The Decision

The Decision, the Notebook, and the Bag of Gold

Verona decided she would take the money back home. For it did not belong to anyone. It sat there, at the end of the corridor, beside an artwork, Wheatfields and Crows was its name, isolated from all the others. There the bag of money was, with a small black notebook, its pages blank and empty. There the bag of money perched, ownerless, for no one would dare to hold a bag of money like that, in Milan, and hold it, carry it around, take it to an art gallery, during a Vincent Van Gogh exhibition, and place it there, at the end of a corridor. It was ownerless, decided Verona, for the pages of the book were empty, the money was smooth, not crinkled, and smelling new; almost fresh. How the bag of money happened to appear there was a presumption Verona had no concern in understanding. For the bag of money belonged to no one, and she should take it, as any astute person would.

***

Favio sat on the edge of his seat, his pencil moving rapidly, his thoughts scribbled across the pages, filling them with his frustrations. Reading the newspaper always infuriated him, made his cheeks pink, his hands shake, his heart pound fast and loud. It was always filled with topics which he loved to despise; politicians who lied, crimes that were committed yet never resolved, the legal system that carried on being corrupt. All in the name of justice, of equality, of righteousness and morality. The lead breaks, and Favio sets the pencil down. He worked too hard, he thought to himself, for the money he makes. Since the world and the law were not to change when he critiqued them, then he should, he argued to himself, he must, at least, deserve a higher pay. He began to compare his lifestyle with the lifestyle of politicians; his car and assets to their cars and assets. He, who told the truth, lived in a small apartment, and those who lied lived in luxury. He comes to a judgment he believes authentic, that, if he had come across a large amount of money, then he would not keep it to himself, but rather distribute it between those who needed it. Yes, he concludes. This is what he would do, as any empathetic person would.

***

Twenty thousand dollars was the sum of cash that Verona had found in the bag. She had counted it twice, note by note, in her room with her door locked, she sat on the floor, and in her hands she held the little black notebook. The pages were not, in fact, all blank, there was something written on a page, on just one page, a saying; a peculiar saying, that made her, only now, feel a slight pang of guilt in her chest. Wrong doesn’t become right and evil doesn’t become good, if it is accepted by the majority, she read. She considers, only then, that perhaps she should not have taken the money in the first place. How, she thought, was the bag of money in the art gallery, if someone had not put it there? It was silly of her to have taken it! This wasn’t her, she thought, she always valued doing what's morally right . Thus, she concluded, she would do what is just, and she would hand in the money to the police, as any moral person would.

***

Favio had been writing columns and books critiquing the legal system for twenty years now, and, on this ordinary afternoon, he had come to the conclusion that democracy was merely what the majority felt was right, rather than, what was in actual fact, just and moral. Thus, thought Favio, it would be sagacious to assume that the democratic legal system was anything but just, and rather everything to do with greed and power. The wealthy, particularly politicians, spent billions of dollars on cars and mansions, while people around the world were starving. He knew that if he was ever to have the same power or money as such individuals, then he would use it to make the world a better place, as any moral person would.

***

Verona reaches for the bag of money that could pay for the twenty thousand things she could think of. Her car, her rent, her tuition fees...but no, the money did not belong to her, even if it belonged to none. Again, no, she argues with herself relentlessly, her head was spinning and pounding and throbbing. No, it did belong to someone else, an unknown identity, but a person nonetheless. Verona trudges towards the kitchen, she opens a packet of paracetamol, fills a cup of water, in goes the tablet, followed by the water, they swish through her mouth and travel down her throat, finally reaching their destination. She puts on her shoes, tying its laces, she rises from her seat, and there on the table next to her, lies the little black notebook, and under it, the daily newspaper. The bold headlines on the front of the newspaper draws Verona in, and, pushing the notebook aside, she begins to read.

“Riccardo Magherini”

“drug addict”

“murdered by police officers”

“police brutality”

“unjust behaviour”

Words, phrases, questions spun and swirled through her mind, entangling with each other, she puts the paper down, and takes another paracetamol. Verona then thinks of Riccardo, his family, their grieving, the police, their crimes, the little black notebook sat there, while she thought, contemplated the actions of the police officers, her own actions, the little notebook, the guns, the tasers, the money. Verona massaged her temples. Was it moral, then, to give the money to those who abused their power? No, she concluded, it was not. She would not give the money to the police. She would put it back where she found it, in the art gallery, next to the painting, at the end of the corridor. She stands again, snatches the bag of money, walks to the door, yet hesitates, and, for no particular reason she knew of, Verona walks back to the table, picks up the little black notebook and leaves the house.

***

Verona climbs into the bus, and takes a seat by the window, it’s lens to the outside world blurred by a map of bus routes laminated across its screen. She places the bag of money onto the seat beside her in an attempt to fulfil her desire to be left alone. Several other passengers climb in, the seats begin to fill as the bus travels down the road, pausing at each bus stop, swirling across the lanes, until it would, at last, reach its final destination. In walks an elderly woman, ‘FAWN’ reads her badge, the seats filling up, she walks towards the back of the bus, and stands beside the last vacant space, next to a young lady with a bag and little black notebook perched beside her.

“Do you mind?” Asks Fawn, pointing to the bag and notebook.

“Sure” she says and, lifting her belongings,she inspects the bag to confirm it was closed (it was), before placing it cautiously under her seat. Fawn curiously watches the passenger as her face moulds into a frown; her eyebrows furrowed, her forehead wrinkled, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She looks up, and offers her a small, almost forced smile.

“You alright? You don’t look very well.”

“Yeah, I’m fine...thanks”. The frown remained painted on her face.

“Stressed?” asks Fawn.

“Uh, yeah I guess”.

“From studying?” She gestures with a slight nod towards the notebook

“...sure”

Silence.

“What’re you studying?”

“Law”

“Oh, really? I was just reading a book about law and justice. It’s called Republic -about this old wacko man, asking people what justice means to them,” she blabbers on, “...boring at first, but then it was quite interesting. It’s almost as if every possible answer you find, he makes you rethink all of your decisions all over again.”

“That’s interesting,” says the lady, although she wasn’t.

“No, really, I’m not joking. Go on then- I’ll prove it to you-what do you think justice is?”

The young lady pauses for a minute to think. She looks down at the bag under her seat, then out the window.

“Giving back what you take from someone else.”

“How so?”

“You steal someone's money. You give it back.”

“What if that money was for, God forbid, a drug dealer? Or someone who would use it unjustly? Is it right to give them back what you owe?”

The young lady turns towards her, her frown deeper now.

“So what happens in the end?” She asks, almost desperately . “What is considered morally correct and just?”

“That’s the most interesting thing,” Fawn says as she leans forward excitedly “there is no correct answer! Nothing is really moral or just! Isn’t that fascinating?”

The young lady’s frown never leaves, but she nods, and excuses herself, as the bus comes to a stop again. Confused, Fawn contemplates asking the young lady why she looked so worried, but decided not to interfere with the lady’s personal issues, and to give her some space, as any empathetic person would.

***

Verona leans against the railing of the bridge as she watches the cars pass below. She could not put the money back where she had found it, for she did not know what the money could be used for. Besides, it was peculiar, it was oddly peculiar, to be carrying around this money. Why was it not in a bank? Oh, how she regretted finding the money! How she wished she never opened the notebook! How she wished she had spent all the money before she realised her mistake, so that there was nothing left she could do! She seemed to be unravelling, and could not bear it any longer. She makes a decision, and, before she could change her mind, Verona throws the bag containing the money and the little black notebook over the bridge, and it travels down, swirling through the air, and arrives at its destination as she walks away, as any astute person wouldn’t do.

***

Fawn exits through the bus doors that close shut and the bus drives away. She heads towards the mall, as she chastises the rude bus driver, who didn’t reply when she thanked him. She crossed the road, deliberating the reasons as to why there were individuals who had no sense of compassion. She comes to a conclusion, a peculiar conclusion, that such people who were emotionless and rigid were inhumane and immoral, for it is emotions that make someone a human, and it was this characteristic of humanity that made us moral. Fawn turns left, and notices the crowd of people standing adjacent to the mall, carrying posters. One read “STOP POLICE BRUTALITY” another read “JUSTICE FOR RICCARDO MAGHERINI”. She turns her back towards the crowd with indifference, and enters the mall, as any empathetic person wouldn’t do.

***

Favio shuffles towards the kitchen, and fills himself a bottle of cold water. He would need to quench his thirst, as he would be chanting all day at the protest he would be attending. He ties his shoelace and leaves the house, his rolled-up posters held firmly in his hand. As he walks down the street, and under the bridge, he notices an ordinary-looking bag. Yet, for some strange reason, it was peculiar, it was oddly peculiar, and he couldn’t help but be drawn towards it, and there, he stood astounded at what lay in front him; a bag filled with money and a little black notebook. He decided he would take the money back home, for he could name twenty thousand things he could use it for. A new car, a larger house, the list was endless. Yes, he would take the money back home, and keep it for himself, as any moral person wouldn’t do.

He picks up the little black notebook, its pages blank except for one line, and begins to read.

THE END

By: Amanie Chahrouk