He reached his hand out towards her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but he did it in an assertive, demanding way. She withdrew the second folder and gave that to him too. Again, he looked at the papers. These files were more extensive and contained almost everything the agency had gathered. Some of the information was acquired using less than legal means, but even that seemed trivial to her.
“Good,” he said, casually handing her a brown envelope as if he were handing over a pencil. Susan took it, slipped it into her purse, and felt warmth spread between her legs. He stood up in the same stiff manner and stuffed the rolled-up folders into his coat. “If there is anything else I need in the next few days, I’ll give you a call.”
She felt the money through the leather of her bag.
“If I only knew what could be so interesting about the boy.”
The way the man looked down on her made her cringe. “It is better for you not to understand. Consider that a piece of good advice.”
He left without looking back.
John sat on the bed in the hotel. It smelled of lavender. He stared at the telephone on the nightstand and couldn’t decide if he dared to use it. He was feeling restless inside, as if he was about to break apart. It all had to be a dream. What he wished for now more than anything else was to talk with someone, someone from the real world, someone who would say, “Wake up!” or something to pull him back into reality. Was he allowed to use the phone? They told him that he should sleep here. Now that they had found him after five hundred years, they didn’t want to let him out of their sight. Did that mean he wasn’t allowed to make a phone call? He had heard that it was expensive to use a hotel telephone, and he only had enough money for the subway ride back home.
They bought him a pair of pajamas, pants, a shirt, everything he really needed and everything in the right size. The floor was covered with the clothes they had bought for him, and he hadn’t even opened all the packages yet. In the meantime it had gotten dark outside, and he just kept sitting there in the gloom.
If he was supposed to spend the night there, then would they also pay for his phone call? Maybe. He stared at the flat, light-colored gadget shimmering in the dimness and shuddered. One trillion dollars, a voice inside his head repeated over and over again. One trillion dollars. What about Paul? Paul Siegel could tell him what to think about it all. Paul would help him get his thoughts sorted.
His hands shot forward as if of their own accord. One grabbed the phone and the other dialed. Holding his breath, he listened as the phone rang on the other end of the line and then heard the crackle of static as someone answered.
“Paul Siegel,” a familiar voice said. John wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything, nothing, not even his own name, and then he noticed that he only got the answering machine. “I’m on a trip abroad, but I’m still glad you called. Please leave your name, number, and a message after the beep, and I will return your call. Thank you.”
It beeped. “Paul?” His voice felt odd, like after throat surgery. “Paul, it’s John. John Fontanelli. If you happen to be home then please answer, it’s urgent.” Maybe he was just coming through the door at this very moment, breathless, baggage and briefcase in hand. It was worth a try. Or maybe he was looking for the right key while he heard the answering machine inside the apartment. “Please call me back as soon as you can. I think I’m going nuts. Something totally crazy happened, and I could use your advice. Why are you on a trip now, dammit? Oh, yes, I’m at the Waldorf Astoria. I forgot the number …” A second beep ended the message. John placed the receiver back on the phone and wiped the sweat off it. He sank back into the pillow and passed out.
$3,000,000,000,000
FOR THE NEXT several days Marvin Copeland didn’t hear anything from John. Then he received a postcard, a postcard of New York.
I really did inherit money, he wrote, and not a little. But I will tell you all about it next time. I have to go on a trip now — its business. I will get a hold of you again, promise. I just don’t know when.
See you, John.
The card had the Statue of Liberty, the World Trade Center, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the Museum of Modern Art on it. Written in the margin, in smaller letters and with a different pen, it said: There will be movers coming in the next few days, show them my room so they can pack my stuff.
“And the rent?” Marvin mumbled and turned the card around looking in vain for another message. “What’s with the rent?”
He did not have to worry, because the three huge men who showed up a few days later handed him an envelope with enough money to cover three months worth of rent in large denominations and a short note in John’s handwriting: I will get a hold of you as soon as I know what’s going on. Keep the room empty for me until then, ok? John.
“Come right on in,” Marvin told the muscular men.
They seemed to be a bit disappointed not having to move a piano, not even furniture, there were only a few cartons full of clothes, some books and other odds and ends.
“Where’s he going to?”
“It’s an international transport,” said the man in charge. He handed Marvin his clipboard. On the papers it said Florence, Italy.
Florence, Italy.
John peered out the little window at the airport, glaring in the sunlight. Peretola Aeroporto it said on one building. It was early in the morning in Florence. They had flown through the night; on a ten or eleven-hour flight. He got mixed-up with the different time zones. Of course he flew first class. Two rows ahead he saw a face that looked familiar. It was a small shock when he realized that he was looking at a movie star: a genuine Hollywood star, an Oscar winner even, accompanied by his wife and manager. He asked Eduardo in a hushed tone if it were okay to go up to the man and ask for an autograph.
“Why not?” Eduardo answered and added dryly, “Or you could wait two weeks, then he’ll come to you and ask for an autograph!”
John did not approach the movie star.
Despite the generous size of the seats and the ample legroom, John wasn’t able to sleep much on the flight and didn’t feel rested when it landed. The bright light hurt his eyes. He blinked when he looked toward the hills to a thin line of Italian stone pine trees. He’d never been to Italy before. All that he knew about this country was what his parents had told him.
He thought back to the previous day. His parents were very surprised when he appeared in a black Lincoln. He still had to smile remembering the looks on their faces. He didn’t tell them that much, and they didn’t quite understand what was going on with the inheritance. “How can you inherit something when we’re still alive, son?” his father must have asked at least five times. They did understand that he was now a wealthy man. But he didn’t tell them just how wealthy he really was since it was a short visit, and they would have had a tough time grasping the enormity of a trillion dollars. After all, he still hadn’t fully grasped it himself.
On their way back from Bridgewater, they stopped by Fifth Avenue, right in front of the most luxurious stores. Eduardo, who was like a tour guide showing John the wonderful world of wealth, handed over a gold credit card with John’s name on it, and then they entered the store to get a tailored suit.
It was quiet inside and it smelled of cloth, fine leather, and expensive perfume. The display cases, bags, and coat hangers seemed as old as America. John would not have been surprised if someone had told him that the dark wood in the store was made from the planks of the Mayflower.
A gray-haired man with a slight limp greeted them. With a quick professional glance he measured up Eduardo from head to toe, examining his perfectly fitting, but somewhat too modern tailor-made suit, and then he looked at John, who was still dressed in jeans, a worn shirt, and a jacket that was hardly an improvement. Without changing the expression on his face he deduced John was the man in need of a suit.
“How much should the new suit for the young man cost?” the tailor asked.
“What
ever is necessary,” Eduardo answered.
And then they got started. John tried on different suits while Eduardo decided, made suggestions, and gave orders to the employees.
At first, John was against being dressed-up in new suits, shirts, and ties. It was all too uncomfortable, would get dirty too easily, and he wouldn’t feel like himself in them.
“You can easily afford the best of the best,” Eduardo told him. “And I doubt that they’re uncomfortable, otherwise rich people wouldn’t wear them.”
“Doubtless, you will be able to afford to wear whatever you want,” Eduardo’s father, Gregorio, agreed awkwardly. “But we think it’s important to have a certain type of wardrobe for certain occasions.”
“You are a very wealthy man,” Gregorio’s brother Alberto said with a wink of an eye. “Surely, you want to feel like one.”
Grandfather Cristoforo smiled and said, “Try them on and then see how you feel in them.”
And, indeed, as John stood before a mirror dressed in his first suit, he was quite impressed. My goodness, what a difference! He had felt like a pile of shit when he entered the store, like a lost homeless man, like a born loser. A voice inside his head had told him to run — that he had no business in a place like this amidst such wealth and opulence. And now, dressed in a classic, dark-blue, double-breasted suit, a snow-white shirt, a tie with thin stripes, a pair of shiny black shoes that were so hard and heavy each step was clearly audible, he not only looked like he belonged in this environment, he even seemed to emit a special aura all of his own as he looked into the mirror. All of a sudden he was a winner, a very important person, yes, a VIP! John looked at the miserable pile of clothes that he used to call his own and he knew that he would never wear them again. To wear a suit like the one he had on seemed almost magical. He felt like a demigod, and the feeling almost made his head spin. It was a feeling he could get addicted to. So they bought, and bought, and bought, running up a tab of twenty-six thousand dollars.
“My God, Mr. Vacchi,” John whispered to Eduardo and felt how pale he got. “Twenty-six thousand dollars!”
Eduardo just raised a brow. “So what?”
“That’s a lot of money for a few suits,” John hissed, feeling miserable.
“It took us almost two hours to choose these suits. In case it comforts you, your fortune grew by almost nine million dollars since we walked in the door.”
John simply didn’t know what to say, except: “Nine million? In two hours?”
“I could do the math for you, if you’d like.”
“We could’ve bought the whole store.”
“Indeed.”
John looked at the bill again, and this time the sum seemed ridiculous. He went to the cash register and laid the bill down along with his new credit card. The gray-haired man took them and went to the back behind a curtain, and when he reappeared it was as if he had been given a shot of adrenaline and was ready to help his new customer in any way he could. The shop owner’s change in demeanor left John wondering what the man had discovered just by calling to check on the card.
John decided to keep one of the suits on. Of course it was no problem to dispose of his old clothes, the gray-haired man told him. He did actually say “dispose.” As if John’s old outfit was nothing more than hazardous waste. John could imagine the man waiting until after they left, then lifting his clothes with large metal tongs and carrying them downstairs to the incinerator with a disgusted expression on his face.
Before leaving the store, Eduardo made arrangements to have the rest of the wardrobe delivered to the moving company that would transport John’s other belongings to Florence.
Later on, at JFK Airport, John noticed how different he felt, and how differently he was treated wearing an expensive suit. Security personnel spoke politely to him, and didn’t push him around. Customs personnel believed him when he said he had no goods to declare. The other passengers looked at him respectfully, and seemed to wonder who he was — if they should recognize him from a celebrity magazine.
“Clothes make the man,” Eduardo told him after John mentioned his observations.
“It’s as simple as that?” John wondered.
“Yes.”
“But, anyone could do this! Buy a really nice suit. Okay, a thousand dollars is a lot of money, but if you consider what people spend on cars …”
Eduardo only smiled.
A silver Rolls Royce stood waiting for them in the parking lot in front of the airport. It was a stretched version and shined to a glossy finish that seemed to leave everyone who saw it awe-struck.
A white-haired chauffer stood by the car, slightly stooped, looking at them with an aristocratic expression. His uniform reminded John of old movies, but the man looked proud. When John and the four lawyers came out of the terminal, pushing the baggage cart in front of them, the driver took off his cap, clamped it under his left arm, and opened the rear door with his right. It didn’t surprise John at all that the car was a Rolls Royce. What other choice was there? He was surprised that he was not surprised!
“So,” Eduardo said lightly, “now people will have something to be surprised by.”
“What do you mean?” John said.
“Because, we ourselves must put the baggage into the trunk. Benito has back problems, a spinal disc and a few other things with Latin names that have to do with the back, and he can’t lift anything heavier than car keys.”
And so John and the three younger Vacchis stowed their bags in the spacious trunk. Meanwhile, the Padrone and the chauffer were talking in Italian; so quickly and in such a strong dialect that John understood next to nothing. And indeed, the people who saw them were surprised, and a couple made some comments. Benito really wasn’t the youngest of men anymore. Eduardo’s grandfather almost seemed young and spry in comparison. Whatever it was that they were talking about, they seemed to get along famously.
“Actually, Benito should have retired years ago, and in effect he did,” Alberto explained when he saw John looking at the chauffer and guessed his thoughts. “But he has worked as our chauffer his entire life. He would wither away if he weren’t allowed to drive the Rolls anymore, and that’s why he’s driving it, for as long as he wants.”
After the baggage was loaded up, everyone got in the car and Benito drove away. But before long they were stuck in a traffic jam, just like everyone else.
“We’re going to go out to our country estate,” Cristoforo explained, looking at John from the side. “Naturally, you are our guest until all the required formalities have been addressed and you have chosen your new residence.”
John, irritated by the rude driving habits of the other drivers and the honking and the shaking of fists, looked at the Padrone. “What sort of formalities are we talking about, exactly?”
“The fortune must be officially signed over to you. What we must avoid is inheritance tax, but don’t worry, we will avoid it.”
“How much would that be?”
“Very much. Half.”
Extraordinarily, John felt a hot anger rise up from his stomach when he heard this; a feeling that he interpreted as aggression. Crazy, he thought. Two days ago he had been wishing that the inheritance would have been a more manageable four million dollars, instead of the colossal sum it had turned out to be. Now his anger burned white-hot merely at the thought of having to give half of a trillion away to some tax authority. It was almost as if he had earned every dollar with his own sweat and hard labor. “How do you plan to do that?” he asked.
This was Gregorio’s area of expertise. “We have a sort of gentleman’s agreement with the Italian minister of finance. He is satisfied to collect a symbolic few million dollars and you promise him to let the Italian government tax your capital income for at least one year. This will bring twenty billion dollars into his coffers, which he can certainly use at the moment.”
“Every finance minister could, couldn’t they?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said. “But Italy want
s to join the European monetary union that is to begin in 1999, and at the moment it is questionable if the country can fulfill the financial prerequisites. Your twenty billion dollars could tip the scales. This is why the minister is, let’s say, very willing to make compromises.”
John nodded, but with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He still had to get used to these kinds of deals and the idea that whatever he did or said would be significant. What was even more momentous was that it would have massive consequences for many other people’s lives. It was still very difficult for him to come to terms with the power of money.
John’s attention was drawn to one of the stores along the street, not unusual since they had barely been moving faster than a pedestrian. “You say that all this money really is mine,” he said to Gregorio. “Is that the case at this very moment?”
“Certainly.”
“I could spend it on whatever I want?”
“Any time.” He turned to his son. “Eduardo, you did give him his credit card?” Eduardo nodded.
“Okay,” said John. “Please, let me out here.”
In his previous life John had once read an article in which the author said that driving a Ferrari was better than sex.
He was right.
Since they left the autostrada, which went past towns with colorful sounding names like Prato, Pistoria or Montecatini, the roadways were much narrower and wound their way in tight curves around dry hills. In some places stones had been piled up along the fields and time and again they raced past ancient abandoned looking farmsteads. When they drove through a village, bedraggled-looking children would gather and shout and wave to them, and the men, standing by the front doors or working on their tractors, would also wave.
“Take a right up by the next intersection, that’s a shortcut,” Eduardo hollered.
“And what if I go straight ahead?”
“That takes twenty minutes longer.”
“Then we’ll go straight ahead,” John said as he stepped on the accelerator. He enjoyed being pressed against the hard leather seats as the red Ferrari roared down the road, accelerating through the empty intersection like an arrow. Better than sex, really. John had lost track of how many times he’d imagined what it would feel like to drive a Ferrari, but it was far better than he could have ever guessed. Surrounded by sleek, deep-red sheet metal, and the powerful motor in back — you feel the thundering engine, like your own heartbeat, and the car becomes one with your body. You race through the countryside, unstoppable, fast, powerful, chasing along the roadways and round curves, the blood in your veins boiling. You feel the world is your playground, your personal racetrack. He felt awesome, like a movie star — he was a king!
One Trillion Dollars Page 5