“Me?” John cried out.
“You,” the Padrone said while nodding.
“I’m what? The chosen one? Do I look like someone who is chosen to do anything?”
“We’re only speaking about a historic fact,” Cristoforo Vacchi responded gently. “What I told you here you will be able to read in your ancestor’s last will and testament. I only told you what his motive was.”
“Oh. So, God appeared in his vision, and that’s why I’m here today?”
“That’s correct.”
“That’s just too crazy, don’t you think?”
The old man lifted his hands and said, “That’s for you to decide.”
“Give humanity their future. Me, of all people?” John sighed. There you see what visions and holy dreams are worth: nothing! Sure, hardly a person these days saw a future anymore. Everyone was virtually waiting for humanity to go down the drain for any one of a multitude of reasons. The end was near, that was for sure. There were enough reasons for fear: fear of a nuclear holocaust, though that had faded a bit over the years. But plagues and epidemics had been appearing more frequently — AIDS, Ebola, mad cow disease, and so forth. Not to mention the hole in the ozone layer and the expansion of the world’s deserts, and he had recently heard that drinking water would soon become scarce. No, there really was no reason to believe in the future. And he, John Salvatore Fontanelli, was no exception. Quite the contrary; while his peers had at least managed to secure their immediate futures by buying houses, making families and earning stable incomes, he managed to get by one day at a time and even to suppress near future realities like paying next month’s rent. Really, if there was someone less likely to restore humanity’s lost future then John Fontanelli would have liked to have known who it was.
The old man looked at his files again. “In the year 1525, as I said, Giacomo Fontanelli returned to the monastery where he grew up in and told the abbot about his vision. They agreed that this dream had been sent to him by God — a dream like in the biblical story where the pharaoh had a God-given dream, and which Joseph interpreted, telling him that his dream meant seven years of great plenty and then seven years of famine, upon which they decided to do something about it. Giacomo Fontanelli’s entire fortune was placed in the hands of the abbot’s friend, to be managed by him. He was a legal scholar by the name of Michelangelo Vacchi …”
“Oh?” John uttered.
“Yes, my ancestor.”
“Are you trying to tell me that your family managed the fortune of my family all this time simply to give it to me today?”
“That is correct.”
“For five hundred years?”
“Yes. The Vacchis had been legal scholars for five hundred years. The house that is our firm’s main office is the same one as back then.”
Baffled, John shook his head. Baffled by not only the incredible story but also by the stoic and calm manner the old man told it to him. History lessons all but forgotten long ago began to creep back into his mind, sending a shiver down his spine. As Christopher Columbus was sailing back from discovering America, one of his ancestors had a God-given dream and was amassing a fortune. This old man was trying to tell him was that between the time of America’s discovery and man walking on the moon, this family of Italian lawyers had practically done nothing save manage his family’s fortune, based on nothing more than a dream, and all this in the same house! “Five hundred years?” John repeated. “That’s … I don’t know how many generations. Hasn’t anyone ever thought about keeping those two billion dollars for himself?”
“Never,” Cristoforo Vacchi said casually.
“But, no one would’ve ever found out! Even now, after you told me everything, I find it hard to believe.”
“No one would have known — that may be true,” the old man admitted. “But God would have.”
“Ah,” was all John managed. That’s what it was.
The Padrone spread his hands apart. “Perhaps I should set a few things straight. Naturally, your ancestor composed a set of clear and concise rules how our services as fund manager were to be recompensed, which we followed precisely, and we lived very well off of that income, if I may say so. Of course, we still have all the books that contain every transaction to and from banks and our remunerations, which can be examined at any time.”
Yeah, John thought, I bet they can!
“And, of course,” the aged Vacchi added, “the original amount of the fortune wasn’t two billion dollars. There was probably not so much money around back then. The fortune that Giacomo Fontanelli had when he donated it to the fund was three hundred florins. Today, this would be equal to around ten thousand dollars.”
“What?”
The old man nodded, causing his floppy and wrinkly skin on his neck to look something like a dinosaur’s. “You have to consider the exchange rate and the buying power. Three hundred florins was quite a fortune, when you consider what it could buy back then. Today, that amount of money isn’t considered a fortune at all. Our trip to New York alone would have consumed most of it already. Countless types of monies and monetary reforms usually cloud the simple fact that inflation gnaws on all fortunes, large and small. But, Giacomo Fontanelli had a mighty ally,” the Padrone added meaningfully, “and that is compound interest.”
“Compound interest?” John echoed like a dummy.
“Let me explain: In 1525, around ten thousand dollars were deposited in an institute we would call a bank today. There were no banks back then as they exist today, but at that time in history there was a flourishing economy in Europe, especially in Italy, and along with it a well-functioning capital market. Remember that Florence was a metropolis of money during the fourteenth century, controlled by bankers such as the Bardi and Peruzzi, then by the Medici during the fifteenth century. There was a church ban on interest rates, but it was ignored, because a capital market cannot exist without interest rates. No one would loan money if he didn’t get something out of it. When Giacomo Fontanelli invested his fortune, it fit well with the flourishing and well-functioning money market of the sixteenth century. My ancestor, Michelangelo Vacchi, chose to make a relatively unchallenging investment, which brought in four percent interest. That means that at the end of 1525 there was about four hundred dollars of interest from the ten thousand dollars, which was added to the whole. In the following year it wasn’t ten thousand dollars earning interest, but ten thousand and four hundred dollars. And so forth.”
“I’ve read enough credit card statements, I know what compound interest is,” John grumbled, still waiting for the grand finale — the discovery of the Inca treasure, a motherlode, or whatever. “But that’s still only peanuts, isn’t it?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the old man said with a smile. He took a sheet of paper that had long rows of numbers on it. “Like most people, you underestimate what compound interest plus time can accomplish. It is a simple matter to figure out, because, even though the numbers vary slightly from time to time, we still have an effective interest rate of four percent that we were able to maintain over the time period. This means that in 1530, there was twelve thousand dollars in today’s money. In 1540 it was eighteen thousand, and by 1543 the original sum had more than doubled. And, of course, the interest returns as well.”
John suspected something, even though he didn’t know what it was. But it had to be something big … something breathtaking. Like seeing a massive iceberg dwarfing a big ship or a mammoth tree falling over.
“And so,” Cristoforo smiled, “it went on, just like the fable with the chess set and the grains of rice. Four percent interest plus compound interest meant that the money doubled every eighteen years. There were twenty-six thousand dollars in the fortune by 1550, and in 1600 it was one hundred and ninety thousand. It was over one million dollars in 1643. In 1700 it was nine and a half million and in 1800 it was forty-eight million dollars and it reached one billion by 1819 …”
“My God,” John said under his br
eath and felt the weight on his body again, about to crush him. Only this time it came without mercy; all those big numbers.
“With the start of the twentieth century,” the old man continued remorselessly, “the Fontanelli fortune had grown to over twenty-four billion dollars, dispersed in thousands of bank accounts. When World War Two started it was one hundred and twelve billion dollars and when it ended it was one hundred and forty-two billion dollars. Up to the final day, which was yesterday, the fortune — your fortune — has grown to a nice rounded sum of one trillion dollars.” He grinned smugly. “All down to compound interest, plus time.”
John looked stupidly at the lawyer. He moved his lower jaw without a sound coming from his mouth. He cleared his throat and, like someone suffering from tuberculosis, he croaked: “One trillion dollars?”
“One trillion. That is a thousand times one billion.” Cristoforo looked steadfastly and nodded. “This means that you are the richest human being on earth, even the richest man of all time — by far. This one trillion dollars will earn you forty billion dollars of interest this year alone. There are about two or three hundred billionaires, depending on how you look at it, but you will hardly find ten that can even match your interest gains of this single year. No one has ever owned even close to as much money as you now have.”
“If you want to look at it this way,” Eduardo Vacchi interjected enthusiastically, “you are four thousand dollars richer with every breath you take.”
John was near shock. To say that he could not fathom all this would be a gross understatement. His mind spun around in circles like the blades of a turbine, throwing around memories, fears, and painful experiences, all to do with money — or more accurately — the lack of it. The whole thing released such a flood of emotions that something inside him pulled the cord for the emergency brakes.
“One trillion dollars,” he mumbled. “Just from interest and compound interest.”
“And five hundred years of time,” Cristoforo Vacchi added.
“That is so simple. Anyone could have done that.”
“Yes. But no one did. No one except Giacomo Fontanelli,” the elder Vacchi said, “However, it wasn’t that easy. The banks naturally know about compound interest, and this is why all savings account contracts contain the small yet very significant clause that all interest payments are ceased after thirty years if no transactions were made. And that is exactly what they want to avoid; someone putting a small amount in a bank, forgets about it and a hundred years later someone finds it and has a fortune.” He smiled. “And this is why the Vacchis always made sure that the money moved. It was taken out of here and put in there, then the other way around. This was. In effect, all we did for the past five hundred years.”
“Just move money around in bank accounts?”
“Exactly. And I’m convinced that this is why the money grew, and grew and is still there, while so many other fortunes simply vanished with time. The owners of such fortunes never had so much time, only their own lifespans. They wanted to enjoy their money, so they spent it or took risks in investments. My family did none of this. We didn’t have to take risks; on the contrary, we avoided them. We didn’t want any part of the money, because it wasn’t ours. And, we had time, lots of time and a holy mission.” Cristoforo shook his head. “No, I do not believe that just anyone could have done the same. I believe that this was something quite unique — a one of a kind feat.”
There was a long moment of silence. John stared into space, too stunned from the whole business to do anything else. The four lawyers watched him carefully, observing how he struggled to get a grip on something that each of them had years of time to become accustomed to. They looked at him like some long lost family member who had been gone for years and was now finally back home.
“And now?” John Salvatore Fontanelli asked finally, surprised that it was still light outside, beyond the glass panes. He felt like hours must have passed by since he’d first entered the room.
“There are documents to work through,” Alberto Vacchi said and tugged at his kerchief. “The fortune must be signed over to you, and we will try to prevent inheritance tax and a number of other matters.”
“Your way of life will change,” Gregorio Vacchi said. “Of course we won’t be able to give you rules or regulations on how to handle your money, but since we have prepared for this moment for generations, we were able to develop a list of suggestions, which may prove to be to your benefit. For instance, you will need an office staff to handle the flood of begging letters that are sure to come in. And bodyguards, to prevent you from being kidnapped.”
“This is why,” Eduardo Vacchi added, “we suggest that you leave New York and come with us to Florence — at least for a while, until you’ve got used to your new life.”
John nodded slowly. Yes, all this would really take some time to digest. He would have to sleep on it. Go to Florence? Okay, why not. What was keeping him here in New York? One trillion dollars. The wealthiest man on earth. Really — the whole thing was a joke. “And then?” he asked.
“We’re just as curious,” said Cristoforo Vacchi.
“What do you mean with that?”
The old man made a vague gesture with his hands. “Well, you will have so much money at your disposal that entire countries will shudder at your decisions. That is the power you now have in your hands and what you do with it is your business alone.”
“What did Giacomo Fontanelli see in his dreams that I would do?”
“We do not know. He saw that you would do the right thing. He didn’t say anything else in the notes that were handed down to us.”
“The right thing? But what is the right thing?”
“Whatever will restore humanity’s lost future.”
“And how should that be done?”
The Padrone laughed. “I have no idea, my son. But, I’m not worried about that, and you should not be either. Just remember that we are fulfilling a prophecy, which we believe is divine in nature. This simply means that whatever you do — you cannot make a mistake.”
Susan Winter, thirty-one years old and unmarried, sat in front of Rockefeller Center on a white wire chair by a small table for two, nervously bouncing one leg up and down, above her head a brown eight-sided umbrella. But the man refused to show up … he simply didn’t show. She looked at her watch for the thousandth time. Okay, it was still two minutes until the actual appointment. And then that sculpture, a golden Prometheus — one of the Titans, adorning the building’s façade. Didn’t he do something forbidden, too? Defy the gods? She tried to remember what she knew about antique myths, but couldn’t call them to mind.
The few friends she had, thought her lack of self-confidence was the reason for her not having married yet, and that this also prevented her from dressing nicely and knowing how to put on make-up, failing to let her real beauty show through. On this evening she was wearing baggy jeans and a worn gray sweatshirt. Her hair hung limp on her shoulders. The waiter had treated her like a nobody, and the water she’d ordered hadn’t arrived yet. What her friends didn’t know — what no one knew — was that she was hooked on playing the lottery. She gambled away every bit of money that she could spare, and the money from the few times she won, too. She had admitted to herself a long time ago that it was more an addiction than a passion, but she simply didn’t have the strength to change. Sometimes, when she bought a dozen lottery tickets, she felt as if she was standing next to herself watching, and felt a grim gratification to let this ugly and useless being waste her life. Her grandmother, with whom she had spent her afternoons as a child, always used to say: “Gambler’s fortune, lover’s misfortune!” when she won a round of bridge with her friends. “Luck at gambling brings no luck at love.” That was a German proverb. Grandmother fled from Germany before the war. It was only later on that Susan understood why. During those afternoons when her parents were at work she used to sit beside her grandmother, combed her dolls’ hair, and dressed them up and listened
to the old women talk. Luck at gambling, brings no luck at love. She turned that adage around for her own purpose, and wasn’t sure if it shouldn’t be reversed; no luck at love brings luck at gambling. With all the bad luck she had in love, her gambling would surely pay off one day. Even though she had only a vague idea what luck might feel like.
Then the man arrived, punctual to the minute. He stepped onto the terrace wearing an unremarkable black coat and found Susan Winter right away without having to look for her. He held a brown envelope in one hand, and Susan knew that it contained money, lots of money. All of a sudden what she was about to do excited her.
He sat down across from her, stiffly, as if he had sore muscles, laid the envelope down on the table, folded his hands over it, and looked at her. He had a rough, pockmarked face, like he had suffered from pox or at least very bad acne.
“Well?” he asked.
He didn’t tell her his name now, and he never mentioned a name when he called her. She always recognized him by his voice. For the past two years she had supplied him with information she stole from her firm, and he supplied her with money. In the beginning it was only little details: what cases the Dalloway Detective Agency was working on, what clients it had. Then the questions became more precise, and so did the answers she provided. Today was the first time that she actually handed over documents.
She opened her purse and pulled out a thin folder. He reached for it, and she put it in his hand. That was all it took.
Silently, he examined the files. It wasn’t much, only whatever she was able to copy without drawing anyone's attention. The folder had a photo that he was carefully studying now, a few copies of copies, and a few pages of text, which he leisurely read through. She watched him while he checked the papers, and stared at his hairy hands. She felt ugly, little, and miserable. But at the same time she fervently hoped the documents were worth the money he offered her.
“Do you have any information about his family, too?” he suddenly asked.
One Trillion Dollars Page 4
