“To begin with, son,” Conrad said, “in double-entry accounting every transaction is recorded by entries in at least two accounts. The total of the debit values must equal the total of the credit values, and the premise for this is that any monetary transaction must logically affect two aspects of a company.” Parsifal must have looked puzzled, because his father continued, “For example, if an item is purchased — I call it the ‘debit inventory’—then it must also be paid for, and I call this part the ‘credit bank account.’ That’s the first aspect. Are you with me so far?”
Parsifal nodded.
“Alternatively, if an item is sold, something I call the ‘credit inventory,’ then the company must also be paid for it out of the debit bank account, and that’s the second aspect.”
“That seems only fair,” Parsifal told him.
“Yes,” Conrad answered, “it is. But you might also note that while most transactions consist of two entries, some may have as many as three or more entries. For example, a supplier invoice total equals the net value plus the taxes. This system is called ‘double entry’ because all transactions must ‘balance.’That is, at the end of the day when you reach for your jacket to go home — not to your house where you live with your mother here in the forest, you understand, but to a place like the modest pied-à-terre I am forced to maintain in the city all the while I am missing your mother and you — the debit and credit sides must equal the same amount.” Conrad gave his son an encouraging smile.
“Historically, debit entries have been recorded on the left-hand side and credit values on the right-hand side of a general ledger account, but of course once you get the hang of it you are free to express yourself in any way you wish.”
Then Conrad handed Parsifal a large pile of acorns and told him that they were his inventory. “Now,” Conrad said, “even though I just gave you those acorns, I want you to sell some of them back to me at a nickel each so you can make a profit. But at the same time, I want you to know I’m going to be charging you for delivering the acorns to you just now, and also you are going to have to pay me rent for that flat spot on top of this log where you have put them. And by the way, even though I’m going to be paying you for those acorns, every so often I will cheat you, and you won’t be able to stop me. It might very well be that your bookkeeper is embezzling some of your profits; perhaps he or she is a gambler, or has a pet charity, but you won’t know that until the end, when you will be able to make a full accounting by means of the technique I am about to teach you.”
In addition to the acorns, Conrad gave Parsifal two pens, a ballpoint with red ink for the debit part, and another ballpoint with black ink for the credit part. There was something elemental there, something irrefutable, Parsifal thought. So they spent the afternoon, Conrad buying acorns and Parsifal keeping track of them, and by the end Parsifal owed his father sixty-five cents and had a pretty good idea of the fundamentals of such bookkeeping, which eventually, in the years that followed, he used to run his fountain pen repair business.
At his trial, Parsifal’s case was also helped by the parents of one of the children who had been blinded in the fire. They appeared in court dressed in modest clothing — the mother in a blue dress with fringe on the bottom and the father in a green blazer and red tie — and they brought with them their daughter, Bronwyn, whose eyes were still covered by gauzy white bandages.
“We’re Christians and we believe it’s our duty to forgive — and besides,” they told the judge, “it wasn’t looking as if Bronwyn was on the way to turning into much of a reader.”
“Thank you,” Parsifal mouthed to them across the room.
“God bless you,” they mouthed back.
The rest of the morning Parsifal spent walking. His energy level remained high, thanks to whatever ingredients Misty had tucked inside that bar, and he knew he had five more left that were like it. He felt confident. He didn’t know if the smell of smoke was diminishing or if he was just getting used to it, but it wasn’t a concern at that moment.
So Parsifal had just walked into a small clearing, maybe thirty yards in diameter, with some berries and wild flowers still in bloom, when there was a terrific whooshing sound above him, and he looked up in time to see something very large strike the ground at the far side of the clearing. He ran to where it had hit, and there, nearly unrecognizable at the bottom of the crater it had made in the soft ground, was a 1957 Chevy Impala coupe, painted powder blue with a white top, the largest object he had ever seen fall from the sky. What did it mean, he wondered, that who or whatever was dropping these objects onto the earth would let go of a classic like that?
Clearly, far from dying down, as Parsifal had hoped, the intensity of the combat seemed to be increasing.
Another time, Parsifal was sitting around talking with his therapist, Joe, in his office. It was in the evening, well after Joe’s usual hours, because Parsifal had missed the previous three appointments for some reason or another, and Joe had left a message to say he was beginning to get worried and might have to report Parsifal to his probation officer if he missed any more. When Parsifal called him back, Joe said he was still at his office, just finishing up some paperwork, and he’d be there if Parsifal wanted to drop by right away. Joe said he was about to order some Chinese takeout, and added that if Parsifal wanted to split the meal with him they could talk together over supper. Joe told him that he was thinking of won ton soup, mu shu pork, kung pao chicken, and some special fried rice. How did that sound?
It sounded good, Parsifal told him, but he thought it might be a good idea to order some vegetables as well, and maybe some egg rolls and beans in garlic sauce wouldn’t hurt.
Joe agreed, and said that Parsifal should hurry. If the food arrived before Parsifal did, he would save a copy of the bill so they could split it.
Parsifal arrived just as the delivery person, a middle-aged man with a heavy mustache and an accent full of the scornful pauses an overeducated person in a foreign country will often interject, was leaving. Joe showed Parsifal the bill and they divided it, including the tip. The won ton was too salty and, Parsifal suspected, laden with MSG, but the mu shu pork was fragrant and tender, and the chicken was a revelation of dry spiciness combined with smoky chicken flavors. The rice and egg rolls were average, and the beans were overcooked.
“What can you expect from takeout?” Joe asked. “And besides, don’t you think you’re a little picky for someone who was raised on the floor of the forest eating God-knows-what?”
When they finished, they opened their fortunes. Joe’s was “You are a pleasant person and others find you easy to relate to.” Parsifal’s was “Darkness lies ahead.” They shoveled the dirty plates and containers into a trash bag that Joe put outside his office door.
“The cleaning person will dispose of it,” Joe said, as Parsifal settled into his usual chair and Joe took his.
“Say,” Joe began, apropos of nothing, “I don’t suppose you happen to have a picture of your mother in your wallet or anything like that, do you?”
“In fact, I do,” Parsifal answered. “I carry one of her and me that my father took. I must have been three or four years old, and Pearl would have been in her early twenties.” He fished around inside his wallet and handed the picture to Joe. In it, Pearl was wearing her short, lightweight, summer deer-hide skirt and a black Frederick’s of Hollywood bra. She was posed on a tree limb, maybe ten feet off the ground, so the picture angled upward, revealing her long, tanned legs. With one arm she was holding on to a vine, about to swing off into space, as with the other she grasped Parsifal’s waist to take him along with her.