It jingled. Inside the inner pocket of my Armani jacket, something was jingling. My fingers closed around a small pouch of soft, worn leather — the one my grandfather had given me when I was a boy, back when I started collecting coins as if they were talismans. I opened it. Inside were maybe fifteen old pieces. My favorites. They gleamed, one by one, like old friends resurfacing from a forgotten time.
And in that instant, the memories struck.
The room was sterile — white, stripped of life, sanitized to the bone. Walls, curtains, sheets — everything looked dusted in a thin layer of snow. Mozart's Jupiter Symphony danced faintly in the background, strings and winds whispering that beauty could outlive pain. I opened my eyes, and I was no longer alone: Clara and Jerome stood by the bed.
Clara wore the Gucci dress I'd given her on our last anniversary. Her long raven hair was tied back neatly, her makeup still perfect but cracking around the edges, betraying the strain. Jerome, on the other hand, looked like a wax statue: suit and tie, collar so starched you could slice bread with it. He was the one who looked ready for the coffin.
"Clara, my beautiful Clara," I whispered.She swallowed hard. She was holding back tears like a soldier defending a lost position. Jerome laid a professional hand on her shoulder, as he had too many times before. He'd already buried my parents and grandparents; I doubt he expected to add me to his gallery of tombstones.
"You lucked out, Alfred," I muttered, turning child again for a second. In my imagination, he'd always been Batman's butler, keeper of the secret identity. "Guess you'll be the one to bury me…"Jerome paled.Clara broke. She wept, and my heart shredded itself.
"Sweetheart…"She blew her nose delicately into the handkerchief Jerome had handed her without a word. "I'm fine, love, I just need to freshen up." She squeezed my hand until it hurt, then slipped out of the room — fast, as if escaping a fire.
"Sir, you really shouldn't indulge in such morbid humor…" Jerome warned."I know, Alfred, I know." I didn't have the strength to argue. Every day I was weaker, every morning I woke up as if from a heavy hangover. "The chemo makes me ramble sometimes."
I glanced out the window. The glass was speckled by a summer storm. A flash tore the sky, thunder chased it like a rabid dog. I seized the moment."Listen carefully, Alfred — now that she's gone. I have a favor to ask. A big one.""Sir…""Shhhh! Don't interrupt. And call me Master Wayne.""Yes, Master Wayne."
A dizzy spell hit, but I pushed it down. I couldn't waste this chance. "We won't get another moment like this, just you and me. You'll need to do a few things for me. In secret." I looked out with longing. Even in the storm, I'd have paid anything to run once more across that lawn. I sighed. "I'm going to die, there's no denying it.""Master Wayne, please, don't say that! You'll recover—"I fixed him with a cold stare. I'd known him forty years. "Jerome, would you really lie to a dying man? What kind of person are you?"He lowered his eyes. I hated hurting him, but it had to be done.
"So," I went on weakly, "when I'm gone, everything passes to Clara, as the law says.""Yes.""But there are things I don't want going to her. And others I intend to take to the grave."His face turned corpse-white, eyes wide. "You don't mean for me to handle your treasures the moment you're dead?!"
My throat was dry. "Jerome, you've served my grandfather, my father, me — and if I'd had children, them too. You saw me born. What I want is for you and your family never to know want again."I knew about his grandson Michael — the gambling debts, the collectors ready to break his fingers. Jerome was draining his life to save him. I wanted to give it back.
I slipped off the family ring, fused to my wedding band, and placed it in his hands. "This opens the safe behind the Cézanne in my room. Take what you need to live in peace. You and your kin."
For the first time, Jerome cried. Not a dignified tear — a sob, then a flood that carved down his wrinkles. Always so composed, always the same, like a mannequin from Madame Tussauds. I'd half believed he was an alien among us. Now that theory crumbled like his composure.
"Thank you, sir… you can't imagine what this means to me…"More than you think, old friend.
A fit of coughing bent me double. I recovered with effort. "Come on, come on. A big man like you crying — where's the dignity? Now, to business: there's a list of coins from my collection. Not the most valuable, but mine. The ones that matter to me. You'll roll them up… and stick them up my ass."
Silence. The kind you get when someone lifts the needle off a vinyl mid-song. Even Mozart stopped."Pardon?!""You heard me.""Sir, what kind of request is that?!""The request of a dying man who doesn't want his dearest possessions stolen by grave robbers — or worse, funeral guests. Remember Aunt Assunta? Didn't her ring vanish after the ceremony?""But the ring was visible!" he protested."Exactly. I'm not taking any chances. And I don't want you standing guard over my corpse all night.""It would be an honor to do so," he said, voice thick with emotion.
I spared him. Handed him the paper. "Here's the list. Don't let me down.""Yes, sir."
The door opened just as he tucked the note into his pocket. Clara reentered.
And suddenly, I was somewhere else — my mouth moving on its own:"So, in the end, you didn't have the guts to shove the roll up my ass!"
Silence. Everyone stared. The little demon was still there, drumming his bony fingers on the Ark's railing. The smell of sulfur burned my throat.
I rummaged through the pouch and drew out a coin — Nero's denarius, the one I'd snagged at a ridiculous price at a New York auction. My greatest victory against those parlor speculators.
I dropped it into the basket. The demon's eyes gleamed. "You may go. VIP cabin, top floor." From his gullet, he spat out a black key that landed wet in my palm."There's a room hierarchy here?" I asked."Depends on the value of the obol. Now move — I haven't got all night."
I stepped into the Ark. My breath caught. The surfaces shimmered with multicolored reflections, polished and vast. A tiered structure rose from the base toward the ship's ceiling, like a ziggurat of opal. If my room was on top, I had a climb ahead of me.
I joined a small group and we began ascending the marble staircase. Most of the others — probably debtors — slipped down toward the lower decks. My heart pounded, my ears drummed with Aerosmith's Crash, pushing me up each step.
I reached the summit alone, panting. My door was the only one — glossy ebony, with a private terrace. I already liked it. Sitting on a castle, on the floor with Esmeralda, Steven Tyler sang somewhere in my head.
I leaned over the railing. The beach I'd crossed with Fu stretched endlessly in length but barely a few kilometers wide. A leviathan of souls still flowed along the shore, unending. I was lost in that stream of ants when a roar split the air.
Charon howled from the First Ark. His immense, glowing oar pressed against the dock, and the vessel slid toward the sea of nothing. The others followed, driven by an unseen force, their helmsmen holding steady.
Within minutes, we were all adrift — into open, silent universe.