Could there be a connection between my unlooked-for wealth and the bank robbery occurring almost at the same time? It seemed absurd to think so, and I am not superstitious. Nevertheless, the fact left me very perplexed.
The more you have the more you want. I was already rich, taking into account my modest way of life. But the mirage of a life of unbridled luxury urged me on. And the same evening I went on with my work. Now I proceeded more calmly and with less strain on my nerves. Another hundred and thirty-five million was added to the treasure of the preceding day.
That night I never closed my eyes. Was it a presentiment of danger? Or the tormented conscience of one who obtains a fabulous fortune undeservedly? Or a kind of confused remorse? As soon as it was light I leaped out of bed, got dressed and ran out in search of a paper.
As I read I caught my breath. A terrible fire which had broken out in a fuel depot store had half-destroyed a block of buildings in the middle of the Via San Cloro. Among those destroyed were the strong rooms of a large estate office which contained more than one hundred and thirty million in cash. On this funeral pyre two firemen had died.
Must I now list my sins one by one? Yes, because now I knew that the money which the coat produced for me came from crime, from blood, from despair, from death—it came from Hell. But yet there was within me the snare of reason which mockingly refused to admit any responsibility on my part. Then temptation seized me again—my hand, it was so easy just to put it in my pocket—and my fingers closed with voluptuous haste on the edge of a note that was always new. Money, heavenly money!
Without leaving my old lodgings (so as not to arouse suspicion) I soon bought myself a large villa, acquired a priceless collection of pictures, drove around in luxurious cars and, leaving my job “for reasons of health,” traveled up and down the world.
I knew that every time I drew money from my coat something evil or tragic happened in the world. But it was always only a vague consciousness, unsupported by logical proof. Meanwhile with every new acquisition of money my conscience grew more degraded, became more and more vile. And the tailor? I telephoned him to ask for my bill, but there was no reply. When I went to look for him in the Via Ferrara they told me he had emigrated abroad, they didn’t know where. Everything, therefore, conspired to prove that, without knowing it, I had made a pact with the Devil.
Finally, one morning in the house where I had lodged for so many years, they found a seventy-year-old pensioner asphyxiated by gas. She had killed herself because she had lost her monthly pension of thirty thousand lira which she had drawn the day before (and which had ended up in my hands).
Enough, enough! In order not to fall at last to the bottom of the abyss I must get rid of the coat. Not by giving it to someone else, because the infamy would be continued (who would ever be able to resist such a temptation?). It was indispensable that it be destroyed.
I drove to a remote valley in the Alps. I left my car on a grassy slope and walked up through a wood. There wasn’t a soul in sight. I walked beyond the wood and reached the stony summit of the moraine. Here between two huge rocks in the cleft of the mountain I took out the infamous jacket, soaked it in gasoline and set light to it. In a few minutes nothing remained but ashes.
But at the final leap of the flame I heard a voice behind me (it seemed to be two or three yards away) call out “Too late! Too late!” Terrified, I darted around as quickly as a snake: but I saw nobody. I looked all around, jumping from one large stone to another to discover the evil one. Nothing. There was nothing there but stones.
Notwithstanding the fright I had experienced, I walked down to the bottom of the valley with a sense of relief. Free at last and by good luck wealthy. But when I reached the grassy space my car was no longer there. And when I returned to the city my luxurious villa had disappeared: in its place an uncultivated field with boards announcing “Communal Land for Sale.” And the deposits in my bank had all gone, no one could explain how. Disappeared too were all the large packets of stocks and shares I had placed in numerous safe deposits. And there was dust, nothing but dust, in the old trunk.
Now I am working again, with difficulty, I can hardly make ends meet—and what is so strange, nobody seems surprised at my unexpected ruin.
And I know that this is not yet the end. I know that one day my doorbell will ring, I shall open the door and find confronting me with his obsequious smile and final demand, the tailor from Hell.
The Saints
EACH OF THE SAINTS HAS HIS OWN LITTLE HOUSE BESIDE the shore with a balcony overlooking the sea—and that sea is God.
In summer when it is hot they refresh themselves by plunging into the cool water—and that water is God.
When the news gets around that
