Now he needs to get to it, before they go upstairs to his mother, because around her, there’s no talking about money! But his father’s clearly weak—he’s exhausted—he can’t possibly propose they go back outside, up the steps, to the gate, and take a stroll along the street. He’d have to wait for his father on the sidewalk, like the Bravi, with Don Abbondio! But in a flash—they’re on the elevator—he instinctively acts: the son quotes a line he’s used ever since he was little, the day his brother, Luca, was born: “Dad, I have a great idea…” And what came after: “How about we take Mommy and Irene, and we all go home?” “And what about your new brother—can’t he come, too?” “No, he can stay here.”

His father laughs! He’s touched by this! And the son jumps in with: “How about we buy Barbara’s place?”

The elevator goes up, there’s no escape—it’s so small!

And his father says: “Hey! What a great idea! I’ll come take a look!”

The elevator reaches their floor! The idea’s been approved before his mother and father see each other again and the son finds it impossible to talk, because his mother gets very worked up over money!

They step off the elevator—it’s over! He’s not sure how, but he’s won!

And then, what I’d call “the post-game analysis” kicked in. My father and I decided not to tell my mother that evening; probably he wanted to enjoy the triumph of his lucrative investments, and he knew the timing always had to be right when talking to her about large expenses. So I grabbed my jacket and backpack and left, truly the prodigal son, who could go his entire life rejecting his old neighborhood and his father’s world and now return when he needed to and find himself bestowed with the gift of the fatted real-estate calf …

On the bypass, riding my scooter to the right of the cars stuck at a standstill at various places in the tunnel, I reflected on what had just happened. How was it possible to be worth so little, that with no effort whatsoever, just by sincerely expressing something instinctive (Please, sir, I want some more), you could wind up with such an expensive yes?

Had I congratulated him enough? Had I explicitly said I wanted to speak to him without Mom? I had. Had he found it unpleasant, his success linked to this idea of a purchase? His yes had been so free, so natural. Let’s take a look at that instant replay: yes, the paternal yes that opens the coffers. Sweetness, the land of milk and honey. I’d said the right thing: a home! Not filthy lucre—a home! For him, money didn’t exist as money; for him, so-called disposable income (the pulsing heart of this capitalist period), namely, pleasure-spending—on Amazon or at a restaurant—is peculiar. For him, what you should do with money is shift it to some new territory, like tanks in Risk. Money’s a nice roll of the dice, not a cause for celebration in and of itself, but serviceable for the proper move on the board of the game of wealth.