Please, would you proofread the first part of my short story.
A tale of a dictator
Once upon a time, there lived a dictator who had an absolute power as many dictators before him had. He could do in his country whatever pleased him. His every wish would be fulfilled, his all plans implemented without resistance. If he wanted a palace close to the sea it would be built and if he wanted a cottage in the mountains it did not take the builders more then a week and he would sit in a cosy living room with the open fireplace enjoying delicious food and wines.A specially invited quartet would play Mozart because he was the dictator's favourite composer. If he wanted to sleep with beautiful girls his assistants would go into the town, round up those who were beautiful and before they could understood anything beauties would be standing in front of him completely naked waiting for him to chose the most attractive of them. Nobody dared to complain because they knew what would have happened in the case that someone protested.
His palace was always well visited.Famous artists from the whole world came to portray him, sculptors to mould his fat body in clay, carve in marble or cast in bronze. Poets wrote long poems dedicated to him extolling his wisdom, intelligence and courage. Singers song praise songs, their voices sweeter than the nightingale's.
Politicians from other countries treated him with respect: they knew how powerful and volatile person he was. Nobody wanted risking a war with him. His army was brutal,his solders merciless.
At times, there were big celebration in his enormous palace where chefs from the best restaurants would cook their luscious meals which would be talked about months afterwards. Spoons, forks and knives were of pure gold, drinks served in golden cups encrusted with rubies and diamonds. Such luxurious feasts people had not seen since the Pharaohs' time. But despite all power, lavishness and magnificence the dictator was not a happy person.On the contrary, he was deeply unsatisfied and dispirited. Nothing could have made him cheerful, neither young virgins with their slender bodies nor his sumptuous palaces all over the country. As soon as he woke up a feeling of sadness fell over him like a heavy cover and would not lift up until the late in the night when a fitful sleep would give him some moments of peace.
Often he would wake up in the middle of the night listening to his heartbeat which reminded him of a sad song which he could not switch off. Instead, he would lay awake on his back for hours hoping that a new day would bring him a little chunk of happiness which usually failed to materialize.
To be continued...