The Man Who Had Everything

Cover Design: yourCoverSt©ry

  Copyright Manuela Cardiga 2014

  The Man Who Had Everything

  By

  Manuela Cardiga

  Once upon a time there was a man who had everything. And I mean everything. He had a career (brilliant pianist), a lovely wife (perfect face), a compliant mistress (perfect breasts), a wonderful clutch of promising off-spring (2 girls, one boy); admiring relatives who regarded him with awe and only showed up when it was appropriate; entertaining friends of exactly the right kind and social standing; and a talented stockbroker who had somehow managed not only to salvage his nest-egg from the crash, but to actually swell it to quite embarrassing proportions.

  In other words he had everything you could conceivably ask the heavens for as aids to the state of perfect happiness. And yet he was not happy. You could not say he was unhappy. He was just discontent; but to a man who had everything and lived in the expectation of a constant escalation of his level of satisfaction, discontentment was as devastating as bitterest sorrow to your average man. It riled him, it ate away at his self-satisfaction, it was a cause for fierce indignation.

  Why was he not content? Why? Did he not have everything? Was he not envied, desired, admired? What then did he lack? What was the spring from which this insidious discontent welled? He didn't know, but it got so bad that no matter what he did, and all that he had; the biggest chunk of his inner-life was dedicated to his obsession with his discontentment. He came to the conclusion that somewhere at his core there must be a fatal character flaw that impeded his acceptance of happiness.

  That summer one of his agents offered him a booking in Ireland at a new - as yet obscure- Classical Music Festival where he would be the guest of honour. He would be feted and adored, he would be a veritable god. He, of course, accepted. His wife wanted to accompany him, and he declined; his mistress begged to go with, and he showed her the same peevish and rather ungenerous turn of mind. He would go alone. Perhaps in a far country - travelling alone - he would find the answer to his conundrum; or at least have a wild old time of it. He fully intended to take advantage of whatever opportunities presented themselves to him.

  But the whole thing was disappointing to say the least. The festival was alright... Amongst the raw young talents, and brilliant amateurs his light shone all the brighter. He was duly adored, and showered with attention; but somehow something failed to gel. Some essential piece was missing. Once again perfection was not achieved; contentment was dimly perceived as a possibility, yet somehow missed.

  The last night of the Festival he refused the invitation to a Gala Dinner and chose to take his rental car on a long aimless drive, get himself a taste of the Emerald Isle.

  The long golden afternoon was beginning to fade when he decided to stop at a drowsy hamlet lost in that endless green and have something to drink.

  In this way his fate was sealed, of such little odd decisions are great tragedies spawned; The Man Who Had every Thing was about to be born.

  ****

  Oblivious to the fact his life was about to be turned upside-down, back-to-front and inside-out, the Man Who Had Everything casually sauntered in and sat at the bar, took off his driving gloves and looked around. It was a nice cozy place, he decided. Rather on the modest side, but what could you expect from a lonely hamlet not to be found on any map? The air was warm and redolent with the lovely aroma of burning wood, fresh baked bread and the unmistakable scent of home-made brew.

  The man behind the bar flicked a cloth at the counter in front of him by way of greeting, and lowered his beetling brow: “And what might you be wanting, Sir?”

  This was puzzling to the Man Who Had Everything. He couldn’t decide by the tone if he was being welcomed and asked what he would wish to be served, or if he was being summarily dismissed.

  “Good evening.” He replied with his most charming and benevolent smile.

  The man scowled and grated out “A good evening it is, Sir. What might you want?”

  “A drink and a bit of that lovely stew you are serving?” And he nodded at a table  where a group of locals were busily eating bowls of some delicious-looking dish with what looked to be potatoes, carrots, green-beans and meat swimming in a rich dark sauce. It smelled wonderful and made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.

  “I’ll serve you right fine, and then you must be on your way. Take a table over there.” The man nodded at the corner furthest from the door, where a small table was wedged in under a narrow window. He reached under the counter, slapped down a shot glass and poured in a slug of golden liquid.

  “Here, take this with you, and stay out of the way.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, but am I unwelcome here?”

  The man had the grace to look ashamed.

  “Nay, not unwelcome, exactly. It’s just not a good evening for strangers to come this way. Or to stay here, in this place.”

  He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Tonight the Fae come looking for mates…And it’s always awkward when a foreigner or city-folk go astray? Police and outsiders sniffing around? And we havin’ to explain they don’t want to be found?”

  The Man Who Had Everything started to laugh “Don’t worry my good fellow! I promise not to go astray! Especially, I promise not to let myself be seduced by the Fae!”

  The Man Who Had Everything carried his drink off to the small table under the window and nursed it, occasionally sipping at it. It was harsh ad peaty, and it scraped his throat clean and heated up his innards like dragon fire.

  He ran a casual inner monologue to catalogue the other patrons:

  “Hello! That one’s a likely lad! Barely sixteen if he’s a day and fists like meat hammers…and his friend with the scruffy beard looks like he’d be a scrappy fighter too…oh and that old man must be a great-grandfather many times over…and that boy’s not even seen his first crop of whiskers…In fact, looks like all the patrons are male, and either too young to be married; or so old as it hardly matters…”

  The Man Who Had Everything noted that the only two men in the prime of life were himself and the host. The man brought his plate over, flung down the cutlery and muttered “You’d best eat right quick and if you know what’s good for you!”

  The Man Who Had Everything smiled sweetly, and thanked the man; picked up his knife and fork and proceeded to eat at a leisurely pace. It was delicious. The meat was succulent, the vegetables bursting with flavor and sweetness; the sauce a glossy velvety perfection caressing his tongue…Oh for a Bordeaux! He deliberately savoured every mouthful, sensing and enjoying the barman’s mounting nervousness.

  In the meantime a slow soft rain had began to fall, and The Man Who Had Everything watched from the narrow window the hypnotic silver curtains shift and dance across the darkening deep-green fields.

  He was nearing the end of his meal, when the door opened and a woman in a raincoat and a headscarf came in. Absolute silence fell over the common room. Every patron’s attention was riveted on the smallish figure of the woman shaking out her umbrella by the front door.

  The woman walked over to the host and smiled: “Good evening, I was wondering if you have a telephone? My cell’s out of range?” With a collective sigh the men turned back to their food, and their beer and their half-toned mutters. This was obviously not what they were expecting.

  This was not a Fae.

  “Lady, it’s Lugh’s night: we have no telephones tonight. Come daylight you’ll have coverage. So you’d best be on your way, or stay the night. Whichever suits you.”

  “Oh! I’ll stay, if you have room?”

  “We got rooms, upstairs. Not fancy, but; clean though.”

  The woman laughed, “I’ll take it! And a plate of stew? Oh
! and a mug of your best brew.”

  “Lady, find yourself a table, I’ll bring you your supper.”

  “Thank you, you are so kind…” and she smiled.

  The Man Who Had Everything had pegged her age at late forties, early fifties; a decidedly unfascinating age as far as he was concerned; but he suddenly found himself revising that. Late thirties maybe; with a round, motile cat-face, and a sly trace of something to the smile…

  Catlike, yes; there was something feline about her, even though her figure was decidedly round and unprepossessing. There was something about her eyes, too, that was decidedly unsettling. Those eyes leveled on him, and the smile deepened. She walked over. “Would you mind terribly if I joined you?”

  And The Man Who Had Everything, like a fool, said “Not at all!”

  The woman pulled back the chair and sat, drawing off the headscarf and loosening long tumbling locks of dark hair to frame her face.

  “So…Do tell? What is your name?”

  The Man Who Had Everything (including a very famous name) somehow found himself responding with his middle name. This being the moniker his mother had chosen, and had been denied as first name – instead pride of place had been awarded to his paternal grandfather’s choice.

  “Michael. I am Michael.” And he smiled. A great ease entered him. The name somehow seemed to fit him as the other never had.

  “Michael,” she smiled, and leaned forward running one finger down his opened palm. “I am Mia.” The Man Who Had Everything shivered at her touch. He could not remember when he had last surrendered his attention so exclusively to anything that was not music.

  Even the day he had first spied his current mistress in the row of violinists at dress-rehearsal, her perfect breasts shifting and swaying in that fascinating unfettered way under her T-shirt; he had not been this spell-bound. Only as a boy, hearing for the first time the soul-wrenching sound of a Chopin Sonata had he been as captivated, as enchanted.

  “Mia,” he savoured the sound, “I like that. It means “mine”.”

  The woman - Mia - laughed a sweet throaty sound: "Are you claiming me, Michael?”

  The Man Who Had Everything smiled, “I thought we were claiming each other.”

  “Oh we are.” At that moment the hostler set down before the woman a dish of the aromatic stew and a tall mug of foaming ale. She smiled up at him and The Man Who Had Everything noticed the man kept his eyes lowered and his shoulders slumped in an approximation of a low bow. The hostler's gaze flicked up to The Man Who Had Everything’s face.

  “Sir, shall I bring you your bill? You’d best be leaving now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the woman cried, “He’s keeping me company for dinner, so do bring him something else to drink, and something sweet to eat.”

  The hostler cringed as from a blow and nodded acquiescence. The Man Who Had Everything watched him go, puzzled by his sudden subservience.

  “Now, Michael, darling (may I call you that?)”

  “Michael?”

  The woman giggled: “No…darling…”

  The Man Who Had Everything leaned a little closer, “Oh I think we are way past that!”

  “So” she dimpled and spooned up the fragrant stew, “Tell me, what do you do?”

  “I am a musician, a pianist.”

  “Oh! That explains the beautiful hands! I must tell you, I have the greatest respect for artistic talent, of which I have not a scrap. I am quite artless…In fact you could call me The Woman With No Art.”

  Michael started laughing with delight. “I call myself (to myself) The Man Who Has Everything. So together we are The Man Who Has Everything and The Woman With No Art…I like the sound of that!”

  “Do you? How odd!”

  “Do I what?”

  “Have everything. Because, you know, the moment I saw you I said to myself: “Why, would you look at that! A man who has never been loved!””

  The Man Who Had Everything reared back as if from a blow. His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared: a clear sign of danger any one member of his family or acquaintances would have recognized, and scurried to avoid.

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Why, nothing, really. It was one of those fleeting fancies that cross one’s mind.”

  The Man who Had everything bit out the words: “I am very loved.”

  The woman nodded, and spooned up more stew. The Man Who Had Everything repeated: “I am very loved. My wife, adores me; my children, my mistress…My family. I have friends, loving friends and thousands of fans.”

  The woman Mia raised one graceful hand. “I did not mean to offend, like I said, it was a fancy.”

  “What made you say that? Exactly that?”

  “It seemed true. That is all. I looked at you and I saw…”

  Michael clenched one fist on the table top. He could not understand his own fierce reaction to such a baseless inconsequential statement uttered by a complete stranger.

  “Tell me Mia, what did you see?”

  “That you are adored, admired, desired; yes, all that and more - but that none of it satisfies.”

  “You are right there. Nothing satisfies, and I cannot for the life of me fathom out why.”

  “Oh!” the woman took a deep breath, “That is because you feel unloved. In yourself, as yourself? Nobody knows you.”

  "And you do?"

  "I would not presume as much. We have just met, but I see something in you. Something more than the usual human soul," the woman took a sip of her ale, "And I have seen many of those."

  "So tell me what you see?"

  "You are brilliant, and you are bored. You are afraid that stripped of your talent you would be nothing. You fear mirrors least they show you an old age you are not ready for, so you wallow in young flesh hoping the desire and pleasure will drown that fear. You are afraid you will be unmasked as banal; that you are only a frail conduit for the music, and if that should abandon you, you would be a shell of a man with nothing else to give. You are afraid because you believe that your wife, your children, your mistress and your friends love, admire, adore and are in awe of what you have achieved, not the man you are at your very core."

  A great pain tore into The Man Who Had Everything. He felt naked, utterly exposed. All she had said was true, none of it could he refute. After a long silence he gathered his courage and lifted his head to look the woman in the eyes."You see true. All of it is true."

  "No. None of it is true. I did not say this was truth: I said this is what you believe to be true, what you are afraid is true." The woman Mia smiled, "It isn't, of course. Everything you have told yourself all your life is a lie."

  “A lie. My entire life, a lie? Who the hell do you think you are?” The Man Who Had Everything leaned forward, his anger and his pain invading his brain. He suddenly seemed to see the woman through a hot red haze.

  “Who the fuck are you?” He clamped his hand down on the woman Mia’s wrist and pinned it to the table.

  “Answer me, you self-satisfied bitch! What gives you the right to sit there and strip me bare?”

  She looked down at her wrist cuffed by his white-knuckled fist and raised her free hand and placed it over his. Her fingers gently caressing his constricting hand.

  “I am the one who sees you. Michael, I’m the one who understands. My only right is the right you give me.” She smiled with wrenching tenderness, “I speak only what you need to hear, what you have been waiting and aching to hear.”

  “What are you?”

  “I am what you have been looking for. What you have called. I am the love you missed.”

  There was something odd about her face. In one moment it was as round and guileless as a child’s all wide eyes and soft lips; the next expression transformed it to triangular sly-eyed, avid-lipped felinity. Now she gazed up at him with blindingly liquid amber eyes, mouth parted, her slender fingers spread wide over his bruising hand.

  “No. I never called you, I never looked for th
is…this, whatever this is!”

  “Oh Michael! Then why didn’t you leave? You were warned, were you not? That this is Lughnasadh?”

  “Lughnasadh? Lugh’s Night he said, and the Fae…A story to frighten children.”

  “Oh no! Not to frighten! To entice, and not children, Michael. Men. Sweet-souled men longing to be loved.”

  A sharp laugh erupted from The Man Who Had Everything.

  “Sweet-souled? I? Then you are the fool here, Mia, if you think a man such as I can be, and get to where I am, on a sweet soul.”

  “Not at all. Tastes vary, Michael, and what one of my sisters might find sour, will taste just like honey to me. Like sucking the sweet stem of sugar-flowers on a spring day…"

  The woman Mia's tongue licked at her full lower lip.

  "Oh Michael, I am going to taste and love and devour every twisted and tender part of you.”

  The Man Who Had Everything dropped her wrist as if her flesh burnt. He lurched to his feet and pushed away from the table.

  "You get away from me, you crazy bitch!" His feet felt huge, numb, and clumsy. He stumbled to the bar.

  "You!" He gestured to the hostler, "Bring me the bill!" The whole place seemed to spin dizzily around him. He gripped the wooden bar-top to steady himself, but the surface seemed to acquire an oily consistency, and to slip-slide out from under his fingers.

  The host approached him hesitantly, wiping his hands on his apron.

  "Sir, you feelin' alright?"

  The Man Who Had Everything stretched out a hand and gripped at the man's meaty shoulder.

  "You fuck! What have you done to me? You slip me a mickey? What did you give me?"

  A deep regret suffused the man's stolid face, and a trace of pity.

  "Nay, I did nothing, Sir. I did warn you, but."

  "Help me, man! Help me get to my car. I have to get out of here."

  "Sir, you in no condition to drive. Had a bit too much, maybe?" the man's huge hand cupped his elbow gently, steadied him, "You'd best stay the night, take one of the rooms. Leave at first light?"

  "You keep that crazy bitch away from me, do you hear?"

  "Aye Sir, I will try..."

  The hostler helped The Man Who Had Everything through a low doorway. The sounds of the common-room fell behind, and The Man Who Had Everything had a vague last impression of the woman Mia calmly sitting at the table and raising her mug to her lips with a mysterious smile.

  The man led him down a short corridor and up some narrow wooden stairs, pushed open a door and helped him to sit on a high bed. The Hostler untied his shoes and helped him lie down.

  "You sleep now, Sir. Sleep in peace, at least tonight."

  "You know what she said? Do you know? She said my life is a lie..." The Man Who Had Everything started to cry; deep wrenching sobs. The hostler stood in embarrassed horror, the huge hands wringing his apron.

  "A lie, man, I am a lie!"

  "You sleep now, Sir, and no never-mind what anyone says. A man's life is his own affair, that is what my Mum always said." The man backed away towards the door, "Sleep Sir, and leave at first light." He hesitated with his hand on the door knob. "Tell me, man, did you kiss her?"

  "What?"

  "The Fae, did you kiss her?"

  The Man Who Had Everything's sobs turned to laughs not very different in depth or intent.

  "The Fae! The Fae! Is that what she is! She promised to love me, man, just as I am..."

  "Aye, they do that. They love you as much as you can stand...But sir, if she's not kissed you, and you know her name? You can maybe still get away."The hostler left, quietly shutting the door behind him, and The Man Who Had Everything fell into a deep sleep.