Very occasionally, once every six months, I check Funda, for five minutes, after which we are out of the running for a week. I always see a church somewhere, a discarded submarine in a harbor, after which a bright future inevitably unfolds. ‘We just need to demolish the plutonium,’ I quickly shout, ‘and we live underwater! What’s stopping us?’
(Water and plutonium. And that takes a feverish week, doctor, the realization.)
This time the walk of life led headlong to Gieterveen, where a ruin ready for demolition lay smoking after us from its ‘previous destination’.
Jet: ‘Where is that?’
“North,” I replied, gesturing in the air. It’s all about sequences. First reveal a buyer’s agent, a tennis club, the brand of moving boxes, then the province. To start with ‘Drenthe’ is to stop with ‘Drenthe’.
The ruin looked like a run-down farm from the front, but inside it turned out to be a run-down party center. The enormous ruin had served for decades as a party location for the region, including Germans.
“Germans?”
I quickly showed her the shattering photo, a reddish-brown hall measuring 18 meters long, 4 high and 10 wide, with a ‘beer point’ halfway through.
“ALL BOOKS,” I gasped. ‘WALL.’ And succumbed. (Figuratively, not really, I’m not Eline Vere. But almost, by the way. No, worse, my enthusiasm was beyond apple fainting.) This room, a settee in it, and cupboards, cupboards for all the books. Living room. Room. Books. All of them.
‘Why does that thing cost’, Jet said slowly, ‘400 square meters of living space, with a garden, only cost 250 thousand euros? Are there earthquakes or something?’ Always looking for wetness. Submarine: wetness. Beer point: wetness. Why?
Do as I do and call the broker. ‘Uh…’, I said, ‘the banquet hall, is it still there? We want to make it an acid-free library. With regional appearance.’ After a long silence: ‘You can make your offer on our website. I must warn you that it is a property with specific challenges.’
I leave dial?
Jet now had some pictures ready of the upper floor. Bee The Exorcist I saw her doze off, but this shocked her. Certain ‘blood-stained walls’ she found ‘creepy’. “That gives character,” I bellowed. She: ‘Gieterveen has no station.’ Me: ‘There is a driving school in the village street.’ She: ‘Do you know how much time it takes to fix up a haunted house? You can shake writing.’
I immediately called Mike, my brother. Whether he wanted to become a construction supervisor for a generous salary. Yes, he wanted to. Throwing a helmet on floors, sometimes just passing by Amsterdam. I also sent photos to Ron, our handyman. ‘It’s beautiful’, he said, by which he means ugly, see previous columns. Between the smiley smiles, he did see it right, with a lot of patience, a lot of money, and a lot of luck with contractors. And no earthquakes, of course, there. Me: ‘But you say do it?’ No answer.
Jet: ‘There is no supermarket.’ I was again on the line with Leistra, architect. My school friend sounded dull. ‘That top floor’, he said, ‘you can get it fixed up, but that shoebox. It must be completely flat. Can be chipboard. I see slats.’
What’s wrong with slats?