Small Print

Facundo and Ines had been in Melbourne for exactly nine days when they signed the lease, and in their defense, they were exhausted. They had inspected eleven apartments in a week, queued behind thirty other hopeful couples on rainy Saturday mornings, and filled in so many application forms that Ines had started dreaming in postcodes. So when the agent called to say that the little two-bedroom apartment in Brunswick was theirs, provided they could sign that afternoon, they would have signed almost anything. In a sense, that is precisely what they did.

The lease ran to fourteen pages. Facundo, an architect who could read a building plan the way other people read a menu, glanced at the rent, the dates and the amount of the bond, and passed it to Ines. Ines, who taught Spanish online to sleepy teenagers in three time zones, read the first page carefully and the rest with the glazed expression of someone who has just remembered she needs to buy milk. They signed on the dotted line, twice, and drove home with the keys, feeling for the first time since they had left Rosario that they actually lived somewhere.

The cat appeared three weeks later. It was thin, gray and missing the tip of one ear, and it sat on the back step every evening at six with the air of a creditor who has come to collect. Ines gave it a saucer of milk, which, she was later told, was entirely the wrong thing to give a cat. Facundo bought it proper food. By the end of the month it had a name, Mate, a cushion by the heater and a firm conviction that the second bedroom was its office.

It was the neighbor downstairs who mentioned clause 17. She did it kindly, over the fence, the way you might tell someone they have spinach in their teeth. That evening Ines found the lease in a drawer and read the clause aloud at the kitchen table: "The Tenant shall not keep or permit to be kept any animal, bird or reptile on the Premises without the prior written consent of the Landlord, such consent not to be unreasonably withheld." Facundo put down his fork. "Shall not," he said. "That is not a suggestion, is it?" "No," said Ines. "In a contract, that word is an order."

They spent an anxious evening translating the clause into Spanish and back again, as if the meaning might change on the journey. "Prior" meant before, which was unfortunate, since the cat was already asleep on the sofa. "Written consent" meant a letter or an email, not a friendly nod over the fence. But the last part gave them hope. "Not to be unreasonably withheld," Ines repeated. "That means she cannot refuse without a good reason. If we ask properly, she has to consider it." "And if she still says no?" asked Facundo. Mate yawned enormously and went back to sleep.

The landlady, Mrs. Hollis, lived in Geelong and owned four apartments, all of which she inspected with the thoroughness of a customs officer. She arrived the following Saturday in a sensible raincoat, examined the cat over the top of her glasses, and listened without interrupting while Ines explained, in her most careful English, that they had not broken the agreement deliberately. They had simply failed to read it, which, Ines admitted, was not a great deal better.

"Well," said Mrs. Hollis at last, "I appreciate your honesty. Most people tell me the cat belongs to a friend." She took a pen from her bag. She would give her consent, she said, subject to three conditions: the cat would be vaccinated and microchipped; any damage to the carpets would come out of the bond; and the tenants would agree to an additional clause, which she would draft herself. Facundo, who had learned his lesson, asked if he could read the clause before he signed it. Mrs. Hollis looked almost pleased. "Now you're thinking like a tenant," she said.

The new clause arrived by email on Monday. It stated that the Tenant may keep one (1) domestic cat on the Premises, provided that the said cat is kept indoors at night, and further provided that the Landlord shall be permitted to visit the said cat at reasonable times, subject to forty-eight hours' notice. Ines read it twice and burst out laughing. Mrs. Hollis, it turned out, had three cats of her own and a soft spot for strays with damaged ears.

They signed it at the kitchen table, slowly, having read every word. Then Ines printed a copy of the whole lease, took a yellow highlighter and went through all fourteen pages, marking every "shall", every "subject to" and every "provided that". It took her most of the evening. Mate sat on the paper throughout, which, under the circumstances, nobody considered unreasonable.