the man in the striped shirt and turquoise pants is moving to mexico and so everything must go. miles and miles of silver chafing dishes, china platters, thick paintings, overstuffed couches with high backs and fancy feet, books of russian literature, oil lamps and wine glasses in every color. a lifetime of things to have and hold and now they are going out the door in brown paper bags, piece by piece. two old cement lions sitting on the steps are marked "sold to todd" and todd also purchased quite a bit of vintage lawn furniture. lucky todd.
i wandered from room to room astounded at the grandeur of this place and its contents. so many rooms in which to be and how would you choose and would you use them all if this was yours? would it feel peaceful or chaotic to have so many places to read or rest or entertain, eat or sleep or write or just be. sitting on the cool stone porch, would you wish you were in the sunroom on the east side? dinner in the dining room with the frescoes on the ceiling? or in the small parlor with the dark paneled walls? which room offered the best spot for napping or did it depend on the time of day or year?
maybe that is why the man in the torquoise pants is moving. too much space and too much stuff and i imagine him retreating to a small adobe hut built into the side of a mountain with hot sand and succulent plants all around. a cute servant boy named pablo will bring him cool drinks and smoothe the wrinkles out his gauzey white shirts after he rinses them in rain water.
whatever his story, he is clearly mid-book. chapter 48. everything accumulated up to this point goes away to make room for new places, friends and things.
he is standing on one side of the magnificent split staircase with a notepad and pen and a woman interrupts him asking for a price on some candlesticks. "just one moment ma'am, i'm helping someone else right now, por favore". and then he turns to the first lady and says
"i'll take $25 for that, dear."
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