The Collector

Since my strict isolation constrains me from relating my story verbally, I am compelled to write it down, for it must be told, if for no other reason than to quell my ever growing hunger to tell it. If I seem unnecessarily verbose, please forgive me. I have learned to embellish words, for words, in the end, are all I have left. My mind clings to them like precious gems. The following is the narration of my experience with a certain Sebastian Porterfield III. He was a prominent tobacco tycoon, owning a plantation that stretched for miles in the lush acreage of northern Alabama. He was perhaps the wealthiest man in the state, and certainly the most mysterious and reclusive. I was quite wealthy in my own right, but no where near the standard of Mr. Porterfield. At our first meeting I was not aware of the sinister intentions of his mind, or the deep depravity to which his heart had sunk. Before my encounter I had always harbored a deep admiration for the man. His estate was one of the most beautiful in the south, it lay like a pristine gem, diverting all attention away from anything other than itself. He was a true aesthete, and a lover of fine things, which I, in my modest wealth, had always aspired to be. I was astounded at the lofty rumors that I had heard of his great possessions, and like the Queen of Sheba, I longed for the day when I could meet my own King Solomon. Much was my excitement then, when an invitation through a circle of mutual acquaintances afforded me the opportunity to meet the man.

Upon our initial meeting, I was greatly impressed with the man. He was a true southern gentleman, replete with the customs and mannerisms of a time long forgotten. He had an air of antiquity about him that is seldom retained by the younger, more modern magnates of the present. He was dressed in a fine suit, grey and wrinkle free, it adorned him like a prince. His white hair shone like ivory, and his face was old and dignified. It was hairless, save a mustache which rested above his mouth, trimmed to pristine perfection. An ornament, hand carved wooden pipe hung from the corner of his mouth, and he removed it periodically to dictate certain things to me, gesturing with it as if it were a teacher's pointer. This tiny detail of his I secretly envied, wishing that I too could conduct myself with such order and elegance. I feared, that things such as those could not be learned, but were, rather, inborn characteristics that came from some place long ago. He was perhaps sixty years of age, he would tell no one of the actuality of his years, as no true gentleman should, yet he seemed remarkably spry. There was a certain bound to his step as he escorted me on a tour of his estate. It was like watching a man in love, pouring over a portrait of his beloved. Being a lifelong bachelor, I suppose that is exactly what he was doing. I was privy to an affair between a man and his possessions. Watching him detail every nook and cranny of his estate was like watching a man make love to the woman of his dreams. There was no haste in it. Every second was relished. Every step was embellished.

Over the years, he had amassed quite a collection of fine, delicate, and antique desirables. It amazed me of the great things a man can possess if he has the wealth and the means to obtain them. His face seemed to grow in a kind of quiet satisfaction as he vaunted over his vast array of artifacts and discoveries. Of this collection, I shall list the most astonishing items:

He had in his possession an elephant's head mounted on the wall. It was on one of his many excursions through Africa that this living treasure had been shot by Porterfield. The natives, he said, had cursed him for the act, he nevertheless, returned with his prize unmolested.

He also had a set of fountain pens that were once owned by the immortal Ernest Hemingway. They were black with gold trim and emblazoned with the initials E.H. He let me touch them, and even write my name with them on a slip of paper to keep as a memento of the occasion.