“What would you do with the money?”
Gregorio Vacchi nodded thoughtfully. One hand was resting on the hard cover of a law book, which he had been reading before John entered the room. And now his fingers drummed on it. “I’ve often asked myself this,” he said with a pensive expression. “What exactly could you do with a thousand times a billion dollars, to fulfill the prophecy? Once, I thought the solution would be to initiate a worldwide educational program, to make the people aware of our global problems. On the other hand, we have enough education in the industrialized nations and still nothing is being done. So such a program wouldn’t help any either just because it was done on a worldwide scale. Another idea was to buy licenses for environmentally friendly technology and give them to the underdeveloped countries, so that they can avoid making the same mistakes we did during our industrial development, or to get the Chinese to build cars with catalytic converters from the outset. But, in the end, I told myself that all these measures were only a drop in the bucket, and are far from being key solutions.” He shook his head. “I must confess that I just don’t know. I cannot be of any help to you, John.”
“What would you do with the money?”
Alberto Vacchi reached into his gardener’s apron, pulled out a pair of pruning shears, and cut off a dry sprout from a rose bush. “I’m glad that I’m not in your position,” he said to John. “Honestly. So much money and then the prophecy. I understand what a burden this must be. It would be for me, that’s for sure. I think I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. That amount of money, of course, gives you enormous power, but the question is what you want to achieve with it to improve things. To be honest, I don’t understand the complexities of today’s global economy. What company belongs to whom, who has how many shares of what …” He stopped talking and tied a rose branch in another direction. “Today’s world economy — what am I saying? I’ve never understood it, not really. There’s something in my head that tells me that this has nothing to do with my happiness in life. It is hopeless, I will never understand it.”
“What would you do with the money?”
Cristoforo Vacchi sat on a bench. He had his hands resting on a walking stick with a silver grip, and his eyes were closed. “Do you hear that, John? The bees humming? From here it sounds like a chorus, a chorus of thousand voices in the far distance.” He was silent for a while, listened and then he opened his eyes to look at John with watery eyes. “I thought a lot about this question when I was younger. But I finally came to the conclusion that it was not our duty to have a say in this matter. And do you know why? Because our duty was only to safeguard the money. We never could’ve accomplished this deed if we had not been a family of guardians, of preservers, if we hadn’t developed such an absurd level of antipathy to changes of any sort down the generations. Whoever would fulfill the prophecy had to be someone who embraced change, and this type of mentality is as distant from the Vacchi family ethic as the North Pole is from the South Pole.” A smile appeared on the old man’s face, an expression of almost unearthly confidence. “But, I’m certain that you will do the right thing, John. Everything that Giacomo Fontanelli saw in his vision came true, so this too will come to pass.”
That evening they sat on the terrace, just as they had done in the early days when John first arrived in Italy. The table was laden with bowls and pots, giving off delicious aromas of meat and garlic and fine olive oil. Alberto was pouring strong red wine into rotund glasses and wanted to know what John was doing these days in Portecéto.
“I was in London recently,” he told him while chewing.
“I see … to augment your wardrobe.” Alberto nodded.
Gregorio said sourly, “There are great, world famous tailors here in Italy too, if I may say so while we are on the subject!”
“I had a discussion with an owner of an investment firm,” John went on to explain.
“Can I have some of that gravy?” the Padrone asked, pointing to a dark brown container at the other end of the table.
Eduardo reached it to him and said: “I would have thought you had enough money already?”
“His name is Malcolm McCaine,” John added.
Thunk! The gravy container fell on the table.
Thunk! The wine bottle thudded on the table.
For the next moment it was deathly still at the table.
Then everybody began speaking excitedly at once.
“That swindler! I hope you didn’t believe a word he said! I warn you, you can’t trust that man as far as …!”
“I knew he would show up again one day! I told you right from the beginning. We have nothing but …!
“John! For heaven’s sake! How could you? What made you want to go to …?”
John was almost afraid they were going to attack him and beat him up. He practically shrank in size as the Vacchis shouted at him. He stared at the four angry faces twisted in rage and couldn’t say a word.
“Be careful with McCaine, John!” Alberto told him. “He is the craftiest liar I have ever met in my life!” His nostrils flared.
“He tried to get his hands on the fortune way back when he first found out about it setting up our computer systems!” Gregorio said angrily. “He wanted to convince us to break our vow and spend the money!” Furiously he stabbed a defenseless piece of meat with his fork and shoved it into his mouth.
“I must warn you against this man,” even the Padrone said and cocked his white-haired head doubtfully. “It doesn’t matter what impression he made on you. Believe me when I tell you that McCaine is a psychopath. He’s obsessed … a very dangerous man!”
“John, you can hire any financial advisor in the world, even a Nobel Prize winner if you want,” Eduardo told him. “But not McCaine!”
John was close to agreeing with them, forgetting McCaine, and leaving things as they were. Without a doubt, this Englishman was no ordinary character, but then neither were the Vacchis — none of them. However, if there was something that he didn’t want even more than an argument with his benefactors and patrons, then it was to go back to the clueless dithering of recent weeks.
Gingerly, John placed his knife and fork beside his plate, and just as tentatively said: “For the first time since I’ve learned about my forefather’s prophecy someone outlined a scheme that might just offer a real opportunity to fulfill it. I understand that you’ve had an unpleasant experience with McCaine, but that was twenty-five years ago, and I must admit that he impressed me.”
He saw hostility in the four pairs of eyes staring back at him.
“McCaine can be very persuasive. I remember that well,” said Cristoforo coolly. “But he is an amoral person through and through. I would even go as far as to say he’s capable of serious harm.”
“Okay, I was still a baby when he was working for our system,” Eduardo said shaking his head. “I only know his computer programs, but they were sometimes damn strange. I wouldn’t risk it, John, really.”
“Keep away from him, John,” Alberto warned. “I’m willing to bet anything that you’ll regret it.”
Gregorio’s expression was caustic. “I want to make one thing clear: if you decide to work together with McCaine, our paths will go separate ways.”
The moon’s sickle reflected on the calm waters of the dark sea. John stood by the railing and listened to the voice on the phone. It was odd to be able to combine it with a face and a story now.
“If ever I got to know people who managed to fabricate their own religion, then it was the Vacchis,” McCaine told John in a calm voice. “They go to church on Sundays and pray to God, but in reality they believe in the money and Giacomo Fontanelli’s vision, and the holy task their family was entrusted with.”
“But you must’ve done something bad to them to have them so upset with you — still upset.”
He gave a short sinister chuckle, with no mirth in it. “Oh yes, I did do something. I committed sacrilege. I dared try to convince them to forget their holy mission and t
he holy date and to do things with the money that would have been important and sensible back in 1970. After all, the fortune back then was about three hundred billion dollars, and if that had been invested in renewable energy, the protection of arable land against erosion, and in programs for contraceptives, then much of the misery that prevails today could have been avoided.”
“The Vacchis are so angry with you just because you made such a suggestion?
“I presented them a complete plan. That’s just how I am. I do what I do one hundred percent.” McCaine sighed with what sounded like exasperation. “So much time has been wasted, so much valuable time, and only due to the stubbornness of the Vacchis. An important signal could have been given back then, but no, they had to wait for the date. Each day an animal species goes extinct, each day thousands of people starve to death, but these lawyers had nothing else in their heads but their forefather’s vow.”
John couldn’t sleep that night. He lie in bed awake, staring at the telephone which seemed to glow in the darkness. He thought about Paul Siegel again, and the collapsed house on the same street where Paul’s parents had their watch store. The ruins used to be their meeting place during the warm parts of the year. They sat for hours on the dusty walls, let their legs dangle over the sides, watch the people walk past, and talk about anything and everything. Sometimes they did their homework there, the books lying on the cracked concrete and the bits of remaining tile flooring. Paul always helped him, and could explain everything to him better than the teachers ever could. And it didn’t matter if it was about the Civil War, trigonometry or what Salinger was trying to say in The Catcher in the Rye. The only things they were both equally ignorant about were girls. He always told Paul things he heard from Lino, their faces red with embarrassment.
But that was ages ago. Here and now the phone still wasn’t ringing off the hook. Maybe Paul was jealous of him … jealous of his wealth he had been handed on a silver platter, without having to get a scholarship and study books for endless nights and take endless tests. Maybe that’s why he never called back.
John reached out a hand to the phone but then stopped. What time was it in New York now? Early evening. Maybe still too early, but he could at least leave a message on the answering machine. He took out the address list from the nightstand’s drawer and dialed Paul’s number.
There was no answering machine; only an automated voice that said the number was no longer in service.
“Signora Sofia! Caffè, per favore! E presto!”
That came from the kitchen, and although it was Italian it sounded like Marvin’s voice. John stood at the bottom of the stairs with a hand on the railing wondering if he should go see his guest. No, not really. But there again, he was at a point in his life to make changes, and perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea to start with Marvin. He forced himself to open the aluminum-colored door to the kitchen.
Marvin sat at the other end of the large kitchen table. He had got Sofia to make him real American pancakes for breakfast, and they were virtually drowning in maple syrup. Sofia was just pouring him some more coffee with a sullen look on her face.
“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” John said, standing behind the backrest of a chair at the opposite end of the table. “Long time no see.”
Marvin looked up with thick cheeks chewing. “Hey gweat mafter,” he mumbled with a few pieces falling out of his mouth, which he didn’t even notice. He pointed to the table and said, “Haf a seat.”
John did not appreciate being invited to sit down in his own house. “May I ask where you’ve been for the past few days?”
Marvin swallowed and waved a hand around. “Here and there. I tell you, Constantina is a wild thing. She’s insatiable. It was high time for me to get away and gather some strength again. Know what I mean?”
“Jeremy told me she called to talk with you, so you could hardly have been at her place the whole time.”
“Hey, she’s not the only woman in Italy, okay?” He leaned back and casually put an arm over the chair’s backrest. He grinned. “Man, if I would’ve known how musicians here admire someone just because he’s from New York, then I would’ve come here a lot sooner. That is really cool, you know? I bought a bass with my first paycheck, a Steinberger. It’s the ultimate, I tell you. I jammed around a bit in the area. It was real cool. A babe here’s got a boyfriend who looks just like a cousin of Bon Jovi, and she left him just because she loves my New York accent. Can you believe that?”
John wasn’t interested in believing anything. “Speaking of first paycheck,” he said in an extra cool tone of voice, “I’ve noticed that the library still has boxes full of books standing around and that there still aren’t any bookshelves.”
Marvin looked at John dismissively, grabbed the bottle of syrup and poured a big gob over his pancakes. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t realize that this job would involve such hard labor. I thought we had an agreement among buddies; that one had a ton of luck and shares a little of it with the other.”
“That’s what I thought too at first, but that was a mistake. I can’t pay you for doing nothing, because it would be unfair on everyone else who does do honest work for their money.”
Marvin made a crafty face and said: “Hey man, I let you come crawling to me after Sarah threw you out. I shared joints and beer with you. But that’s all pretty easily forgotten, it seems.”
He still knows which of my buttons to push, John thought, and he felt his anger rising. He had thought this would be easier. He was not only angry but also disappointed in himself. If he couldn’t solve this problem, how could he ever hope to solve the problems of the world?
“I haven’t forgotten that,” he told Marvin. “But we need to find another solution. I won’t be able to keep you on as an employee.”
Marvin stuffed pancakes into his mouth as if he feared that they would be taken away from him. He stared at John … just stared. It was enough to drive John nuts.
“I could give you some financial assistance,” John suggested finally. “I’ll give you a certain sum of money you can use to build a future.”
Marvin cocked his head. John’s mouth went taught; he won’t say another word. Then Marvin finally said, “Okay … a million dollars.”
John shook his head, his jaws clamped shut. “Out of the question. One hundred grand max.”
“Not exactly generous? Is that what happens when you get rich?”
“A hundred grand and you have to agree now and move out today.” John took a breath. “One of your countless admirers will no doubt take you in.”
Marvin closed his eyes and started to pluck away on an imaginary bass. He hummed some indefinable melody, and then said: “I’m thinking about starting a music career in Italy anyhow. I’ve already met someone with a studio guy who knows a bunch of producers. He’s a real cool guy, except that his English is really shitty. Oh well. But I could start a band. To hell with New York. It’s overcrowded anyhow.” He opened his eyes. “A hundred grand it is and a plane ticket to New York so I can get my songs and a few things. Gimme that and you’re rid of me.”
John stared at him and felt as if his head was empty.
“A first class ticket, if it’s not asking too much.”
“Deal,” John said before Marvin thought of anything else to add.
An hour later, from a window in the library, John watched Marvin get into a cab with his duffel bag, a check worth a hundred and five thousand dollars, and a million lira in his pocket. He sighed with relief when the taxi disappeared through the gate and down the road.
Over. Not exactly a heroic deed, but it’s done.
So, first blood was drawn, it was time to complete the massacre. He lifted the phone, which he had been holding a while, and dialed McCaine’s number. “I accept your offer,” he simply said.
“Good,” the dark voice said, “I will arrive tomorrow.”
Then, with trembling hands he dialed the Vacchis’ number. “I’ve just hired McCaine,” he said stra
ight out, before he lost his nerve.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Gregorio said coldly. “This means we can no longer be friends.”
$21,000,000,000,000
HE WOULD REMEMBER this day as the day his life shifted into high gear. From then on it was full speed all the way, although he had no idea where he was headed, nor what he was fleeing from.
McCaine called once more to tell John that he’d arrive on a chartered jet and that he wouldn’t need to be picked up from the airport. He’d take a cab.
All morning he waited anxiously. The sun was hot, the wind still, and the sea was calm. Even the shrubbery, normally so noisy and bustling with animal life, was quiet. John thought it might be the heat, but it was if the cicadas and birds shared his impatience. Time and again he stepped out onto the little balcony of one of the guest rooms to get the best view to the driveway and the street. The air glimmered with heat above the asphalt. He still saw nothing. Then he would breathe in and go back inside the cool house and ask himself if he had done the right thing.
The taxi arrived just when he had gone into the kitchen to get a drink of water. From the kitchen window he saw the car door open and McCaine’s massive body get out. He was carrying only a briefcase, and still managed to look slovenly, even dressed in a four thousand dollar suit.
“Mr. Fontanelli,” he called out as John stood by the door.
“Just call me John,” he told McCaine.
“Malcolm,” McCaine said in return and shook his hand.
He wasted no time on the house. John led him into the living room. McCaine went straight to the coffee table as if every minute was precious. He opened his case, took out a map of the world, and spread it out across the highly polished alabaster surface.
“Which city,” he asked, “should be the future world capital?”
“The what?”
One Trillion Dollars Page 29
