"Good evening, sir, you look like a Sydneyan." Jack handed his notebook to his assistant and then took the ID handed over by another gentleman: "Mr. Hill Clinton, good evening, what brings you here?"
"Collecting rent. You know, I have over a dozen properties, and I have to take a few days each month to collect the rent. Otherwise, I’d die of boredom." Mr. Hill was well-dressed, a respectable gentleman. The record stated he owned sixteen properties for rent, he had two farms in hand, and he had just put a large sum of money into Prince Malin’s Rongma southern new farm development project; one could say he was a very wealthy gentleman.
His mention of dying of boredom made Jack’s heart weep silently—everyone was about the same young age, so why was there such an enormous disparity? He was working every day, 007 style, while this gentleman came to collect rent to avoid dying of boredom.
"Mr. Casaman, do you have any new works recently?" While internally weeping, Jack continued to work, asking the standard question.
"Of course, take a look." The gentleman named Casaman stepped aside from the doorway, and there, Jack saw an oil painting that was half completed.
Jack couldn’t help but admit, even as an art ignoramus, that he could see a semi-nude lady in the painting, lying on a lounge chair, her back facing the painter.
"I’ve named her Lucy; she’s a nearby widow who loves art." Mr. Casaman seemed to reminisce as he said this: "She really loves art a lot."
It must be great to be a painter, able to do something under the banner of art that if one attempted in any other profession, would probably get one beaten to death.
Once again, Jack internally questioned whether there was something wrong with his career choice, while simultaneously smiling: "Confirmed, thank you for your honesty."
Jack shook hands with Mr. Casaman and then with Mr. Hill, and then looked back at Casaman: "By the way, you don’t have any other issues, do you?"
"What?" The tenant and landlord asked in unison.
"Well, it’s about those guys across the diagonal from you. There have been complaints from two neighbors about them. How about you?" Jack gestured toward the building where the ’artists’ lived.
"Uh..." Mr. Casaman went silent for a moment, then grinned: "Those kids? What about them?"
"The neighbors have complained that the noise from these young people has been disrupting their lives." Jack looked at Mr. Casaman: "Do you have such a problem?"
"Not at all, I think they sing quite nicely." Mr. Casaman smiled and shook his head.
"Is that so?" Jack instinctively doubted—what was going on?
"Yes, because I think they sing better than I do." The painter from Regensburg nodded seriously in response.
Jack took a deep breath: "Then, excuse the disturbance."
Sing better than you? Jack felt he understood why this man was a painter.
Everyone has their limits, and those with extraordinary abilities in some areas are bound to compensate in others.
So, leaving that house, Jack reached out to his assistant for the clipboard.
The night was long, and there was still a lot of work to do. Jack questioned himself deeply.
In this world, was there someone like him, with the surname Reed, no family, old distant relatives about to die, to inherit from so he wouldn’t have to work so hard anymore?