John felt dirty, miserable, and helpless. For one moment John could imagine McCaine having him murdered. The next moment he was ashamed of the thoughts … almost. He sat down, pulled the paper towards him, took the pen, and unscrewed the cap. “This is only for show?”
“Yes.”
“What should I write?”
“I’ll dictate. First the heading: My last will and testament.”
John started to write and then stopped. “Would it not be better to type it?”
“On the contrary — then it’d be void. Testaments must be handwritten.”
“But my handwriting is terrible.”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s your handwriting.”
“If you say so.” John began writing again, and stopped once more. “What about my parents? Can I add that they be taken care of for the rest of their lives?”
McCaine sighed. “If you want, yes, write it down, and mention your brothers too. But don’t get into too much detail, this is only something to show the bankers this evening, nothing more. As soon as your first child is born you can write another will, and then everything will be in order.”
“Hmm,” John said. He still didn’t like this at all. The tips of his fingers were white, from squeezing the pen. Was it because he had never thought about dying and was now in shock at having to deal with the genuine possibility of its eventuality? His death, the death of the future, the death of humanity. How did he get into all of this? Where were the carefree days when he neither thought much about the past nor the future? He felt like getting up and running away, didn’t want to think about death, ice ages, holes in the ozone layer, diseases, wars …
“Write,” McCaine said.
And John did: I, John Salvatore Fontanelli, of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath upon my demise as my last will …
“Thank you,” said McCaine after John signed and handed paper to him.
Throughout May and June the financial markets were in upheaval with the Thai baht being pounded by speculative attacks. Both Thailand and Singapore tried to support the baht, but by July the government had to throw in the towel and uncouple the baht from the dollar. The Malaysian Central Bank intervened on July 8, 1997, to help the ringgit, which had been under severe pressure, and despite enjoying some success initially with the sell-off of US dollars, Malaysia also had to give up two weeks later. Indonesia followed suit a short while later. The stock markets in Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur, Jakarta and even Hong Kong and Seoul plummeted.
The IMF announced on August 11 in Tokyo that it would initiate an aid package for Thailand that totaled 16 billion dollars, financed partially by the IMF and partially by neighboring countries.
“What about the Philippines?” John asked.
“They’ve already been under the trusteeship of the IMF for a while,” McCaine said. “We’re ruining the entire region with a single swipe.”
For weeks all the major newspapers carried articles with color images, announcing the newly formed Fontanelli Foundation’s Gaea Prize, which would be awarded each year to companies for outstanding environmental and future-oriented projects, with prize money of 10 million dollars. The articles also listed the five scientists from all parts of the world chosen as judges. The earth goddess Gaea had been modeled after the photo-model Patricia DeBeers, who was known to have won more beauty contests than anyone else in history, and the figurine looked just as erotic.
A sub-article showed John “Trillion Dollar Heir” Fontanelli hand over the prize to her for safekeeping. Jay Leno was the first joke about beauty and the beast, which drew lots of laughs. Others followed his example and soon John was the butt of comedians and comedy sketches. McCaine began to worry about John Fontanelli’s image in the public eye.
Market research institutes in all the industrialized nations were given the task of finding out what people thought about John Fontanelli. The polls showed that John’s concern for the environment had hit a chord in the public’s mind. The man on the street thought of John as being someone who was truly concerned about the planet’s future, and who was rich and powerful enough to do something about it.
“Wonderful,” McCaine said, and replaced the polling with an ad campaign.
Ursula Valen saw numerous versions of the Gaea posters on a construction site fence as she went home after visiting her parents. It awakened a dull anger within her for having been treated arrogantly. Then a Porsche changed lanes without using a blinker, forcing her to hit the brakes. She honked her horn and shouted angrily after the driver, forgetting all about the posters.
At home she was even angrier when she saw the newspaper lying all over on the floor. The paperboy once again made a mess of pushing it through the mailbox opening. Never mind, she already knew what the lead item in the news was today. She gathered up the pages and carried them to the garbage. On one of the pages was a photo of the Gaea statue and John Fontanelli pretending to be some sort of environmental angel.
“You won’t save the planet either,” she mumbled and stuffed everything into the trash.
But she couldn’t help thinking about him again.
She went upstairs to her little apartment under the roof, opened the windows, threw her bag into a corner and put the kettle on the stove. She took a cup from the cupboard and put a spoonful of instant coffee in it. Then she put a record on the record player and stood by the stove, waiting for the water to boil. It took her a moment to realize that the kettle was whistling. She poured the hot water into her cup, and then she put some cookies and an apple on a plate.
She went to the shelves by her desk and dug around the folders in the bottom compartment until she found what she was looking for. It was all still there … all those things she had brought back with her from her trip to Florence — things she had forgotten about, stapled and tied together, just a few feet away from her desk. She untied the bundle. John Salvatore Fontanelli had been big news on the financial pages of the newspapers for ages now, and nobody was going to ask a history student for her opinion of him. But that didn’t mean that all the historical aspects had been dealt with.
Such as this, for instance: she was looking at the photocopies of Giacomo Fontanelli’s account books and those that Michelangelo Vacchi had made. The ones from the Vacchis were exemplary. The writing on each page was almost as neat as if had been printed. The ones from Fontanelli, on the other hand, were a wild jumble of numbers and lists in florins, zechines, talers, groschen, and pfennigs, some of which were barely legible. Some sentences were crossed-out, while notations had been added, and additional calculations were written along the margins, which made it unclear if or what they had to do with the actual bookkeeping. Even the most kindly disposed auditor would have strangled him for this mess.
She was so caught up with Giacomo’s sloppy entries that she almost overlooked the oddest component about it. The Vacchis started their books on February 1, 1525, with an account balance of 300 florins and with a notation that the money was received from Giacomo Fontanelli in trust. One florin, the fiorino d’oro, was made of 3.5 grams of gold. Taking the current price of gold into account on the London stock market, 300 florins would be worth around 10,000 dollars — not much these days. Back then, however, it was quite a fortune.
Giacomo Fontanelli’s books ended on January 5, 1525, with several accounts in several currencies. Taking into consideration all currencies’ worth when added together, the total sum was indeed 300 florins, but it was not really separated according to currencies; there were several different sums in zechines and a bunch in florins and so forth. And behind each number was, hard to read, a name. Back when she first noticed this she had wondered what this meant, but never followed up.
Now she had a hunch, one so unbelievable that it almost took her breath away. She leafed back, scanned through the columns, got a notebook and calculator and with their help tried to comprehend the calculations. Could this be true? Above all, could it be true that in 500 years she was the first to s
tumble upon this?
The amounts listed weren’t assets, but debts, and the names behind the numbers were the names of those he owed money to. The Florentine merchant had gone bankrupt in 1525.
$30,000,000,000,000
IN THE BEGINNING of August the striking workers of HUGEMOVER capitulated. For months they held out in front of the gates, set up banners, and handed out flyers, while production inside the factory workshops continued, even increased. So they ended the strike and accepted the conditions laid down by management, which were even more stringent than before. They agreed to work for yet less pay and when necessary for up to 12 hours a day, even on the weekends and without overtime.
“I feel betrayed,” a lathe operator who had worked at HUGEMOVER for 27 years told a TV crew. “I feel like my own company declared war on me.”
John felt a lump in his throat when he heard the man speak on TV. He looked at McCaine. “Was it really necessary to be so hard, just for those extra few percent in profits?”
McCaine looked at him derisively. “First, percentages are never so unimportant that you say ‘those few’. You should know this the way your fortune grew so much from a lousy average four percentage points a year. Second, we didn’t start all this to make people rich and happy. That man there,” he nodded toward the TV screen, “will continue having more than enough to eat and have a roof over his head. That’s something that many millions of other people on this planet will never have. We’re here to secure mankind’s future, and it will be a stony path, if it should ever happen at all. People will have to do without certain things and they will have to submit, and some will have to learn the lessons sooner than others. These are truths that, of course, I would never say in front of a camera.”
John nodded and watched an effigy of Donald Rash being hung up and burned. He understood the people and their anger, but he also understood that they didn’t understand the overall picture. How could they? This whole thing felt so wrong, so ugly, but there weren’t any other alternatives. After all, they did win, even if the victory tasted bitter.
A while later John Salvatore Fontanelli, wealthiest man on earth, still, and even wealthier than ever before, flew to a meeting with members of the IMF in Washington, D.C. In the mean time, the term “Asian crisis” had become an everyday-expression. According to the latest reports, the Indian rupee was coming under increased pressure and so was the South Korean won.
John’s plane was given special permission to land at Washington National Airport and was directed to a specially cordoned off area of the tarmac. Three limousines with tinted windows were waiting him. One would take John to the IMF meeting, while the other two would go in other directions to draw the attention of reporters and photographers. Before the car went down into the parking garage John got only a fleeting glimpse of the IMF building. It was a steel and concrete structure with odd-looking window frames on the upper stories that looked like vents. He was taken up by elevator and walked down hallways, accompanied by lawyers and economists carrying thick briefcases with important expressions on their faces. They entered a large conference room where they were greeted by a well-dressed man with short, silver-gray hair whose hand was cold when John shook it.
“My name is Irving,” the man said with a low and precise voice. “Robert Irving. Mr. Camdessus sends you his warmest greetings and his deepest regrets for not being here personally, due to personal reasons. He did give me power of attorney to speak with you.”
John heard his aides clear their throats audibly. One leaned towards him and whispered in his ear: “A pretense, sir. We should arrange another appointment and fly back.”
But he would have none of it. He already hardly got out of the bathroom during the flight due to stage fright and nervousness, and he wanted to get this over with. Besides, there was nothing to negotiate; he would say what was to be said and that would be it.
John smiled and said, “No problem.”
They gathered around a table, John and his staff on one side, Irving and his staff on the other. One chair on the IMF side remained empty. “One of my people will be here a bit later,” Irving said. “We’ll start without him.”
The room was filled with noises of briefcases opening, folders and papers slapping and rustling, and pens being unscrewed. Remember that you control at least ten times as much money as the IMF, McCaine had told John. They have every reason to fear you.
John cleared his throat and began the speech that he and McCaine had practiced. He told the men of the IMF that he and his team had followed the developments in Asia with concern, not due to the current financial crisis but for the long-term developments. He got to the point quickly by saying it was the increase of the population in the Philippines that was their primary concern. “You all know it is my duty to fulfill and ancient prophecy,” John continued, his heart pounding in his chest. “I’m here to ask you to help us with this matter. I don’t consider this request to be overbearing, since it is for the benefit of all humanity.”
You can afford to be polite and good-natured as you tell them your demands, McCaine had said. You are so powerful there is no need for you to get loud or to make threats, don’t forget this.
“We have the possibility to end the Asian financial crisis. We will offer to do this, if the IMF is willing to expand its catalog of regulatory measures for this region by one component: that of a demographic policy. This means ensuring that active measures for population control are undertaken.” He signaled to one of the lawyers, a gesture barely noticeable to anyone else. He was handed some papers. “These are the details worked out by our experts.”
The papers were passed from hand to hand until they reached Irving. He flipped through and scanned their contents before laying them down and lighting his next cigarette. There were three butts in the ashtray in front of him already.
“For me,” he said while the lighter spit sparks because he was working it too hastily, “it sounds as if the world’s largest manufacturer of condoms and birth control pills, which, by the way, is you if I’m informed correctly, wants to secure new markets.”
“Nonsense.” It sounded more abrupt than he wanted it to. But a few of them flinched. Good.
“Besides, the IMF is a transnational organization and cannot take orders from a private company,” Irving continued. “The measures discussed here go far beyond those of a normal intervention. I don’t want to downplay your offer, seeing it as well-intentioned. But not even the experts agree about the reasons for — and results of — current population growth. I believe it is better to leave such issues up to the individual nations to decide.”
John looked at the slim, gray-haired man with confusion. He had said almost exactly — to the word — what McCaine had told John when they practiced this meeting and McCaine played the role of the IMF director. “You may see it this way,” John told him, as he had rehearsed a dozen times, “but we don’t. In a few months we’ll be able to present the most elaborate computer simulations that have ever been possible, showing global correlations and developments. Although we have no detailed information yet, we do know enough that it is essential to make great efforts to curtail population growth. The sooner such measures are started the better it will be.” It was good — even better than when he was practicing with McCaine.
Irving didn’t respond at first. He sucked on his cigarette and watched the glow at the tip fade again. The smoke ring he exhaled was nearly perfect. Finally he said, “Has it occurred to you that what you have just said and the way in which you said it might sound like blackmail?”
“What I merely want to say is that I have influence over speculators and investors who determine the developments in Asia. And what I’m offering you is my influence to help you, in exchange for your influence to help me. In my book this would be called a business deal, nothing more.”
Irving shook his head, ever so slightly. “There is nothing to discuss here. This is simply beyond our area of competence.”
John felt a k
not in his stomach. What was he doing here? Three years ago he delivered pizzas, and his only worries were how to pay the rent. Wasn’t that better than arguing with people like this IMF guy about miserable subjects like population control in the Philippines? He suddenly lacked the strength to fight against the cold, slick man sitting across the table from him. “I’ve said what I needed to say,” he told him flatly and made to leave.
At this moment the door opened. The last man from Irving’s staff entered. He wore a broad smile, came around the table, reached out a hand to shake John’s, and then said: “Hey John, long time no see.”
It was Paul Siegel.
For a moment Ursula Valen wondered if it was the August heat that made her head feel like it was about to burst, or if it was the math. She was surrounded by photocopies of Giacomo Fontanelli’s account statements, bright in the sunlight. Her notebook was made of recycled paper and it didn’t reflect the light as much, but droplets of sweat stained the pages.
She could not afford mistakes. She wanted to avoid embarrassing herself with incorrect calculations. Darn it, she had studied history and that was something she should know about. Okay, back to the beginning.
Banking and finances during the Middle Ages; it was really a study of coinage. Back then the Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne based money on silver during his reign. One pound, or 384 grams, was divided into 20 sous, also known as solidus or schilling, which were each divided into 12 denarii, or pfennig. In the year 1252, Florence began to make coins out of gold, embossed with the city’s coat-of-arms, the lily, on one side, and on the other side with the likeness of John the Baptist. It was called the fiorino, then the floren, and finally the florin. In the German states, gold coins were known as Goldener, or gulden, a name that would come to be used for all gold coins. In 1252, a gold florin contained 33.5 grams of gold and was worth 20 solidi, and in 1457 it was worth 108, and then the list she had found ended. There also used to be a silver florin, the fiorino d’argento, which was worth a third of a taler. But what in the hell was a taler in this context? The zechine was a copy of the florin made by the Republic of Venice; it was also called dukat. In northern Europe, the groschen was also in use, which was worth four pfennige.
One Trillion Dollars Page 42
