His bed is hard up against one wall. There is a writing desk opposite the large sliding door that opens into a tiny, tidy garden. The room is not exactly spartan (means, ‘pretty basic’. Another reference to Ancient Greece) but it lacks the presence of personal knick-knacks. It’s a cold, clinical kind of room, the sort of place where you might expect things to come to an end rather than begin. On the desk rests a mirror. It stands on the desk, angled against the wall, but it also stands out in a different way. Somehow it does not fit the room. It doesn’t belong there. It’s too ornate for its surroundings. Just like the man, the mirror is old. Unlike him it is shaped in elaborate curves and its edges are bevelled and diamante (meaning, imitation diamonds). Its surface glimmers, free from dust. This mirror has been well looked after. The old man sits at the desk staring into the mirror. Not only can he see his own reflection but also that of the garden on the far side of the sliding door behind him.
