A paradise for sale

     The door opened into a large living room that must once have been very aesthetically furnished. But there now were gaping holes in the upholstery of the Victorian sofa, layers of dust accumulated over the expensive mahogany furniture, on the thousand candle chandelier, the mantle and almost on everything that the woman beheld in that parlour.

     As the woman gazed towards the sofa, she could see a man sitting in it, his hands on his knees, his head which never might have known stooping, bent; eyes downcast and looking into the vastness of the sprawling Persian carpet. She could almost see the tears welling out of his eyes coursing down the bony countenance that must once have been strikingly handsome. The tears did make their way finally to the carpet in drops, making small holes in it, as would those of an acid. It was a pathetic sight, and the woman turned in spite of herself. There was a glass paneled Oakwood cabinet beside one of the walls, full of volumes of books, all gold embossed. They were the heart and soul of the man who had owned the place, now soiled and yellowed, but remarkably alive.

       The woman again saw the man, this time with a brilliance about his face, broad shoulders, erect like a corn stalk, fishing out one of the books, opening the right page, going through it with an avid interest, standing still beside the cabinet and lost to the world around him. A cigar held between his lips and teeth, the eyes that thinned curiously during the reading session, he seemed a man too different from the one that the woman had watched sitting morosely in the sunken sofa. She instantly realized that the living room was the man’s study as well. There was an expensive cut glass ashtray on the mantelpiece, full to the brim with butts and a glass of sherry untouched. The ash within the tray was the remains of all that he had stood for and the liquid, the sweat and blood he had shed for many ingrates, or so the woman thought. Nearly all the bottles in the liqueur cabinet were empty but for one that dated two hundred years old wine, which presumably was reserved for a rare occasion that probably never arrived. The spiders had one a good job over the cabinet and in the fireplace in which lay cinders of the yearnings of the man.

       The woman went into the bedroom, the anteroom and even the attic. But she knew now that the living room and study was the place where the heart and soul of the man rested.

       Deeply touched, the woman hurriedly came to the front door, had one long last look at the big sitting room and then she quietly opened the door and came out into the porch. She remarked, rather apologetically, to the estate agent :” I shan’t take it, sir. It certainly is far too good, far too pure and far too cheap. I think I want something more expensive,  and more shoddy a place that this paradise”