The Musical Landlord

For ten years Spanish landlords have cursed and crabbed over a law that forbids raising the rent of a tenant, but it remained for Francisco Lopez Luque of Granada to say it with music. Last week he had his tenants dancing.

A tall, corpulent, retired (65) engineer and widower, Don Francisco owns a handsome two-story house on the busy Calle de los Reyes Catolicos. He himself occupies the upper floor. Below are the offices of the Banco de Bilbao, which for 15 years has paid him a yearly rent of 12,000 pesetas ($1,080), now about one-tenth of what the landlord could get from a new tenant. Don Francisco pleaded inflation and asked for more rent from Bank Manager Jose Santamaria. Then he tried litigation. He got nowhere.

Then, last week, Don Francisco struck another note. From Granada's gypsy dives to his upper story apartment he invited an accordion player, a tambourine player and two trumpeters. "My good fellows," he said, "make yourselves at home. For you there are comfortable beds, food, and all the wine you can drink, providing you do one thing: play your tunes loud as you can from 10 to 1 and 4 to 7."

The Band Explodes. Next morning the Banco de Bilbao opened to a horrendous racket from above. The gypsies played with gusto. Don Francisco's maid screeched flamencos and his dog howled. Over & over again the musicians rendered such popular ditties as The Cowbell Song:

Tengo una vaca lechera No es una vaca cualquiera, Tolon, tolon, talon, tolon. (I have a milk cow, She is no common cow . . . Clang, clang, clang, clang.)

Crowds gathered outside the building, for Don Francisco's windows were generously open. When Bank Manager Jose Santamaria sent plenipotentiaries upstairs with a request please to stop the noise, Don Francisco greeted them from his armchair where he lolled, walking stick between his knees, a glass of manzanilla in his hand. "Go away," he waved. "Let a man enjoy music in peace. Get back to your figures and books. Kindly disturb me no longer."

At 1 o'clock, when the bank closed, the concert ended. At 4 o'clock, when the bank reopened, the music roared up again. Frantic Jose Santamaria went upstairs in person. "My dear friend," said Don Francisco grandly, "do come in and enjoy my little concert. These are the finest musicians in town. I discovered them. Won't you stay a while and have a drink with me?" Don Jose sputtered: "Stop this infernal racket or I shall call the police." "An excellent idea!" crowed the landlord. "Those poor chaps must get very bored in that dreary town hall. By all means have them come over. They will love the music."

Two policemen arrived, reflected, shook their heads. "There is nothing we can do," they told the bank manager. "Now, if this had been a case of disturbing the townsfolk at night we could, according to regulation No. 12 of the 1892 municipal law, do something about it. But since this occurs during the day, there is nothing we can do. Sorry, sir."

Said Don Francisco: "It's a good thing there are laws for everybody in Spain. This one is for me." The policemen good-naturedly dispersed the crowd, and walked off singing, "I have a milk cow . . ."

The Bank Cracks. Next day and the day after, Don Francisco's concerts went on. Ditty-happy neighbors petitioned the mayor for relief. In the bank, clients threatened to close accounts -- "I simply cannot count this money," fumed one old patron. The staff began to crack. "I can't be held responsible for my cash if this noise does not stop," raved a teller. Others asked for sick leave. By week's end, Manager Jose Santamaria had to wire his central office in Bilbao asking permission to come to terms with the landlord.

Don Francisco beamed, gave his gypsies a holiday until "Monday at 9 on the dot." Then, to local reporters, he talked of opening an academy of music in his home, free for all music lovers. "We will have some real classical music," he confided. "Frankly I am getting rather fed up myself with the milk cow."

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