When I went to Houston, to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with the daughter of my former student at Columbia University, I brought along a sizeable amount of cash just in case the opportunity to buy something developed. The daughter of my former student had recently spent a lot of time in northern Pakistan and fell in love with the tribal embroideries that were passing over the border from Afghanistan. She is, I discovered, as crazy about folk textiles as I am.

            I spent five days with my friend in the remote suburbs of Houston, and I had time to look over the textiles she had brought back. But we never found a way to make an exchange so I returned to New York with the money belt full of dollar bills.

            One week later there was a reunion in my apartment of the members of a reading group that my wife had organized. This meeting was meant to be in honor of my wife who died over a year ago, and would mark the end of the group. There were seven people at the table and me. As was the habit everyone brought some food or drink. Each member read a piece and listened to the critiques that followed. Little by little the sweets and the drinks were dispensed. Little by little people were getting tipsy (there was some hard liquor besides the wine). People were free to move about the apartment, everyone felt at home, as it were. Four hours later the group broke up.

            The next day as I was about to go out I thought I had better take an extra twenty dollar bill from my usual hiding place. I was startled to discover that the wad of bills and the money belt were gone, just gone. My God, I thought, I have been robbed. I looked around, of course, for a possible other spot I may have placed the money but nothing turned up. I was flabbergasted. The money was always placed in a cabinet in my bed room, so I concluded: someone who had knowledge of my hiding place must’ve taken the money and the money belt, both in a clean sweep.

            As a rule I never keep much cash in that cabinet. The trip to Houston and the unsuccessful exchange accounted for the excess amount of money. I thought to myself, “Just when I had the largest reserve in the hiding place the infamous act was perpetrated, as (bad) luck would have it.” The money must have been taken by someone I trusted, by a friend in whom I had confided. What perfidy to be violated by a friend, so my thoughts ran. I had all I could do to eliminate the possible villain and to not become overwhelmed with regret and suspicion.

            As much as I would try to imagine the guilty person I knew I could not go around accusing people of theft. I had to suffer this loss alone. I did call my good friend Fred because I trusted him implicitly. He was dismayed to learn of the theft but could not in good conscience think any member of our group responsible for an ignoble deed. He concluded the job was done by someone who had access to my apartment and he advised me to change the lock of the front door.

              I also called my brother in California. He was no help at all. He ranted on and on about how stupid I was for leaving money in a place so accessible; he was no comfort and no solace; I simply had to take the blows of adversity, I deserved to suffer. That was my brother’s message.

            I was, indeed, resigned to suffer in silence.

            Two days later as sat down in the living room to watch a late television show I casually looked over my shoulder at a pile of textiles on top of which sat my money belt and all the money I had taken to Houston. I was so relieved and realized immediately that this episode was a matter of short term memory deficiency. I had no recollection of leaving the money belt in the middle of the living room on a pile of textiles in plain view of everyone. Nobody touched the money; it was where I left it. But the older memory of hiding my money in the habitual hiding place in my bedroom was stronger than the last drop off place. The problem is the problem of aging. I simply have to be doubly or triply attentive to where I leave things. What else can I do?

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