Evil Landlord

I recently traded one hulking high-rise Beijing apartment building for another. A different compound catering to foreigners, a different group of uniformed security guards, a different community convenience store cleverly referred to as a "supermarket." But the real plus is losing an evil landlord, and gaining one who chooses to do business with honesty and integrity. The former landlord chose greed and avarice, in classic ancient Chinese style, threatening at one point to kick me out the apartment I'd rented after only 2 weeks.

I discovered that to understand the landlord-tenant relationship in China, you must, as usual, know a bit of Chinese history. "Landlord" has a completely different meaning here than in the West. The landlord is, literally, lord over the land he owns. In the old days, that meant he allowed poor people to live on his land just because he was a nice guy. And then, he would kick them off his land because, on that particular day, he decided to be a bad guy. That feudal-era tradition continues in China to this very day, with some nice 21st century touches.

An English-speaking realtor helped me arrange the deal with my first landlord, who only spoke Chinese. I was told I would need to sign the lease at the apartment, at 10 o'clock at night, in the presence of the landlord and her assistant. I would bring a security deposit equivalent to two months' rent, in addition to the first month's rent, all in cash. I would place the cash in an 8 x 11 inch envelope, and place the envelope on the table at which we would be seated. Then, I would slide the envelope, with both hands, slowly across the table, with my head bowed as a sign of respect to the landlord.

WHAT?

No big deal, I figured. This is China, and a neat learning experience about another culture. Except it became unnerving the way it all went down.

The realtor and I rode silently up to the 15th floor of the high rise building, and walked down a very dark hallway. I'd viewed the apartment in the daytime; I had no idea that none of the hallway lights worked. When we walked in the door, we encountered the unsmiling landlord-lady and her equally sinister-looking assistant. We sat at the table, and I followed all of the instructions regarding the lease-signing, money-transfering ritual. Nobody said a word. The landlord and her Mini-Me lackey slowly opened the envelope and counted the cash. They counted every 100 RMB bill. Twice.

I thought I was living an episode of Miami Vice. The only things missing were the guns, the drugs, and the metal briefcase.

The landlord spoke to the realtor; apparently all was in order. There was no handshake, nor any eye contact. I got the keys and everyone walked out of the apartment, which was quite a bit more empty and cold than I'd ever remembered before.

The 12 months I spent at the place were highlighted by a rent dispute, three power failures that killed the elevators, and a handful of moments in which police officers knocked on my door to see my identification. On the other hand, the compound threw a heck of a Chinese New Year party.

My experience there turned out to be less than typical. I moved to my new place with none of the drama. The new landlord speaks English, and the supermarket is actually a nice 7-11. The security guards at my new apartment building wear military-style uniforms, but they're young women who look like supermodels, and that learning experience is probably the neatest of all.