AVARICE

by Alex Jacob

The following is a story I wrote as part of a collection of seven, each depicting one of the seven deadly sins. It's the pithy tale of a man so consumed by his greed for money that he neglects his family, his wife, and ultimately, his own sense of moral integrity, only to fail at the last minute to fulfil his desires.

Avarice

“Ninety five,” shouted out Mr Nelson. 

“One hundred!” came the expected reply from the other side of the room. It was like an infuriating echo thought Mr Nelson to himself. From his place in the crowd, Mr Nelson could not source the face belonging to the voice, but he could make out chubby fingers waving frantically in the air. He could not help but feel personally insulted that the man had chosen to bid specifically against him.

His wife placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Mr Nelson snapped round.

“Get your hands off me!” he bellowed, with unexpected violence. He hadn’t meant to shout, but his anger at losing several bids in a row had culminated in an unexpected surge of aggression; unfortunately his wife was the only person there to receive it. He turned back round quickly so as to avoid the questioning looks from the crowd around him. 

Mr Nelson made his living by buying cheap antiques from auctions such as these, and selling them off at far higher prices. He fixed his eyes on a variety of items on the stage. Several items in particular piqued his interest. Years of gathering antiques had meant that Mr Nelson had an eye for fine furniture, priding himself on an ability to identify rare antiques merely by their design.
He knew that divine arches and careful wooden curves were easily identifiable with the style of Thomas Chippendale; silky brown wood was synonymous with the style of John Linnell; and the neo-classical, minimalistic style of George Smith was easily recognisable in cabinets that he had created. Alas, he had never been able to find any works by any of these designers in these auctions, but it was his dream that one day such an item would turn up.

Mr Nelson also liked to think of himself as an excellent salesman, and he prided himself on the ability to change his mood to suit the client. He could, in effect, change his personality to reflect that of his customer in order to appear more likeable. For the young customer, he would be vivacious and excitable; for the elderly one, sombre and indulgent; ostentatious for the loud; and tactful for the shy. Mr Nelson viewed himself as more than a mere salesman: he was an actor, who revelled in his trade.

During this egotistical bout of self-praise, Mr Nelson’s eyes fell upon a rosewood table which was at the back of the collection of antiques. His breath caught in his throat as if the air had become solid. He made an unattractive rasping noise, like a fish gargling air and his wife turned to look at him. His entire skin prickled, and the queerest shivering sensation shook his body. The cause of this adverse reaction in Mr Nelson was the possibility of the realisation of his wildest dreams. What he had thought he had seen was a piece of furniture by Chippendale himself. To the untrained eye of a layman, this table would not appear to be anything special. To Mr Nelson, the table meant money; more than he had ever possibly dreamed of. 

He experienced the strangest sensation as these thought crossed his mind. It was a sense of desire so strong it was almost physical. Mr Nelson underwent the experience that most thieves undergo before committing their crime: an overwhelming desperation for a material object, irresistible in its promise of wealth and riches. Mr Nelson knew he could not let this table go. He was certain of its value, having casually walked round the stage to get a better view. There was no question about it, it was a Chippendale table, thought Mr Nelson to himself. In fact, he recognised it, thinking that perhaps it was the one which had been made for Newby Hall in 1775. It was, thought Mr Nelson, a most handsome piece, tastefully decorated but not to the point of extravagance. It was a twin leaf table, inset with a single drawer, and set upon four beautifully sanded legs. It seemed to be a very minimalistic affair, but the design had been executed with extreme elegance and taste, such that Mr Nelson was in no doubt as to who the designer of the table was. An inaudible, involuntary gasp escaped from his mouth. 

The auctioneer had apparently not realised the value of his wares; this table belonged in a museum, rather than on a stage. To buy it, Mr Nelson knew he would have to disguise his excitement beneath a façade. He knew this would not prove hard for an actor of his calibre.

Over the course of the evening, Mr Nelson demonstrated an extraordinarily calm attitude. He apologised to his wife for his earlier outburst, and chatted amiably to the men around him. He occasionally participated in the bidding process, making sure never to offer a sum of money beyond his means. Furthermore, he even generously allowed another man to outbid him in the purchase of another antique he liked (an attractive wooden chair), which he was sure he could have sold for a large sum of money. Calm, he may have been, but Mr Nelson’s exterior was in no way reflective of his turbulent interior. There was a gnawing sense of frustration inside him, a worry that for some reason or another, the table would be snatched away from him when he had come so close. He may have only waited an afternoon to purchase it, but he had waited a lifetime for the opportunity to do so.

By the time the auctioneer began to auction the table it was much later and the crowd had thinned out, much to Mr Nelson’s satisfaction. The fewer people there were, the more opportunity there was for him. 

‘It’s just a table,’ Mr Nelson thought to himself. ‘That’s all there is to it. Another one of your many antiques.’ He was forced physically to restrain his excitement by pinching himself, and focusing on the sharp, stabbing pain. It was all he could do to stop his voice coming out in little squeaks. Oh God it was wonderful! He would be rich beyond belief. How much would it fetch? Several million at least! If he won this auction, he would never have to work again in his life! 

Time passed. Mr Nelson ignored all other antiques on offer. He only had ears for one particular one.

“And now, for this fine rosewood table,” said the auctioneer. “A beautiful piece, thought to date back all the way to the nineteenth century. It’ll make a fine desk or decoration for any room. Bids to start at one hundred pounds, please.”

Again, Mr Nelson let out an involuntary gasp. He had premised his excitement on the fact that the auctioneer had not realised the value of the table; he had not quite expected it to start this cheaply. Contain yourself man! thought Mr Nelson to himself.

“One hundred and ten pounds,” came a voice from the other end of the room. The familiar chubby fingers waved about frantically, like little birds trying to gain their mother’s attention. A slight pigmentation began to appear in Mr Nelson’s cheeks as he struggled to contain himself against this potential threat. He must stay calm, he told himself.

“One hundred and twenty pounds,” replied Mr Nelson, in the most monotonous voice that he could manage. Unfortunately for him, his emotions manifested themselves in a slight squeak of his voice; this squeak became apparent on the ‘twenty’ of the sum he had offered. A few titters came from the crowd and Mr Nelson lowered his head in embarrassment. He had let his emotions get the better of him; it would not happen again.

To his horror, the other man bettered his offer: “One hundred and fifty pounds.” Now Mr Nelson faced a dilemma. He needed to convince the man he would buy the antique at any cost. This was a bidding technique, which involved offering a much higher offer than the last bidder, in order to deter anyone else from making an offer. However, it was not that simple. By offering a larger sum of money, Mr Nelson would be indicating his keenness to buy this antique, thus perhaps hinting of its value to anyone else present. It was important that he approach this delicate situation slowly and intelligently. He decided he would double the figure, in order to show he was not to be messed with.

“Three hundred pounds.” There. He had done it. A surprised hush descended on the crowd, as they sensed a possible spectacle.

“Four hundred and fifty,” came the reply. It was outrageous. It was unprecedented. Mr Nelson felt cheated. He had not counted on having competition. It struck him very suddenly; perhaps he was not the only man to have recognised the value of the table. This was an unmitigated disaster. Mr Nelson felt a pounding in his head, as if it were slowly being squeezed. What God would be so cruel as to present him with an object of such value, only to take it away again when it was virtually within his grasp?

“Five-hundred,” countered Mr Nelson. Was he being rash? He needed to re-evaluate. Gone was his calm and collected masquerade; replaced by a needy and desperate character. Mr Nelson felt as though this was taking a physical toll on him.

He needed to get a better view of the other man, so he stood on tiptoe, searching for the face belonging to those chubby fingers. There was the man, as vile on the exterior as his audacity to compete with Mr Nelson might suggest. Beady pig eyes peered out from two swollen cheeks, partly obscured by a mop of greasy, dark brown hair. Mr Nelson felt the strangest sense of hate towards this man who threatened to take away his life’s dream from him. This hatred was only amplified upon the utterance of another offer.

“Six-hundred pounds.” This man did not mess around. 

Mr Nelson’s wife whispered in his ear, “Please, leave it, I beg of you. We can’t afford to pay more.” Her voice was wheedling, begging, pleading. How could he explain to her in a second what the value of this table was? No he could not just let it go. He would make one last offer.

“One-thousand pounds.” It was big money that he was offering: bigger than anything that had been sold today. A hushed silence overcame the audience. This was more than an auction; it was a personal conflict between two men. The silence was appropriate thought Mr Nelson. 

Silence. 

“Going.”

“Going.”

…

“Gone.”

*************************

It was the following morning. Mr Nelson felt sick. The events of yesterday had culminated in intense anxiety on his part; his heart still seemed to be beating at double the normal pace.

But he had won.

An intense sense of euphoria overcame him, spreading round his body, marred only by his slight fever. He was on his way to pick up the table. The night had been a restless one, and Mr Nelson had found himself disturbed by the queerest sense of excitement. Occasionally he had sat up in the middle of the night, literally shaking from the exaltation of the evening’s events. So much so, in fact that he had had to sleep separately from his wife. 

How beautiful was the countryside, he thought to himself. Undulating hills filled his field of vision, and an infinitely smooth green surface paved the way for his vehicle, disturbed only by a little ribbon of grey concrete which formed the road. The flowers truly were beautiful, in particular the fuchsias, which were dotted about in little sprigs of pink. Yes, thought Mr Nelson, the world truly was a beautiful place.

He arrived at the house of the auctioneer, surprised to see a small crowd gathered outside. His car crunched across small stones as he slowly drove up for a closer look. Much to his dismay, he saw that most of the crowd’s attention was directed at a little rosewood table, the very same one which had cost him one-thousand pounds the previous evening.

Hurriedly, Mr Nelson stepped out his car, the first drops of sweat forming on his brow. The first few faces in the crowd turned to look at him. To his disgust, he saw his competitor from yesterday amongst the crowd, his bovine appearance still disgusting to look at. He whispered into the ear of another man who was dressed smartly in some kind of uniform. The man began to saunter towards him.

Something was wrong.

“Good morning,” he said curtly. “Are you Mr Nelson?”

“Indeed.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mr Stevens, I work at the Victoria and Albert Museum, the world’s leading museum for art and design. I'm here to talk to you about a table that you purchased yesterday.” Mr Nelson narrowed his eyes. “After the auction yesterday, it was reported to me by this gentleman over here that this table is of great historical significance.” At this point, Mr Stevens pointed towards the man who had attempted to outbid Mr Nelson the previous evening. 

“Having taken the time to examine the table this morning, along with several advisers, we have come to the conclusion that it was designed by Thomas Chippendale himself. Thus the table is unfortunately not available for public purchase. It is therefore with regret that I must inform you that this table is no longer for sale. But please don’t worry; the amount you paid for the table will be refunded in full, all one-thousand pounds of it.”

Mr Stevens smiled amicably at Mr Nelson.

Mr Nelson, in turn, suddenly discovered that he found breathing a little more difficult than normal.