The Silver Frenzy by Ephraim Kishon

On one of those hot sand-swept mornings, my wife heaved a deep sigh and said:

What a heat! This reminds me that our kerosene stove is so rust-eaten that I always feel like sinking into the ground whenever we have guests.

I did not answer the woman, because a jabbering man is like a leaking bucket at a barn fire. Instead it flashed through my mind that here was an opportunity to make my wife a pleasant surprise: I'd give that stove a good coat of silver paint.

Naturally, I decided to do the job myself, because right now that is very fashionable.

In a Jaffa paintshop I bought a huge can of fireproof silver aluminum paint, manufactured in Kibbutz Tushia , and a me­dium brush, so that my work should not be hampered for lack of technical means.

Next morning, with the khamsin going as strong as ever, I feigned sleep until my wife had left for the office to earn our daily income tax, then got up, opened the tin, mixed the glittering silvery liquid according to pre­scription, and made a beautiful job of the stove. The coat of paint fitted as if it had come straight from Dior's hands, covering the dirt and soot as if they had never been there. Being a modest man, I must however confess that any college graduate could have done as well with aluminum paint, which has such properties that one simply cannot help doing a good job with it.

If you have never tried, I warmly recommend it to your attention. You'll never touch any other paint.

I enjoyed my work tremendously and simply could not wait until first coat dries properly before applying second,as some benighted bureaucrat had written on the can, but immediately applied a second coat, and, to be on the safe side, a third as well. Seeing that the faucets had become somewhat tarnished, I restored their silvery sheen, then reasoned as follows:

My hands are stained anyway and the can is open. Why not look around? There might be something else in need of restoration.

I reconnoitered the flat and silver-painted two worn-down door handles, a dripping kitchen tap, and three aluminum saucepans (after the treatment they looked like new), plus the cactus pot and the cactus spines, a few trifles like a shoehorn, an ash tray, two footstools, and the kitchen table.

By then I really wanted to stop, because I felt I was falling from one extreme to the other, but when I saw the paint flaking off my faithful old motorcycle, the least I could do was drag it out onto the porch and highlight its streamlined form. But my tackling the rear chain as well points to a certain deterioration of my mental balance, no doubt brought about by the inhu­man weather. By then I had completely lost control over myself, and as the floor tiles had anyway become covered with a pattern of silver polka dots, it occurred' to me to relieve the monotony of the floor with a checkerboard effect.

After the checkerboard I said, Now, enough! But down on my knees in front of the stove, I gave it another coat. Then it occurred to me that it was in bad' taste to paint only two door handles silver, therefore I silver-plated all door and window handles, then devoted a few minutes to the picture frames and made a few changes in the reproduction of the Mona Lisa, dressing her in a silver lame evening gown, which fitted her imbecile smirk much better.

But while painting the sides of the radio set, I realized that my shoes had become covered with silver freckles, which I made disappear under an even layer. The shoes were literally shining, and I am really surprised that nobody has yet thought of making aluminum shoes, especially for wear with dark suits. After silvering the covers of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, I really decided to stop after rejuvenating the lamps, which I did while standing on a ladder. (Funny ladder: I could have sworn it was aluminum, though I knew it was wood!) I painted the light bulbs as well, and as I stood there on top of the. ladder, some paint spilled on the Persian rug , but I was pleasantly surprised to find that the rug had an amazing ability for absorbing silver paint, which proves what gratifying progress kibbutz industry has made.

At this stage in the stove painting I gave the big cupboard a quick once-over, then completely trans­formed all my wife's handbags and a few ties, and finally promoted my mother-in-law's rabbit stole to sil­ver fox. Uttering strange animal grunts, I stumbled out into the garden and made a few saplings look like silver poplar, then created the world's first silver carnations. Just as I put the second coat of paint on the shutters, the postman came, so I put some silver on his temples to make him look more distinguished, but the poor man misunderstood me and, shouting hoarsely, fled, scattering registered letters all over my lawn.

While I was giving the walls an appearance more in keeping with the general character of the apartment, the door opened, and my wife stood there.

Excuse me, sir, she said. I thought this was where I live.

With that she turned on her heel, but I caught her and assured her that this was I, and what she saw was supposed to be a big surprise. She was surprised, but not pleasantly, and said she was going to move into a hotel until the rabbinate's verdict. However, the poor woman could not pack, because all the suitcases had somehow turned into silver. My wife began to weep, and I, with a few bold brush strokes, painted her nails silver.