That much I do know about this unnamed man. Though I don't know his character or him personally. I wouldn't be able, for instance, to recommend him as sound or wise or provide a reference as to his nature, nor an accurate account of his life.
No, but if I chanced across him as you did, I would be able to state with some firmness that he wasn't the type to undertake physical labour as a paid occupation. He doesn't mind doing it when it needs to be done but it wouldn't have been his life's work. His is the mind of order, and that extends to property – that he's the sole carer of and in possession of – although his frame doesn't often lend itself to these particular tasks. Still, he's not one to shirk and he'll give anything a go, knowing it's more satisfying to use the body rather than engage someone else's sweat and muscle.
Let the mind wander, could well be his motto at such times, and which he will have employed to good effect on many occasions. He might even think of himself as a leaner, better educated and not so discontented Mr Polly, who is whiling away his remaining years, which others, if he himself drew this comparison, would dispute because he seems the very opposite embodiment of Alfred Polly; and yet something in Polly's character appeals to him on some whimsical level.
But right now, as you've observed, he's sitting quite peacefully in front of a whitewashed wall and in the shade of some shrubbery and apparently not (as far as you can tell) thinking; you're close enough to see his brow is unlined, his eyelids aren't fluttering and his chest moves at a sedate and steady pace. Each rise and fall a long count of three as if in the role of seeker in a game of hide and seek before proclaiming 'Here I come, ready or not.' But as he's not (we've assumed) thinking I'll assume he won't be counting either, so that this is just a relaxed posture of well-being which to you, the beholder, presents itself as a delightful picture, because even though his left leg is crossed over his right and his arms are neatly folded suggesting tension in his wiry frame, he seems entirely at ease.
At enough ease to be spied upon at any rate, for I'm almost certain he feels your sweeping gaze. His is not the countenance of a man asleep; no, he is very much awake and present in his surroundings though his eyes, shaded by the brim of his hat, are fully closed. The shutters down as if the sun were too fierce, when the light has only a muted brightness and doesn't glare or shimmer as on a hot summer's day.
You, I think, have reached the same conclusion as I that he's listening – to the gentle wind rustling leaves and to the flutings of birds – and is sitting upright, rather than slouching, to appreciate its quality as if it were a recital by a symphony orchestra. Perhaps on other occasions he faintly hums along, but then nature has a vast repertoire of tunes so that the same notes heard are rarely in the same arrangement that he thought so sublime; it will be easily surpassed by another.
His position then, if we follow these presumptions through, is that of an participatory audience member for he has provided his own means - a chair from inside has been brought outside, and he has attempted to make himself comfortable by removing his jacket and casually draping it over its back – in order to, for a moment, feel at one with the world.
Picture credit: The Gardener Vallier, Paul Cezanne
