Prices on the Square
First the setting. Place: Saint
Peter’s Square in front of the Vatican. The
date: perhaps eighty or ninety years ago.
What is going on: Two men are selling holy rosary beads, crucifixes and
other relics and souvenirs. Who are they: One seems about fifty years old,
short, dark, with a scraggly beard; the other a variation on the first, but he
is dressed well and his beard is trimmed.
They are not standing close but separated by many yards at each side of
the square but strategically placed so as to be passed by all the pilgrims,
tourists and officials who pass in and out of the Holy See. They are not unusual, as on almost any day
there will be vendors trying to make a living in the Catholic trade.
Now the focus sharpens up. The
anecdote proper begins. Against a
background of deep scarlet of the setting son, one rather handsome looking
young priest walks by, looks down at the first man’s wares on offer in a basket
at his feet. He picks up a cross, turns
it over in his hands, and asks: How much?
The seller tells him: Two thousand lira.
The priest tosses the crucifix in the basket and walks on. You Jews, he says, should have more respect
when you are selling holy objects.
Shmuck, the man says under his breath.
Then the stops by the second vendor who has a similar basket in front of
him. Again the priest looks, picks one
up, considers, and then asks: How much? The second man says: Fifteen hundred
lira. The priest draws out a purse from
his pocket, extracts a few coins, and hands it to the man, saying: Expensive
but not outrageous. You should see what that dirty Jew over there tried to
charge me. The man shrugs his shoulders.
A little later, as the sky scatters into a chromatic scale of bright
streaks, a rich-looking tourist in an expensive suit comes along. He stops at the first vendor’s basket,
examines a string of rosary beads, and asks how much they sell for. The scraggy man answers: Five thousand lira,
and that’s my final price. The tourist
shakes his head: Much too expensive for such a thing. Shmuck, the man says under his breath. Then the tourist meanders along towards the
entrance to the Vatican, then stops at the second man’s basket, sees a similar set of rosary
beads. How much are you selling these
for? he asks. The man answers, For you,
sir, only Three thousand five hundred lira.
A real bargain. The tourist
hesitates, then draws out his wallet, counts several large lira notes, and hand
them to the seller. No bargain, he says, but much cheaper than the guy over
there, and he points to the first vendor.
I bet he’s a Jew. The vendor
shrugs his shoulders.
The evening sky begins to glow in antique yellows and browns around the
square. Now a pilgrim saunters up to the
first seller of religious objects. I
want something to bring to my dear old mother to show her what a wonderful
experience I have had, he says. What do
you have that a poor man like me can afford.
The man rummages through his basket.
Here, look at this, a genuine St Christopher medal. Only eight hundred lira for you, and for me
it’s a sacrifice. The pilgrim, looking
sceptical, smiles and says: More than I can afford. Do you have anything—? The vendor waves him away. Don’t waste my time. The pilgrim looks around, sees the second fellow
with a basket, and goes up to him.
Please, he says, I would like something as a souvenir, but I can’t
afford very much. The second vendor
looks him up and down. For you, sir, I
will make a special price. He picks out
a St Christopher medal, polishes it on his sleeve, and days, Usually seven-hundred
and fifty lira but I will let you have it for five hundred. The pilgrim sighs but counts his coins and
hands over the required amount.
Meanwhile, the first priest is coming out of the Vatican, observes the
customers going away from the Jewish vendor without purchasing anything. Shaking his head, he tells the man, That’s no
way to do business. You Jews are always overcharging
everyone who comes up to you. This is a
very sacred place and you show no respect for the visitors who come by. That other fellow—and he points to the second
vendor—he also overcharges: whatever he sells is at least two or three hundred
lira more than you can buy at any of the stalls around the corner, but he at
least doesn’t turn people away with outrageous prices. After dealing with you, they are willing to
pay the prices the other vendor asks.
What kind of a businessman are you?
Business is business, says the man, and shoos the priest away.
About an hour later, with the dark shadows of
evening starting to fall into place as a pitch-black background and the number
of pilgrims, priests and tourists dwindling away to nothing, the first vendor
picks up his basket, covers it with a cloth, and starts walking towards the
second man. Seeing him come, the second
seller also picks up his basket, covers it with a cloth, and greets the scraggy
seller. Nu, he says, not a bad day’s
work, is it, Jake? The other slaps him
on the shoulder. Not too bad, Abe. Let’s go home and have dinner.
Great story! I kind of guessed the ending, but it was a lot of fun anyway!
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