An Unusual Bond

The relationship between a tenant and a landlord (or landlady) in New York City is often a tenuous one. Rentals, after all--with the notable exception of rent-controlled apartments--are temporary. Everyone aspires to own a piece of property eventually. And there's often an innate tension between a tenant and landlord since the latter extracts a lot of money each month in rent (in NYC it's often the equivalent of one-third to one-half of a month's salary) from the tenant for the priviledge of remaining in the apartment, however small it may be. So any resentment a tenant has about paying $1,600 for a 600-square-foot studio in the East Village, for example, is often directed at the person who's collecting the money.
My husband and I are fortunate to have an unusual, and cherished, relationship with our landlady and landlord. We feel so close to them, in fact, that they were guests at our wedding.
Victor discovered our apartment more than seven years ago through our landlady's niece, who worked in his office at the time. She knew Victor was looking for an apartment and that her aunt was looking for a "suitable tenant" (defined as someone who was polite, reliable, and childless) for the two-story rear apartment behind their home in Brooklyn.
Needless to say, he has never left. And when he and I began dating seriously in the spring of 2000, there was no question of who would move in with whom. (I had been paying more than $1,000 a month to share a three-bedroom loft in SoHo with two male friends).
The apartment is not officially rent controlled, but our landlady and landlord (Blanche and Louie) kept our rent stable for so long after I moved in that Victor and I actually volunteered to pay $100 more apiece each month--a move that is practically unheard of in this city (and was met with absolute astonishment from friends who learned what we'd done).
But we didn't want to damage the relationship we'd built by then with Blanche and Louie. We've been with them now through Sept. 11, a wedding, three job losses, and several holidays. When they learned we were home alone one Christmas Eve (we were flying out the next morning), they insisted we join them and their family at dinner. When I walked through the front door in shock with tears streaming down my face on the morning of Sept. 11, having witnessed the second plane slicing through the building where--until that morning--I had been working as a freelancer, Blanche met me in the entryway with a hug and a plate full of food (she is Italian, after all). And I cannot count the number of times I've walked through the hallway of that front apartment to find a plate of steaming food for us on the table where they leave our mail.
In the mornings, I take comfort in the sounds of Louie puttering around the concrete garden that separates our apartments. He and Blanche have transformed the space with hand-decorated planters filled with blossoming plants. They've managed to coax grapes and tomatoes from vines they've cultivated in concrete planters. Pots of pansies and peonies hang from the awning or our porch. In the summer, and well into the fall, the garden is awash in a rainbow of colors: fuschia, purple, orange,lime green and yellow. And almost every morning, Louie is there, humming to himself as he tends and rearranges the plants, or adds another angel to the thigh-high shrine to the Virgin Mary that he erected at the bottom of our steps. Often Blanche is with him, offering her suggestions and opinions in a mix of Italian and English.
So it was unnerving when I woke up one morning last week to silence. I peered out the window. The garden was empty, their blinds were shut, and the lights were off. For nearly three days, we didn't see them. Their son came by to sort the mail. But the blinds remained closed. The garden empty.
Finally on Sunday, we came home to the comforting smell of tomato sauce wafting through their open doorway. We were happy to glimpse them through the open blinds eatng at their dining room table with their son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter.
We always worry when they're away from their apartment for long because they rarely travel (Blanche got on a plane for the first time in her life last year to fly to Florida, and said she wasn't sure she would do it again). And we know, from reports from Blanche's niece and from the bills we see when we sort the mail from radiologists and medical centers, that Louie has health problems. Once he collapsed in the garden and bumped his head and spent a day in the hospital.
But I couldn't remember when they'd been gone more than a night or two (at least without giving us warning). So both Victor and I were worried last week. And it turns out this time we had some reason to be.
This morning, when I left for work, I saw Louie in the garden. He was leaning heavily on a cane, and there was a large bandage wrapped around his throat. I was so happy to see him back in the garden that I nearly hugged him. "Buongiorno!" I said. "It's so nice to see you. We missed you last week."
He nodded and I could tell he was struggling to talk. Finally, in a hoarse voice, he managed "Hello."
I kept smiling and added, "See you later, Louie," then turned away quickly so he couldn't see the tears welling up in my eyes.