What If You Had the Devil’s Jacket?
A Short Story to Understand Corruption
I have always considered myself a man of simple pleasure: give me a good cup of coffee, maybe with some brandy in it, a beautiful woman to pass the night, and I’m the happiest person out there. I don’t like expensive clothes, nor do I find pleasure in wearing a jacket that was made with some exotic material and costed thousands of euros.
So, it was a surprise when I found that, at a party in downtown Milano, my eyes kept darting toward this old guy wearing a gorgeous suit. He was sixty, maybe, slim in figure, grey hair, and that kind of slight snobbism that comes after years of being rich. But what seemed to distinguish him from the others was his jacket, that glowed of a magic light, pure and definitive.
I don’t know who he was, and for some strange reason I never thought of asking his name, but sometime during the party, I found myself sitting next to him. We talked a little bit about the weather, and then I did it, I made the biggest mistake of my life. “Beautiful jacket…” I said, “who is your tailor?”
He shrugged, while a mysterious smile cracked on his too-thin, reptilian-like face, as if he had been expecting the question all along. “He’s not well known,” he said, “but he’s a true master at his craft…only works for some elite customers…
