The Fortune Of The Few

Chapter 1:

My house is only very humble really; it’s the way everything around me has always been - only like me in small ways. It is beautiful and pleasant to be around, but unlike myself it is a shell and without substance. Of course it cannot be blamed for this, many things in this life also are. I came to this place mainly because of the way I feel here, I felt I could see the wood from the trees and that, you see, is why I hired a gardener.
My gardener comes twice monthly to maintain my garden, I often choose to make him smile and he does so without fail. I can tell he cares greatly for my company, I can tell because he rarely speaks of others than himself. He is a rare treasure, not unlike me, but of course it is because of the likeness that people see in one another that friendship and, well, other things develop. Before he came to my house or rather my garden, it was a barren place that I scarcely cared to tread in, but he made of it something that I never thought it could be. I do not know if it was his presence alone that made such a difference or whether he is a tremendous gardener, all I know is this garden is his own now, and he may come and leave as he pleases, as long as he never leaves it too long it will always be kept as beautiful.
Like most artistic souls, I feel most at home when I am alone. Of course no one cares to be alone all of the time but then no one cares to be always surrounded by bickering, unsettled souls who come and go in a moments notice and never seem to understand what the life of an artist is all about. It is pointless to explain oneself to these types, try as they might, no flicker of understanding will ever cross their faces and I don’t blame their faces for this, I blame their flickering. This is why being alone is what pleases me the most, you see, I do hate not being able to explain myself. I ask myself why, why do others try to understand? Or make me feel that they do? When they do not, of course I know the answer; they do not know how understanding is truly felt.
That is why others like me are a rare treasure, my gardeners mind does not attempt to understand my own, nor I his, because understanding is something that is felt and feeling is always believing. I do not then know how I am so sure he is like me when he has never told me about his own feelings, just of his experiences. For example we were speaking the other day, as we sat on my lawn, of flowers

"when I was a boy, I picked up a flower, I did, and I looked at it, that’s all I did Mam, I looked. I didn’t see anything that I had ever seen before. I just saw that there flower, my flower it was and I loved it"
that was all that he said, my gardener, about why he had chosen to do what he does, but it was more than enough, those that talk so much of their feelings never feel anything, by my account. So it was a welcome change to hear the feelings of his little thoughts. I feel quite amazed by his capacity to understand what another greatly educated man would have trouble even spelling.

"When I am at my loneliest I paint" I confessed to him one evening, under the gaze of distant stars

"you don’t need to paint for loneliness, Mam, you need to dance" he nudged me and smiled

"and what if I’ve no one to dance with?"

"there aint no point in dancing with some body Mam" he took my hand "if you've never danced alone"

I'll never forget that afternoon that he took my hand and showed me how to dance alone, he closed his eyes, and I mine, and he held me so closely that he felt a part of me, we span and span until all thoughts of sadness flew from my mind and then he stepped back from me a little and I could see that it was him that id been dancing with all along.
My gardener is so different from everybody else I seem to spend much of my time with. For instance there is a man, Robert is his name. I spend a lot of time around at gatherings with him, I could almost cry at the thought of how idle I feel in his presence. Most girls who'd known him before I, and whom convinced me he was a gentle sort, used to tell me how alive he made them feel, flying them to Paris and taking them cruising in his many beloved cars through the alps. I could kill them now; they made me long for the empty and materialistic and insisted that these were the things that a truly loving man would provide.
I remember one afternoon in particular when I distinctly felt that I could have had each one of them shot. It was early may of last year - Robert had decided upon us travelling to Monte Carlo together in his Porsche, I was utterly ecstatic; I could have gone mad with the sheer joy that I felt at having been chosen by him. I knew he would take me to all the swankiest casinos and that we would dine at the most expensive restaurants together. I had each one of my items of clothing starched and pressed and packed them ever so neatly into my carpet bag. I sat expectantly for him in the parlor; I lit a cigarette and puffed away at it anxiously. He arrived, I was relieved at how early he had been, I almost expected to be kept waiting longer for him - to me his promptness showed he truly cared for me - he pulled up outside my home and dived out of his Porsche, much like a dolphin momentarily jumping to the surface for a fish. He strode toward me and opened his arms, quite a while before he reached me, I may add, as if he wanted all about to know that he were about to make a public display of affection
"darling, darling, you look...."
he stammered
"you look..."
again he stammered
"well......shall we go!"
I could not believe him, I looked down at my dress, a summery white little number, I had felt just peachy in it before he had spoken and now I felt awful. I felt just awful.
Nothing he could do after that really mattered, he had killed the flame that I felt for him, and just like that, in one moment, a moment that I knew he felt scarcely merited an apology.