The Dog in the Ivory Manger

He was a rich man, there was no doubting it - he walked and talked with a swagger and sway. The world to him was that much more beautiful than in everyone else’s eyes, not because he was a poet or a priest, but because he suffered a kind of tunnel vision in which anything beyond the realms of loveliness was not worth his attention.

He could often be found wherever there happened to be women and a fresh supply of whiskey - surrounded on either side by envious companions chortling in unison. No one knew where he acquired his money or cared to ask, all they cared about was the cheap imitation of respect they might gain from him.

It was one contest after another - the men in town constantly vying for the opportunity to buy him a shot, followed by the girls, treading on each other’s faces for a chance to sit in his lap. Contests no one ever won, but everybody tried.

Every evening without fail, he would put on a dinner suit and drive to a massage parlour in town, spending the last few notes in his back pocket on a night of exquisiteness. The women there were no different -they brawled and squealed, scraping chinks in their porcelain faces.

Having his pick of the bunch, he always took the fairest lotus - on this night, a sweet thing by the name of Jane. Watching her count her payment eagerly, he pulled at a loose thread in the duvet.

“Jane,” he said. “If circumstances were different, would you love me?”

Smiling up from the wad of cash in her grip, she gazed at his aged form.

“Of course I would,” she said, in a pear drop tone. “You’re the most precious man I know.”

It was as good a ‘no’ as any.

The next day followed through like any other - he swaggered through town in his usual way, seating himself down in the finest bar to the sounds of whispers at the next table. Grinning, he waved gallantly at the strangers, laughing as they fought amongst themselves for a chance to inquire about his health.

The pointlessness of the situation moved him somewhat and within a short period of time he was leaving the bar, once again standing in front of the prettiest flowers known to man. It was not his usual time of day, so they were not his usual bunch. Indeed, the arrangement laid before him had an exotic smell and bright, luxurious colours.

Having pored over their faces for at least half an hour, once again he picked the loveliest of the maidens - a child of the orient, whose name was Ming-Su. She took him to a quiet room in the back of the parlour, decorated with a golden harp.

“Ming-Su,” he said, as she sat down and began to play. “If circumstances were different, would you love me?”

The sweet sound of the harp did not drown out his words, but still she did not reply. He repeated the question several times over, but received no response, realising too late his mistake in choosing a girl who spoke no words.

That night, he put on his dinner suit as usual and checked his reflection in the mirror several times before leaving. Tonight would be the night, he told himself, tonight he would find what it was he was looking for.

The owner of the premises wore a bemused expression as he saw him approach for the second time that day, but immediately replaced it with a smile. When asked for an audience with his girls, he immediately apologised and explained that they were otherwise engaged, only one was spare and he very much doubted she met his standards - he only kept her there to maintain the premises.

The Gentleman by this point was almost desperate in his seeking, so he bade the proprietor call the final girl into his presence. He knew the owner to be a great exaggerator.

Mere minutes later, the pair returned, the owner accompanied by a young woman whose face did not belong in such a palace; short, milky in texture, with a faded aroma of lavender surrounding her person, he would barely have noticed her presence had he not requested her.

Her name was Penelope, though whether she knew anything of the Greeks remained to be said. Approaching the only spare room in the place, the kitchen, Penelope returned to her former task of baking fairy cakes.

“Penelope,” said the gentleman, pouring a glass of wine from a cupboard next to him. “If the circumstances were different….would you love me?”

Turning towards him from her cooking, he could tell the girl was both stunned and confused.

“No sir,” she finally said, turning back to her cooking. “I don’t know you at all.”

The gentleman never visited the massage parlour after that, save for the final trip to pick up his bride, the muted Ming-Su. The last anyone heard about them was when they moved into their new home; a manor house south of Oxford. No one ever visits and they never leave, but pressing your ear to the door at the right time of day you might be honoured enough to hear the pleasant sounds of a harp seemingly playing for itself.