"Now I know what kind of present you require, my friend," grinned Tony and punched me. "It must be made of the purest gold, a golden necklace, perhaps?"

      I stopped and hugged him for the idea, right on the plaza. "Yes, it has to be gold! Why didn't I see that? Gold is the perfect metaphor that ties everything together, Sylvia, Anton, what happened here, and what happened before. Gold has no meaning in isolation, it is precious only in the spectrum of all the metals in the world, and Sylvia compares to the finest gold there is. The gold must be kept precious."

      After a few minutes of searching we found just the right place where to purchase such a gift made of fine gold. Tony remembered a small jewelry store from our earlier walks. He remembered that it was located in a side street behind a small plaza. He remembered seeing racks and racks of golden necklaces on the counter.

      Actually, the store was smaller than he had remembered. There was barely enough room for two people to stand. Still, the store was open to the street, so it didn't feel crowded. To my surprise the counter was laden with racks of golden chains of all sizes, all types, and all designs, more so than Tony had remembered. The proprietor was equally interesting and intriguing, a person that one would expect to find in romantic novels or mysterious travel-logs.

      "This country is a marvel," proclaimed Tony. "At home, a store with so much gold laid out on the counter, five feet from the sidewalk, would be robbed twice a day."

      The proprietor smiled. "The seniors are from New York?"

      "You're close. We're from Pittsburgh," Tony replied. "Not that there is any difference."

      "The secret is that our people respect beauty and goodness," the man smiled. "The two are synonymous. That's what this shop is all about."

      He spoke with great delight, and asked whether we felt his arguments were valid. They had to be. Right before us on the counter was the substance of his trust in humanity. "You can't argue with facts," Tony answered.

      Noticing our puzzled looks, the man pointed to the open entrance towards the plaza. "Did you notice the guard with the submachine gun when you came?"

      I said that we did.

      "You can't find those in Pittsburgh, either," Tony remarked.

      "Well, they haven't always been there," the man said. "I have been here a long time. So it's not just because of the guns that my shop isn't robbed twice a day," he grinned. "I believe people feel there is beauty in honesty, too."

      "And what about shoplifting?" Tony asked. The man just shook his head. "Not here. Not from me. But one has to be alert," he smiled from behind his wide-rimmed glasses.

      Eventually he asked what we had come to purchase. I told him what we were after and why. I figured he might understand, and help us choose. But he didn't suggest anything. Still he listened. There were times when his face lit up.

      While we talked, he took every piece that we were interested in and laid it on black velvet to show it off, then weighed it carefully and with the help of a pocket calculator figured out the price.

      The choice was hard. The piece I liked most was a large heavy necklace made of an intricate network of woven gold strands.

      "It's all 14 karats," the man assured me.

      "What do you think?" I asked Tony.

      Tony shrugged his shoulder.

      I looked at the old gentleman. He stroked his white hair, touched his heavy-rimmed glasses. "What would you suggest?" I asked him. The question made him nervous. It was obvious he couldn't allow himself to interfere.

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Stories about  Healing from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche