MICHEL TOURNIER
"A discrepancy between your fortune and you."
"Don't understand."
339
"But of course! You possess an extinct fortune, but you're very
much alive . There's a discrepancy ."
"What'll I do, then?"
"Nothing. Just wait."
"Wait for what?"
"Wait until you've caught up with your fortune."
"How?"
"By dying. Billions in ashes, that implies a billionaire in ashes."
It
wasn't so stupid! I got the point. To recover that fabulous
fortune , all I had to do was get myself incinerated too. So I trans–
formed my cellar into a columbarium. Stacked on shelves were bags
full of ashes, with their date , and the amount of their content. And
in the middle , a sort of niche with an urn . And on the urn, my
name, and no date. Not yet. And I began to wait. I waited until I
discovered another kind of paper money, the nestling bill.
The nestling bill! A sensational discovery! And I can truly say
that the nestling bill changed my life. I remember so well.
It
was a
beautiful April morning. A customer came to the bank to withdraw
some money. A lot of money. So much that he couldn't cram it into
his wallet. He tried , and then gave up. And he put the bills straight
into his pocket, where his wallet had been. And departed . Then I
noticed the wallet. He'd left it behind on the counter by my grille. I
picked it up, meaning to give it back to its owner. But I'd barely
touched it when I began to tremble. I felt the worn morocco leather,
it was very flexible, and swollen like a soft belly . I opened it. Some
human things spilled out of it: photos, letters, an identity card, and
even a lock of hair. And all this was warm. You could feel that it had
been for hours against the beating heart of a human being made of
flesh and blood. The warmth of the breast, as you might say. And of
course , there was also some money. Used bills , velvety and warm,
living bills. Not yet destined for incineration, but as good as . Nes–
tling bills . When I touched them I was just as agitated as when I
touched a chemisette or a nightdress, but in a different way. I had
just discovered men's raison d'etre . I had hated men for so long. It's
true - what's the use of them? But this time I'd come to understand
them. Women are delicate, soft, perfumed lingerie. Men are a wallet
swollen with secret things and silky, sweet-smelling bills. For money
does have a smell , provided it's living and warm.
It
smells good,
ladies and gentlemen! That was why I had never understood my
comrades in captivity . Prisoners don't have any money. They are
