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PARTISAN REVIEW
burning old , torn, dirty, mutilated bills, but the most important
thing about them was that they had been softened . Oh, soft, so soft ,
like tissue paper, like silk . Those silky bills that no one wants any–
more . Every month they get burned . In the presence of an official,
who makes a note of their numbers. You put them in a metal box .
You sprinkle gasoline over them . Then you throw a match . Oh , it's
soon over! I've seen whole fortunes go up in smoke! The first time, a
strange impression, yes indeed . Tears in my eyes , I swear. So I asked
to be allowed to do all the incinerating. Why not? I was the only per–
son it amused. And then, on the security side, there was always the
official , writing his report. I became the chief incinerator. But when
the official had gone , I stayed there . I touched the sides of the box.
Still warm , practically boiling hot . I poked around in the ashes with
a trowel. Sparks flew . Quite soon I was able to plunge my hand into
it.
It
was so soft! The beautiful pearl-gray ash was as warm as a
breast, I scooped it up in the trowel and gently , gently poured it into
a bag. And it ended up in my house. My cellar was full of it, little
bags full of ashes, each one with the date of the incineration on it and
the total amount of the burned bills.
It
wasn't long before I was a
billionaire . I wandered around town, casual as you like , with a bag
containing a hundred million in my hand. I looked in the shop win–
dows, at the jewels, the luxury automobiles, and especially at the
beautiful clothes. Their prices made me laugh in pity . But I didn't
dare go into the stores . With my bag full of ashes, they'd have taken
me for a madman. Me, a madman? I'm as sane as they come!
One day I was hanging around outside an antique shop. Some
really fine period furniture and worn, faded, discolored tapestries,
just like my silky bills. I hung around, and hung around , and the
owner of the shop was sitting there , out front, on a big settee, look–
ing at me. He was an old Jew with a beard. He had a funny sort of
skullcap on his head and shrewd little eyes . He spoke to me. I don't
know what he said . I replied. In short, we had a bit of a chat, and
finally I sat down beside him on the settee. Out of the blue he asked
me what I had in my bag. I couldn't resist it. I spilled the whole story
to him, told him what the ash was, and what the figures written on
the bag were - the lot. The old man looked at me with his little eyes
screwed up, then he began to laugh . He couldn't stop laughing. It
was beginning to annoy me. Because it's true, I don't like people who
cackle for no reason.
"There's a discrepancy," he said at last.
"Discrepancy? What sort of discrepancy? What d'you mean by
discrepancy?"
