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Home sweat home By Sayed Kashua Tags: real estate I think we're about to buy an apartment. It's not a thought, idea or fantasy, such as I often get. No, it looks like the real thing. Two lawyers are working on final drafts of the contract, and according to ours I am liable to sign already this week. We've passed the point of no return: I gave my word to the agent, who gave his word to the owner, who sent a contract to his lawyer. There seems to be no way to wriggle out of it, and like it or not, I am about become a homeowner. Dear God, how did I get into this situation? The truth is that I know exactly when things started going downhill. It's all because of you, all because of this cruddy column and its readers. "Oh, we love your material so much," a few people say, and immediately I get very uptight. Where I am supposed to get material for you every week? Yes, there is the Middle East, action, all that. But, hey, enough already, my life is pretty dull when you come down to it. It was only because of you out there that I made that call. Last Friday I was going through the paper and for some reason happened to look at the real estate ads. Usually I do that to make myself feel miserable, poor, to reinforce my class consciousness and my sense that I am still, even as I toe the establishment line, a revolutionary, an underground man who belongs to the sons of light, not the sons of darkness. Really, I had no intention when I picked up the phone and dialed the number in a random ad. Advertisement "Hello," an authoritative voice said. "Hello," I replied, and now I'm sorry I didn't hang up then and there. "Yes, I'm calling about your ad in the paper for the four-room apartment." "Yes," the agent said, "it's a really charming place." "Is it still available?" "Absolutely." Okay, this entire conversation rested on the next sentence. Now that I know the apartment is still for sale and I have the agent on tape, all I have to do to earn my next column honestly and prove the racism of the Zionist state is to say my name and extract a few mumbles from the agent. "My name is Sa'id," I said, stressing the guttural stop so as to erase any doubt. "Nice to meet you," he replied, his tone of voice unchanged. "And I'm Motti. So, are you interested in the apartment?" Oops. "Uhh... yes," I said, "but my name is Sayed." "Yes, I heard you. Sayed. Are you married? Do you have children?" "Yes, married, and I have two children," I replied, and added, "two Arab children." "Ah. This apartment will be perfect for you. Three bedrooms and really close to a beautiful park." What's going on here, damn it? Did I stumble on an idiot agent? Hasn't he heard that we lower property values? Didn't he read the High Court ruling in the Ka'adan case? Yeah, well, agents, all they care about is their commission. Let's see him get past the owners, then we'll talk. "Do you hear," I shouted to my wife after I arranged with the agent to see the apartment, "we're going to look at an apartment." "Close to which park?" she asked. "Ahh," I said in confirmation. I stopped shaving, and showed up with Arafat stubble, after having first draped Muslim beads and two hamsas over the rearview mirror. The agent was waiting in the parking lot with a broad smile. That, of course, was my wife's fault, for refusing to wear a hijab. "After you," he said, opening the door of the empty apartment. My wife immediately began checking out every room. I didn't bother. I was here because of a column, not an apartment. I am not about to buy an apartment. "Well, then," I asked the agent as I signed a form guaranteeing him two percent, "did you tell the owners?" "Of course," he said. "You told them that we're, ummm, I mean... Arab?" "Of course. They were so happy. They said it was about time, really. They are charming people, salt of the earth." Hang on, just hang on, what salt? What is going on here? Is this a Jewish neighborhood named for some Irgun leader or not? What does he mean, the owners were happy? Is this what we fought for all those years? Is this what we suffered for and are still suffering here? This is no shabby place that only an Arab would want to buy, some dump that people just want to get rid of. A lot of people must have shown interest in this apartment. What's going on? "We'll have to replace the kitchen," said my wife, who in no time started to behave like the head of the residents' committee. "Hello, what kitchen, just hold on," I said. "You're right," the agent replied to her, leaving me in my distress and starting to talk business with my wife. "But maybe just the cabinet doors will be enough. We'll deduct it from the price, of course. But the apartment absolutely doesn't need renovation." "The bathroom is actually all right," she said, and jotted down an architect's comments in a small notebook. "But we will replace the toilets, at least. Disgusting, eh?" Things moved quickly. The next day I found myself sitting across from a banker, asking for a mortgage which I haven't a clue how I will repay, then giving our landlord two months' notice, telling the man I rent my office from that I will be leaving at the end of the month, and begging my father to give us a little, anything, whatever he can, because no, I am not coming back to Tira for the time being. "With Jews? Have you gone mad?" he shouted over the phone. "Yes, dad, but leftists." "Leftists? And your children? Didn't you consider your children?" "No, dad, it's a quiet street." "Quiet? What street is it, anyway?" "It's named for some... uh..." "Well, who is the street named after? Speak up." "Abie Nathan, dad. We're going to live on Abie Nathan Street, on the corner of Uri Avnery." 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