i. Looking

The real estate agent’s name was Earl. He was, perhaps, too
jokey, trying too hard to seem hip. He appeared to be nearing sixty, if
not already there, and speculating about who “pulled” the best espresso
in the city, taking the time to care, seemed out of keeping for a man his age.
On the other hand, there was time to fill between prospective houses and,
if nothing else, coffee and where one found the best cup was a safe subject,
unlikely to seem as if it was being used to influence anyone’s decision. He
was accommodating and polite, and over the course of three separate days
within the last two weeks he had ferried Henrik and Isabel to over twenty
houses. This next would be their twenty-third. If and when they bought, if
they bought at all, it would be Henrik’s and Isabel’s first time owning. It was
a big step, a big decision.

Earl turned off a busy street, went down a quiet one lined with bare trees, striking
against the flat, burning blue of the February sky, and came out on another quiet
street which ran east-west for a block or two. He parked the car and a moment later
all three were standing on the doorstep of 51 Primula Rd. Earl bent over, fiddled
briefly with the lock box, produced a key and opened the door.
“Here we go,” he said cheerfully. He spoke with an accent. It was hard to say
what sort, perhaps English or Australian, maybe South African. For some reason
neither Henrik nor Isabel wanted to ask. It was softened though, his accent, and
rounded, and came out sounding as if Earl’s years in Canada had settled comfortably around him...