It was raining fiercely, cold and miserable, and the agent held his backpack over his head to shelter. As a gesture of goodwill, I handed him my umbrella and pulled up my hood, hoping that the not-exactly-waterproof material would hold up for the next ten minutes. It did, and we arrived at the government office, had our COVID tracking codes scanned, didn’t need a second mask, and were ushered into a room filled with those rows of seats attached to each other you see in waiting rooms the world over, though since waiting was currently discouraged, the seats had been uprooted from the floor and piled on top of each other like a jenga tower.
The agent left us there and then came back, looking pale. ‘There’s been a terrible earthquake in Izmir,’ he said, and disappeared again. The GF and I unsconsciously sidled towards the bit of the room crossed by a supporting beam.
The agent appeared again. The translator was on his way (we had insisted on his presence), but his taxi was stuck in traffic. Ten minutes, no more.
We waited and waited. People came in and disappeared. Then some people came and clustered in the corner, from their glances towards us, clearly some of the family of 15 the flat belonged to, which they had inherited from a deceased grandmother. There was clearly something going on, so we waited. A very young red-headed man appeared and disappeared, his face worried. Documents were rifled through. Responsible-looking elders looked concerned.
Then one of them, a young woman, also red-headed, came over to us. She was one of the many owners, and a pleasant, friendly young woman who was clearly somewhat fed up at being part of a herd of 14.
One of the family, it transpired, had forgotten to bring his ID card, and a driving license was not an acceptable substitute. He had dashed off in a taxi and was in the same traffic jam as the translator, facing the other way.
it was 4.15. ‘We have 15 minutes,’ the young woman said. ‘At 4.30 the computer turns off.’
The translator arrived, his smile expansive beneath the mask. He had been at another transaction at a different government office. The earthquake had struck midway, they had all rushed out of the building, and when they went back in the foreign buyer was so nervous he insisted the translator stay even after his official role was finished.
‘In 1990, my friend an estate agent advised me to buy a flat in Galata,’ he said regretfully. ‘I didn’t listen to him because I thought he was trying to cheat me.’
Various elderly aunts came in. One, a thin slightly twittery looking one wearing a hijab, smiled at us in a friendly manner through her mask, then clearly decided that the only thing that could be done was to pray, so she raised her hands to the sky and started muttering, albeit in a twittery, friend way. Another aunt, large and jolly, came up to us and told the translator to translate. She told us, ‘This flat will bring you good fortune. When my father bought it, he immediately became rich.’ ‘Inshallah,’ we chorused.
At 4.29, a government official came in and turned off the lights. We went out and were returned our documents. The office was shut.
The GF and I, the translator, the agent and 14 of the sellers trouped down to Istiklal avenue. it was no longer raining. The very young red-headed cousin arrived. The responsible looking cousins surrounded him and hoisted him to us. ‘It is my fault,’ he said apologetically under their minatory eyes. ‘It is all my fault.’
So we returned, still to join the ranks of the landed gentry. If he finds his ID card over the weekend, we will proceed on Monday. And if he doesn’t, well, who knows?
The GF and I left in extraordinarily good spirits. It reminded me a bit of my mother’s funeral, a similar mix of farce and emotion. And we both liked the family.