The Rolls Royce left the Vacchi property at seven thirty in the morning. The curtains in the rear windows were completely drawn shut. It was followed by a large convoy of vehicles with the logos of a myriad of TV channels and news agencies painted on their doors. The majestic luxury car cruised through the villages and towns smoothly and almost silently. As the car turned on to the autostrada just before Florence to head towards Rome, a helicopter appeared above and joined the convoy. From 10:00 a.m., news of the convoy’s trip was breaking into scheduled broadcasts.
No one paid any attention to the delivery van that left the smaller gate on the far side of the Vacchi estate like it did every morning to pick up dirty laundry and bring back the clean sheets and towels. It left the grounds without being harassed by reporters, stopping only shortly at the laundry to throw out the boxes and sacks so that John and the Vacchis would have more room in the van. The Padrone took advantage of this short stop to move to the front passenger’s side while Marco got behind the steering wheel. They all shook the hand of the young driver from the laundry company thanking him for the use of the van and raced off.
The streets were still empty of traffic at this time of day and so they got to the autostrada earlier than planned. There was only light traffic on the highway and Eduardo, who had thought of the idea, grinned, satisfied. They would be finished with the legal procedures before the first reporters arrived in Rome.
As they drove through Rome, John leaned to one of the back windows and peered out. As someone who had always thought the Empire State Building was old, he had been was very impressed by the ancient buildings in the old part of Florence. But Rome — Rome was monumental. He finally understood why it was called The Eternal City. Every street intersection gave him a view of something ancient and important that he knew nothing about. How could anyone honk a car horn in the midst of such illustrious buildings? How could a driver pass other cars in this city where time seemed to have stopped? He could not get enough and even regretted it when they suddenly turned off the main road through a dark gateway into the courtyard of the Italian Ministry of Finance.
Steel doors closed behind them. Uniformed men with walkie-talkies and automatic weapons appeared and watched with faces of stone as John and the Vacchis got out of the vehicle and were silently led them up a set of stairs. Rusted, unpainted steel doors with several locks were unlocked in front of them and locked again after they entered. Their steps echoed in the bare hallway that reminded John more of a prison than a ministry. The ancient elevator only fit four people at a time, so they had to go up in stages.
“When we leave we’ll use the front door,” Eduardo told John. He seemed tense.
They went through a wide doorway on one of the upper floors. There were carpets on the floor, photographs on the walls and frescos and painted stucco on the ceilings. John had lost all sense of orientation by the time they went through a very large door and entered a smaller room, whose walls were painted with a simply overwhelming display of color.
Admiring all the angels and golden wings and rose bushes, John almost failed to notice the men who were waiting to be introduced to them.
“Signor Fantozzi, the minister of finance. Signor Bernardini, the assistant minister of the interior. Signor Nuncio Tafale, the notary public.”
Thinking of Signora Orsini’s lessons, John shook hands with all of them and told them how pleased he was to meet them and so early in the morning at that. Over the previous few days, after it had became certain that he would indeed inherit the fortune, he had imagined this moment. He had imagined a solemn ceremony and realized they were indeed making every effort to give the occasion the importance it deserved. John felt his heart pound, and could feel his blood course through his neck arteries and head and he concentrated on not making any mistakes, not saying anything stupid or inappropriate that would shatter the solemnity of the moment. He felt tense and afraid of messing up — like he was taking his driver’s test. It was long ago and he couldn’t remember anymore if the feeling had lasted hours or days. His only recollection was that he was concentrating so hard that he couldn’t remember where he drove or where he had to parallel park. It was absolute tunnel vision. Stress. And here and now? The same emotions. But why? This was no test. He had nothing to lose. These men had sought him out to give him a trillion dollars, and they were determined to do so. He would have had to say “no” to everything to prevent things from going as planned.
They started with the assistant minister of the interior, placing a document before John, and then another document that looked much like a contract with a red string attached and a wax seal. The Vacchis literally leapt on both papers and studied them carefully, word for word, until they nodded their approval. John signed. His Italian language skill was barely enough to read the newspapers — he’d be lucky to be able to pick out his own names in the legal gibberish above where he signed. Without the Vacchis by his side the ministry could have done whatever they wanted, and he would never have been the wiser.
The assistant minister smiled, more out of politeness than familiarity, and handed him his new passport, a wine-red Italian passport complete with photo and all required signatures laminated to prevent alteration. In exchange, he had to hand over his old, beat-up, blue American passport. The assistant minister seized it as if it were a trophy. John wondered what he would do with it. Didn’t it say "property of the United States of America," inside?
Hand shaking again. Congratulations all around. Now he was an Italian citizen — the same country his grandfather had fled. The assistant minister of the interior smiled at him as if to say “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it,” but the minister of finance smiled even more.
After hands were shook again and more coffee had been poured, the notary took the floor. He produced a piece of paper and read from it in a manner that made clear nothing could be valid unless he personally had authorized it. “Rome, on this the sixteenth day of May, 1995, appearing before the certified notary public, Nuncio Tafale, for the official transfer of the Giacomo Fontanelli fortune, are the following persons: John Salvatore Fontanelli, Italian citizen, born on the first of September, 1967, in New York, USA. Cristoforo Vacchi, Italian citizen, born …”
And on it went, until John didn’t understand anything anymore. There were words like “estate” and “bequeath” and “unrestricted disposal” that trickled through from the myriad of incomprehensible legalese drivel. Then the Vacchis read out their own documents that were written in an old fashioned and formal Italia. Yet they made the documents sound like sophisticated poetry compared to the notary’s convoluted language. Thus it went back and forth, until John found himself wondering why he was even there.
It wasn’t until he had to sign again that he remembered this was the solemn occasion he wanted. It was total nonsense, but John had to identify himself — with the same passport he had only just been given. The notary public took his job very seriously and studied the passport as if John might have altered it while the notary was droning on. Officials! The same witless pinheads no matter what country they are from! After that, there were seemingly endless forms to sign; one document after the other, most for John but some for the Vacchis as well. For minutes all you could hear was the noise of fountain pens scratching on thick official paper. Stamps were pounded on the documents, ink dryers rolled, seals applied, and the finance minister’s smile grew a tooth wider with each step.
He was also the first to jump up to shake hands and congratulate John with the words; “I thank you for choosing Italy!”
Then the Vacchis congratulated him too. More hands appeared from nowhere to be shaken. It seemed like half of all Italian officialdom had gathered in this modest room.
“Now you are definitely and legally the richest man on Earth,” said Cristoforo Vacchi. “There is no reversing it.” He seemed relieved.
The timing was excellent. The Rolls Royce pulled up majestically to the steps outside the ministry, and the horde of journalists phot
ographed an empty rear seat as Benito opened the back door. It took a few moments before the first reporter saw John and the Vacchis standing on top of the stairway outside the ministry’s front door. An outstretched arm pointed, and then a shout sounding like a war cry and the mob raced up the steps. John stepped into a storm of flashing lights and questions with a smile on his face. Without knowing why he triumphantly lifted the leather briefcase with the legal documents high above his head.
It was an image that would go around the world.
After the notary ceremony the next item on the agenda was an official reception with the Italian prime minister. The Rolls was escorted by an honor guard of motorcycles to the seat of government, where the prime minister was already waiting on the steps for John’s arrival. Standing in the middle of the red carpet amidst countless flashing lights, Prime Minister Lamberto Dini and John Fontanelli shook hands and smiled into cameras and into the crowd. Countless police officers formed a cordon to keep the press of journalists and the cheering crowd at bay. It seemed as if John himself had done something amazing.
“Wave,” the prime minister said, a man in his mid-sixties with a face like a sad bulldog. John waved and the cheering grew even louder.
There seemed to be no functioning government in Italy on this day, because every minister was present to shake the new trillionaire’s hand. It was impossible to remember all their names. John smiled and shook the hands presented to him, feeling like he was in the middle of a storm. “You can call me anytime,” almost everyone told him, and John nodded, promised to remember and wondered what reason he would have to personally call an Italian minister.
On their drive back from Rome, John felt oddly restless. Time and again he had the feeling that he could no longer sit in the car as it drove through the rolling landscape in the warm afternoon sun. He had to do something but he had no idea what it should be.
Now it was official; he was the richest man on earth, richest man of all time. He was unbelievably wealthy and hadn’t done anything to earn it. No special talents or skills of his own. Just a vision-induced idea from a forefather who would have been long forgotten if he hadn’t dreamed up this plan. Did John feel differently now? No. He glanced at the briefcase that contained a bunch of incomprehensible documents. Not that his wealth depended on him actually possessing any these papers; there were enough notarized copies in the possession of the notary public, not to mention the finance ministry, the Vacchis and who knows how many other locations. He could throw the case into a bonfire and would still be the richest man on earth. The case, filled with papers stamped and signed and sealed, listing bank accounts and balances all proved one thing that was otherwise totally abstract: he was wealthy. He didn’t feel any richer than he did when he woke up at four in the morning to go to bathroom. What had the ceremony changed? Nothing. Before the ceremony he had been the guest of a family of lawyers he had not known a month ago. That’s what he still was.
As the roads grew narrower and they eventually drove into the village, hundreds of people stood along the streets, clapped their hands and threw confetti. Out on an open field John saw tents and carrousels that were not there that morning. It must be a country fair, no doubt in his honor. As if he had done something to deserve it.
At the Vacchis, there was a table in the foyer that was filled with champagne glasses and a dusty bottle resting in a glass cooler filled with ice.
“We’ve taken the liberty,” Cristoforo explained, “of throwing a small party in your honor. That means it was actually Eduardo who took care of everything.”
John nodded apprehensively feeling as if he had ants in his veins instead of blood. He watched as the glasses were filled and wanted to just run away, somewhere, anywhere, to do laundry or even deliver pizza if it meant he could get away.
Alberto Vacchi lifted his glass. The last rays of sunlight shone through the windows over the balustrade and made the tiny bubbles look like little pearls. “I would like to claim that we bought this bottle on the day of your birth,” he said, “and saved it for this day, but that isn’t so. I purchased it only last week. However, it is the same age as John — twenty-eight year old champagne, one of the best that money can buy. A votre santé!”
John felt rather uncomfortable all evening. Eduardo showed him how to wear a tail-coat properly, and he was startled by the almost overly dignified appearance it gave him. But he was glad to be wearing what he was when he saw the distinguished men dressed in similar attire, and the ladies in breathtaking aristocratic-looking dresses, and even Marco and the other bodyguards were dressed in elegant suits.
John still felt odd. Even later, while a pianist and two violinists played gentle background music and everyone stood around talking, holding their glasses and small snack plates, John still felt as if he was a laboratory rat being put under a microscope. Men laughed out loud at his jokes. Women smiled broadly as they leaned towards him exposing impressive cleavage, all just because he was now wealthy. Everyone he spoke to made an obvious effort to impress him and to win his sympathy, simply because he had more money than anyone else on this planet. Not a single one of the people present tonight, here and now, would have even looked at him six weeks ago as he walked through New York hungry and frozen, with only ten cents in his pocket. The only things that made a difference were his clothes, his haircut and the amount in his bank account. Well, the amounts in his two hundred and fifty thousand bank accounts to be more exact.
“How does it feel as a trillionaire?” one man around fifty wanted to know. He wore a suit with a leopard fur collar and a sapphire ring with a stone the size of an ox’s eyeball, and, if John remembered correctly, he was a famous film producer.
“I’d like to know that too,” John answered. “I mean I can only eat until I’m full and wear one pair of pants at a time. Actually, I think that it’s far too much money for a single person.”
Somehow, this wasn’t the answer the man wanted to hear. “You’re far too humble, Signor Fontanelli,” he told John, giving him a critical look. “But you can’t fool me. God knows, I know the way people think.”
John looked after him as he went off to mingle with the guests and he asked himself if there were people who not only saw him as a number with a lot of zeroes behind it, but something akin to an idol. The richest man on earth — if he isn’t happy then happiness doesn’t exist.
Or something like that.
“How does it feel to be a trillionaire?” a woman wanted to know. Her hair was piled high and her dress was closed in the front but cut so low in the back that very little was left to the imagination. She was the daughter of an industrial magnate and married to another tycoon, who was flirting with a black-haired model at the other end of the room.
“Like a billionaire,” John answered with a smile. “Only a thousand times better.”
Her mouth was half open as her tongue provocatively licked her lips, and smirked: “That sounds terribly exciting. With all your money, you must have quite a stamp collection? Maybe you’d like to show me…”
Oh, brother. “Sorry, no,” John hurried to tell her, “but if I ever think of starting one, you’ll be the first to know, signora.”
He escaped from her and went to the bathroom. Eduardo was in there combing his hair, and John told him about his encounter with the woman.
Eduardo grinned as he looked in the mirror: “Then make sure she doesn’t find out where your room is.”
“Are you serious? I mean, her husband was barely twenty meters away…“
“And was flirting with another woman, I bet. Everybody who knows those two also knows that it’s a normal occurrence for them. Just ignore her.”
When John returned to the salon the woman was gone. She reappeared, looking a bit disheveled. John decided to follow Eduardo’s tip and tried to put her from his mind.
The minister of finance had also been invited. “In case you are looking for any investment tips for your fortune,” he said in a jokingly conspiratorial tone of
voice, raising his glass, “I highly recommend our government bonds.”
John had no idea what government bonds were. It was only small talk, no doubt. “I will think about it,” he promised the minister, clinking glasses with him. Later, John ran into Albert and asked him what government bonds were.
“It means that you loan money to the government,” he explained, holding two drinks at once. “It is money you give them for a definite amount of time earning a certain amount of interest. It is a quite boring yet safe way to invest, unless you chose to do this with some banana republic that is close to being bankrupt.”
“Does this mean that the government borrows money from private individuals?” John whispered confused.
“When a government presents its budget plan it allows so and so many billions of new debt, then they issue bonds for that sum. Anyone can buy them. Banks do and private individuals can too.” With that he left John for the company of a blond woman who, along with all the others here, seemed to John to belong to a different planet from all the women he had ever met.
When he bumped into the finance minister again by the buffet it seemed their earlier conversation had been more than just small talk, because, while John piled pieces of salmon and truffle pate onto his plate, the minister mentioned the bonds again and if John had thought about it.
“I don’t know,” John said hesitantly. “Is this a safe investment? I mean, you are the state, and if you decide not to repay the debt then I’m shit out of … I mean, I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.”
“I beg your pardon!” All the humor he'd had before drained from his face. He straightened his back. “A minister of finance would rather reduce his mother’s pension than not to honor a loan. No government can afford to be known as the one that doesn’t repay its debts. That’s like not paying the rent.”
One Trillion Dollars Page 13
