One Trillion Dollars

by Andreas Eschbach

  If the economy were a person, we would say he is addicted. The central bank has got him hooked.

  There is another way. You remember our anniversary party at the school last year. Everyone got a red plastic chip for a piece of pizza, a blue chip for a Coke, and a green one for an ice cream. These chips were substituted for money for the duration of the festivities. I traded my green chip for a red one, because I don’t like ice cream. I saw a student who traded all of his for blue ones because he was thirsty. It all worked wonderfully and students got more or less what they wanted. And when the festivity was over our principal threw away all the chips because all the pizzas, ice cream, and Coke were gone. Now imagine that company that produced those chips had, instead of selling them, said here you have a thousand red chips, but for them we want a thousand and thirty chips in return. Not even our principal is so stupid that he would not have noticed that. No, what we experienced during the festivities without being aware of is a monetary system the way it should be. The money was used for the things available and when they were gone it also disappeared. It was only available for the reason money was ever invented in the first place: to simplify the exchange of goods. This way everyone was able to simply go home. It was not necessary to go chasing chips that no longer had any value.

  Let’s get to the point. As a result of the fact that the central bank charges interest rate on newly created money, we end up with more debts than money to pay them. It is like the card game Old Maid, except that more and more Old Maids are being put into the game. And while each player must get rid of his Old Maid, it keeps getting more difficult to do because the number of Old Maids is growing. You have to work faster and harder, try to outdo the others, and you can’t be kind to anybody any more, you must squeeze out that last bit of effort. Everything speeds up in an endless and vicious circle.

  Is it not this what we are seeing today? The economy grows and grows, oh what a miracle, oh what a wonder, yet everywhere austerity measures must still be put in place, jobs are getting scarce, everyone must work harder and has less time for himself and for his family, taxes go up, everyone has a feeling that everything is getting worse, even though everyone is working hard for it to get better. It’s not getting any better. The more effort we put in the more debts are created, and they are increasingly difficult — or even impossible — to repay. The more we try to escape this misery the worse we make it. The only way out of this spiral is to find someone who will foot the bill, someone far away, or maybe nature will do it! Let’s cut down another rain forest — it doesn’t cost anything and we’ll get paid for the wood to pay off our debts. Let’s get another product on the market that no one needs. We’ll convince the stupid people that they do need it, even if it’s only to be “in” for a short while. Let’s build it cheap so it doesn’t last, then when it breaks we can sell even more. Let’s get people’s money any way we can, so that at least we can pay our own debts. Let’s bury our toxic waste or sink it into the oceans because we can’t afford to dispose of it properly. Each and every one of us is in their own, fighting for themselves.

  The worst bit is that debt is taboo, something not to be talked about. People don’t talk about their debts, as if they were signs of failure. They’d rather be exposed as sexual perverts than as being in debt. Officially, no one is in debt. Superficially, everyone is content. Nobody has financial problems, just like the Victorians pretended nobody had sex organs.

  What can we do about it? The economy exists solely to supply people with the things they need. That won’t work without money, the lifeblood of the economy. But, this blood is diseased. It forces the economy to grow voraciously and it’s killing off the basic foundations of existence. If the economy were a living thing, we would say it had leukemia. That’s why whatever we try to do to save the world has no effect unless we first heal the monetary system. The defect in the system must be fixed.

  The phone rang. John looked up and eventually realized his eyes were sore and tired. He glanced at the clock; it was a bit after one thirty in the morning. Goodness! A call at this time could mean only bad news. He answered it. “Fontanelli.”

  “Eduardo Vacchi,” a voice said that he had not heard for ages. “Excuse me please. I was told that you are in the Philippines. Is it very late there?”

  “Yes, but I was still up.”

  “I’m calling because of grandfather,” Eduardo said. “He’s dying. He told me that he would like to see you one more time.”

  $35,000,000,000,000

  HIS CHARTER refueled in Bangkok, with another stopover in Karachi. He would reach Florence twenty-six hours later. Cristoforo Vacchi would have to live at least that long if he wanted to see the Padrone again.

  At times John barely knew where he was. The flight was a change of pace from his usual private jet. All hell was breaking loose in Manila, in the city, and especially outside of it. It was unbelievable that aircraft could fly in the oily, black haze that covered the skies. But they heard that it was worse in other places: the airport in Kuala Lumpur was already closed, and Singapore was nearly as bad. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The hospitals here overfilled with people with eye and lung problems caused by the smog. A few had already died.

  They finally took off and left the smog behind. It gradually stopped smelling like smoke inside the plane. John simply wanted to sit there and let his forehead rest against the window. The plane made a wide turn towards the west. From up here, in the brilliant light of the stratosphere, the smoke clouds looked even uglier, like an evil, black cauliflower stretching as far as the horizon … an atmospheric inflammation, rampant and abnormal.

  His grandfather had liver cancer, Eduardo had told him. It was diagnosed a year and a half ago. It grew fairly slowly, as it often did in older people, and due to his age there wasn’t much that could be done about it. Now he was nearing his end … quickly. He begged John to hurry.

  What sort of criticism would they heap on him? He could expect the Padrone to show no mercy now he was on this deathbed, he would give John a piece of his mind … tell him he had gone down the wrong path with McCaine, wasted precious time building up an empire that helped no one. That he, Cristoforo Vacchi, was deeply disappointed in him. That John was the wrong heir after all.

  Lorenzo would have known what to do. That’s what went through John’s mind over and over again, like water drops from a Chinese water torture. The fact that the second part of his school newspaper article showed up seemed to him like a sneer of fate. Not only would John never have come up with such ideas on his own as Lorenzo had done, but he still didn’t fully understand what Lorenzo meant.

  Lorenzo would have understood and taken action, he expected Cristoforo to tell him. Lorenzo would have been the true heir.

  He shuddered at the thought of facing the old man. He could have made sure he arrived too late. Traveling half way around the globe wasn’t that simple a matter. No one could hold it against him.

  It was a strange feeling to come back here, to look out the window and to read Peretola Aeroporto on the terminal building early in the morning, just like two and a half years ago. This was where it had all begun, his new life. Two and a half years. To him it seemed like an eternity, but then again it also felt like it was only yesterday.

  It was a strange feeling to be picked up in the same Rolls Royce he rode in through Florence for the first time, and it took the same route, past the Ferrari dealership. But, it wasn’t Benito driving the car anymore. Eduardo told him about his stroke and shrugged his shoulders — that’s life. “How was your flight?” he asked.

  “I could have done without the four and a half hour layover in Karachi,” John said. “Otherwise it was okay. I was glad to even get a flight at all.”

  “I thought you would come with your private jet.”

  “No, M — er…” McCaine needs it, he almost said. Better not. “I would have to have it come to fetch me, and that would not have been faster at all.”

  Eduardo unde
rstood. “I see.”

  He looked different from what John remembered. He looked more serious … no … more mature … grown-up. He wanted to ask him how he had been, but decided to put it off until later, maybe. “How, err … how is he doing?” he asked uneasily instead.

  Eduardo looked out of the window. “He’s fading away. I don’t know how else to say it. Every morning we go in to see him, and … he is still there. Real peaceful, you know. He needs nothing … he’s peaceful. He smiles when he speaks but mostly he sleeps.”

  “And it’s for sure that … I mean … there is nothing to be done … absolutely?”

  “The doctor comes twice a day and adjusts the morphine pump so he’s in no pain. That is all that can be done.”

  “I see.” He stared ahead. Marco sat beside the driver. He seemed to be enjoying talking in his mother tongue again. At least it seemed so through the partition window. “So it is only a matter of time.”

  “The doctor says he is amazed he is hanging on. He says he has the feeling that grandfather is waiting on something.”

  Me, John thought, and almost felt sick. He looked for the armored Mercedes, following them with the other bodyguards. They could not help him either now.

  It was a strange feeling to step into the Vacchis’ house again … to look around and to see that nothing has changed. Had he ever left? How much time had really passed? He greeted them all with a somber expression.

  “Go to him,” Alberto said in a solemn tone. “He’s waiting for you.”

  There were no more hands to be shaken, so he no longer had a choice. He went upstairs, up the centuries-old steps. He walked down the hallway with the high ceilings; his heart was pounding and hands were shaking as he got closer to the door. The doorknob felt cool as he turned it. There was no turning back now.

  The room was large, and quiet, and dark. You could smell that the room was thoroughly and regularly aired out, but there still was the hospital odor of disinfectant in the air. A giant four-poster bed stood at the end of the room with the curtains tied back. There was also an IV stand with a bag filled with a clear liquid and a rolled-up hose, waiting to be put to use. A metal trolley stood beside it with bandages, medication, and a bunch of other medical supplies.

  In the bed, almost unrecognizable, was the Padrone, or what was left of him in this world.

  “John,” he said. “You came …” He was weak. He looked at John, his dark eyes deep in their sockets, his voice low and feeble. It was hardly audible even in the silence of the room. John came closer to hear him.

  “Padrone, I…” John said hastily, but the dying man interrupted him.

  “Get a chair.” His finger pointed to a dark corner. “It should be over there.”

  John went and got something he would have never simply called “a chair”. It was a work of art, an armchair with cushioned seat and an elaborately carved back. It was very old, but in good shape and no doubt worth a small fortune. You could sit on it too.

  “I’m happy to see you one last time, John,” the old man said. “You look good … nice tan.”

  John gripped the chair’s arms, his fingers tense. “I was in the Philippines … six weeks or so … on the yacht.”

  “Oh yes. Eduardo told me. The Philippines … nice. I sometimes had a bad conscience, because I had influenced your life so much … burdened you with all of this … But, you look like you are doing well?”

  “Yes, sure. I am doing … well, yes.”

  The Padrone smiled. “That girl that you were shown with in the newspapers … I say girl. She is, of course, a woman, Patricia DeBeers. Is that something serious with her? Excuse my curiosity.”

  John swallowed hard and shook his head. “That was only … I mean, she is basically okay, and we got along in the end. In the beginning it was … only a show. For the media, you know.”

  “Ah,” he nodded — barely noticeable. “Was that his idea? McCaine?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. “McCaine. For some reason it comforts me to hear that. I almost thought so, but I thought that no one could be so crass as to stage manage something like that … The photos looked posed. I don’t know why. Miss DeBeers is a fabulous looking young woman, no doubt … but I couldn’t see you and her as a match.”

  John nodded, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think. He hadn’t imagined a dying man could be interested in such matters.

  The Padrone closed his eyes for a moment. He wiped a hand across his forehead … a hand with almost translucent skin. “You might think,” he then said and opened his eyes looking at John surprisingly clear and steady, “that I am disappointed in you. Tell me honestly.”

  John admitted it. “Yes.”

  The Padrone smiled gently, almost softly. “I am not. Did you think I wanted to see you just to give you a piece of my mind? That I would waste my last hours like that?”

  John nodded and had a lump in his throat.

  “No. I only wanted to see you again. A most selfish wish, if you like.” He looked straight ahead at the window, at the bright, deep blue sky outside. “I still remember the moment, when I realized I could live to see the unveiling of the heir. I think I was twelve at the time, some time before the start of the war. Everyone was talking about Hitler. I remember it well. I did the calculations so many times to be sure. My father, who had told me about it my whole life, would not live to see the day — but I would. I felt like the chosen one. I felt connected with you even before you were born. I visited you twice every year when you were a child, watched you grow up, watched you play, and tried to find out about your wishes and dreams. Is it so difficult to understand that I didn’t want to die before seeing you one more time?” He paused. Talking seemed to make him tired. “You have not done what I expected. Would that be a reason to condemn you? I never expected you to do what I expected. Otherwise I could have done it myself.”

  “But I teamed up with a man that you advised me against, every one of you. I used the money to create a global empire of companies instead of helping the poor, feeding the hungry, saving the rainforests, doing anything sensible. I sought power but don’t really know what for. I…”

  “Shh,” the old man said, his hand rose. “I was upset when you went away … I admit. It took me some time to understand it all, a very long time, to be honest.” He let his arm fall. “But when death gets so near that it is visible in the corner of your eye no matter where you look … that sets things right in life; you change your priorities. Don’t feel too bad about yourself, John. You are the heir. Whatever you do will be the right thing.”

  “No, no, I’m not the rightful heir that the prophecy meant. Now I know. Lorenzo would have been the right heir. He…”

  “John…”

  “I had his essay sent to me. In it he examined the monetary system and found the mistake in it, in the monetary system. That’s ingenious. I would have never worked that out in my entire life. Even now I don’t really understand it fully. Lorenzo would have known what to do. Padrone, I don’t know.”

  “But God wanted to have Lorenzo come to him only a few days before the deadline. So you are the rightful heir. It will be you that will use the fortune to restore humanity’s lost future. So it is written in the prophecy, so it will happen. You don’t have the power to do anything about it, one way or another. Whatever you do, in the end will be the right thing.”

  John looked at him, perplexed. “You still believe in me.”

  “Indeed, I still believe. I can’t help it. It is the way it is.” He closed his eyes, as if listening to some inner voice. “I think it is time for me to sleep a little. John, I thank you for coming. I was a bit worried you might not, truthfully …” His voice got weaker, until it wasn’t loud enough to be heard even in the stillness of the room.

  John saw that those might have been the last words he heard from the Padrone, the Mr. Angelo of his childhood, the herald of summer and autumn. All that must be said must be said now, or never. He searche
d his mind for anything yet unspoken but found nothing, so he sat and helplessly watched the dying man.

  “Oh, before I forget,” Cristoforo Vacchi said, “there is a young lady here as our guest. You know her, I think. She has discovered something truly amazing. You should take a look.” His skinny fingers wandered across the sheet and came to rest on John’s right hand, but it felt more like a shadow then part of a body. “Farewell, John. And relax, you will see, in the end all will be well.”

  The feeble hand retreated and lay beside the frail body that was hardly visible underneath the covers. For a moment John was horrified to think he had witnessed the moment of death, but Cristoforo Vacchi had only fallen asleep. He could see the old man’s chest going up and down.

  John stood up, careful not to make any noise. Should he put the chair back? Better not. He looked down at the Padrone and, despite trying, could not quite get his head around the fact that this would probably be the last time he would see him alive. All he knew was that it would be good to say farewell, however he went about it. He stared, trying to keep the moment in his mind, to grab hold this instant in time and to preserve it, at least in his memory, but it all slipped away. Never before had he felt time pass so relentlessly. He gave up and simply looked at the man, the man who had such steadfast confidence in him. He stood there silently until he felt something like peace within, and he knew that was enough. He turned away and left.

  Only when he was outside in the hallway and had carefully closed the door did he notice his cheeks were moist. He was crying.

  She sat at the table as if she were part of the family. She looked pale and somber, and John had to think for a moment to remember where he had seen her before. Right, back then in the archives; she was the German history student who had translated the testament and made the prophecy public.