A few months ago, after years of renting, the Wife and I began looking to buy a place of our own in New York City. ‘If we don’t buy now, then when the economy picks up, we’ll be LL all over again,’ she said, employing the transliterated initials for a graphic Hokkien term that implies deep regret.
Our state of LL-ness, however, began to look inevitable. Although prices were supposedly at historic lows, the bargains were also usually booby prizes: Either they were in super-posh neighbourhoods (down US$3 million to a ‘mere’ US$11 million) or dodgy ones where you need a Kevlar jacket just to go to the supermarket. Meanwhile, in our preferred neighbourhoods, prices saw only slight dips, and we found that the homes we could afford were either in inconvenient locations or in an advanced state of deterioration.
And then we found the Little Blue House.
A whole house. In New York City. And it was freshly painted with three large, sunny bedrooms, a sizeable basement, a barbecue-ready backyard with a tall oak tree from whose leafy branches a swing dangled charmingly… perfect for a couple to bring up their baby in. Naturally, this raised the question of how come we could afford it.
‘So…’ I asked our realtor, ‘what’s wrong with it?’
‘Maybe because it’s facing a cemetery,’ she replied.
True: As the area was becoming increasingly Asian, living next to Hungry Ghost HQ could be an off-putting factor. ‘Doesn’t bug me,’ I turned to the Wife. ‘I’m not superstitious and besides, it means our neighbours will be really, really quiet.’
‘Could this affect resale?’ the Wife asked.
‘Well,’ said the realtor, showing us her charts, ‘the houses on this street have risen in value by 200 per cent over the past six years, so clearly people aren’t that perturbed.’
So we decided to make an offer. Our realtor, however, insisted on an inspection first. ‘Is it really necessary?’ I asked. ‘This is the best looking of all the houses we’ve seen. Is it worth paying someone several hundred bucks just to rubber-stamp our decision? And what if someone else bids for it before the inspection is done?’
‘Sure, you can proceed, but what if there’s something wrong with the house?’ she replied. ‘It’s your risk.’ At which my kiasu Singaporean DNA kicked in and we called for an inspector.
He arrived at the house the next day at noon. We were there with our realtor, along with the seller himself. After showing us his professional credentials, he made his first pronouncement, right there on the kerb, without even stepping into the house.
He pointed out some black stains along the perimeter of the house, which looked like regular dirt to me. But he wrinkled his nose. ‘This house has been treated for termites before, more than once. The black stains are the residue of the pesticide.’
The Wife and I exchanged raised eyebrows. The seller was oddly quiet. The inspector went straight to the basement, whipping out what looked like an old-fashioned Star Trek tricorder. It was a moisture meter, and it began screaming. ‘You’ll have to damp-proof this basement,’ he said to us. Then he tapped at a beam, and a dusting of wood powder fell to the floor. ‘And another round of termite control.’
Things didn’t improve as we proceeded upstairs. ‘You have to do more than extermination,’ he warned us. ‘You need to do structural repair, maybe even rebuilding.’
‘As a lay person, you really can’t tell at all,’ I remarked, stomach having sunk to my toes. He glanced over his shoulder at the seller, who was standing a discreet distance away conspicuously SMSing, then turned and whispered to me: ‘Don’t feel bad. There was a serious attempt to cover things up.’
And so the deal was off. After exchanging a terse farewell with the seller, I thanked the inspector for helping us dodge this bullet. He smiled and said: ‘To be honest, even if the termite problem wasn’t so severe, I still wouldn’t recommend this house. But I couldn’t say so during my inspection.’
‘Why not?’ asked the Wife.
‘It’s not the structural issue,’ he said. ‘See the cemetery? Nothing to do with ghosts,’ he replied. ‘But you’re downhill from a graveyard, in a flood-prone area. I’ve had clients in this area who complain, during periods of heavy rain, of their basements smelling like a funeral parlour.’
Our realtor turned to us. ‘So shall I continue to look for more properties in this neighbourhood?’
No sounds came from our mortified throats but our pale faces said it all: Over our dead bodies.
Source: Sunday Times, 18 Oct 2009
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