The moonfaced Minister, while he was speaking, tore the pearls from his clothing. Then to the amazement of the Jews, he tossed the matchless collection onto the Chancellory floor. “Years and years and years,” he repeated. It was not clear whether he was referring to the time it took the oysters to manufacture the gems or to the decades of suffering that Rievesaltes had undergone—yes, and inflicted—in order to pay Palfinger for them.

“A fortune,” Schpitalnik said.

“No,” said the head of the Jewish police. “Only sand. This is the fortune.” So saying, Rievesaltes took from his jacket pocket a small vial filled with oblong white pills. He took the cap off and distributed them about the table. “Priceless! Priceless! Who would not give for just one of these pearls all that he owns?”

“What’s inside?” Verble asked.

“Darkness. In just one minute. Painless darkness. Can you think of a more valuable gift?”

And without more ado, using the dregs in his wineglass, Rievesaltes gulped his tablet down. There was a gasp. No one stirred.

Rabbi Lunt: “They say that in paradise the sky is gold and the roadways are lapis lazuli. In other words, not darkness, Jews: light.” Lunt swallowed the capsule. So did Baggelman, and, a half moment later, Miss Megalif did, too.

Popower stood up at his place. “Everybody wants to live! That’s obvious!” Then he put a pill on his tongue and drank it down with a sip of wine.

“A toast of thanks to the Minister of Security!” exclaimed Philosoff, raising his glass. The Ministers of Culture and Entertainment, of Public Health, of Water and Power, likewise lifted their goblets and swallowed their pills.

Thus, in turn, all those in the room followed suit. The Minister of Justice was last. “If only there had been a breakthrough at the Kiev front,” he said, rolling the pill in his cheek until, by accident almost, it went down.

“I don’t feel any different. I feel just the same,” said Rabbi Wolf-Kitzes.

“So do I! No! Wait! Now I am lightheaded!”

“Minister Verble,” said Gutfreind, “I am definitely lightheaded, too.”

“Yes! Yes! It’s as if I drank a bottle of wine!”

Then there was a calm. Everybody was sitting around the long table, with his or her head propped on an elbow, like a person who is feeling bored. The silence continued. Philosoff closed his eyes. So did Popower. Baggelman, of Industry and Labor, let his head fall onto his folded arms. About two minutes had gone by altogether. Finally Verble, the former ragpicker weakly said, “Would the Minister of Justice tell us again about Sarah Bernhardt? About the café crěme?”

Margolies’ chin was on his fists. He could not speak above a whisper. “Gladly. It was at the Scotch Hotel. Bialystok. 1900. The curls of my hair, all on one side. She motioned for me. Forward I glided. A pot of hot milk, a pot of hot coffee, the saucer and cup. Now the cup is before her. Now with both hands I grip the silver handles: skillfully I pour out an equal measure of coffee and milk. A three-star hotel. A cigarette in a holder.”