Ursula looked at him inquisitively. “Are you in any way … how should I put it? Religious?”
“Do you want to know if I go to church often? The last time I was in church was twenty years ago, when Cesare got married. That’s my oldest brother.”
She smiled thinly. “I know. I once sat beside him during a flight.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.” That was one of the anecdotes they had told each other the previous few nights.
“No, I meant if you are religious … if you believe in God.”
“If I believe in God?” John took a deep breath and then sighed. “Two or three years ago I could have given you a straight answer, but today … I don’t know. You want to know because of the prophecy, right?”
“Sure. If you believe that Giacomo Fontanelli received his visions from God, then it is logical that you believe in God too.”
John cocked his head. “Let’s put it this way, I try to be open-minded to the possibility that there could be a divine plan behind all this … Maybe I even hope so. But do I believe …?”
“The way that Cristoforo Vacchi believed?”
“No, not like that,” John said shaking his head. “I wish I could.”
“The last time I believed in anything was during my youth initiation ceremony. Are you ready to do everything for the happy life of the working people? Yes, we swear this. For a peace-loving, democratic and independent Germany? Yes, we swear this. And so on. In spirit, I wanted to live a life of friendship among peoples and integrate into the community of solidarity of the working people. Even then I was not allowed to attend college, although I was the best in my class. When I complained they only looked at me with embarrassment and gave me cheap excuses — so much for solidarity. All they had were empty phrases. Beliefs and idealism are nothing more than a way of allowing other people to take advantage of you.”
They were quiet for a moment. They could hear the traffic outside.
“You mean like Jakob Fugger taking advantage of Giacomo’s religious belief?”
“And, don’t forget, those of Michelangelo Vacchi.”
A man appeared up by the altar, the churchwarden, probably. He pulled two candle stands across the floor with a clanking grinding noise, repositioned them, and then began tinkering with the candles All very run of the mill.
“The people back then,” John asked, “what did they believe in? I mean they came in here into this church, they must have believed in something.”
Ursula shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I had the feeling that they were just desperate and there was no other place to go. They certainly never thought that they could topple the government.”
“No?”
“No one believed that. And only a few of them wanted to do it. Most people would have been satisfied with a bit more democracy and freedom to travel. That is what got the whole thing rolling. A few people who had applied for travel permits put their names in the showcase in the church because they were afraid they might suddenly disappear without a trace.” She looked to John. “Not a single person thought that all this would eventually lead to Germany’s reunification. That is the joke, don’t you see? Despite Gorbachev in Moscow, despite glasnost and perestroika, not a single person in the whole world would have thought that. None of the spy agencies did, none of the governments did, simply no one. No psychics predicted it, no computers calculated it, and there was not a single utopian fantasy that would have dared imagine Germany’s reunification and the collapse of the Warsaw Pact, and all without a single drop of blood being shed. It was neither predictable nor predestined. It could have easily turned out differently. November 9 could have been the beginning of World War III. It was a close call … we were just lucky.”
“Or was it providence?”
“The same providence that sometimes makes things happen the other way around? No thanks. What good is providence if it means my death? Then I’d rather say it was good luck, if it was good.”
“Was it really such a close call? I don’t remember it being like that.”
“It was never made public. Later on it was one of my first projects during my history studies at school, and I did some research on it. There was no plan ready to be put in place in the event of a peaceful, popular uprising. And on top of that, the only reason people started to stream towards the border crossings was because they misunderstood a governmental declaration. The government never meant to open the borders just like that, all they intended was to make it easier to get a travel permit. What if only one border guard had opened fire?” She let the words sink in and watched him, and when she realized he had got the message, she added: “For me this means you can stick all those smart plans and projections and trend analyses into a garbage can. Whatever will happen, will happen, and all the really important events in this century surprised all the soothsayers and analysts. When you look at old projections from, say, fifty years ago or more you have to laugh. Practically nothing happened as predicted.” She put a hand on his arm. “That’s why I tell you that it is nothing but bullshit. The prophecy is bullshit. The human race having lost its future … bullshit.”
“And that half the planet belongs to me — is that bullshit too?”
Ursula’s eyes narrowed. “You have to run away from your own bodyguards like a thief. What do you call that? A fulfilling and free life?”
The professor opened a thick binder, dropped it heavily on the table in front of McCaine and flipped to some pages containing diagrams. “Here, for instance, you can see every possible projection for every global economy. As you can see, you have great influence. You could pick almost any country in the world and decide to either send its economy soaring stratospherically or ruin it completely. The numbers for each set of data are listed on the diagrams and the corresponding strategies on the attachment. It is almost a handbook for world dominance.”
McCaine leafed through the pages. “It just does not make any sense to me that we can have such influence and still be powerless.”
“That is because you are confusing two things … money and reality. The only thing you can control is money, but money is only fiction, an arrangement among humans. By controlling money you have control over the economy, but only as long as this arrangement among humans is observed. And you have practically no influence over anything that is not involved with the economy. A good example is reproduction.” Collins went over to one of the graphic charts and tapped it. “This is the projection for one possible development in the human population. It is rather disturbing, don’t you think? Even before the year 2000, the sixth billionth person will be born, and this is unavoidable. And this number will double; that too is, for the most part, unavoidable.”
McCaine clenched his fists and looked at the lines grimly, shaking his head.
“And this is only part of the truth,” the scientist continued. “Because if you look at the strategies, which could have a damping effect on the increase in population, you will see they promote steppe formation, desertification and salinization of the soil.” He pointed to another, smaller chart. “Here you can see what has happened to arable land. In 1980, there were 0.31 hectares of fertile land per inhabitant of the planet, and in 2000, it will be only 0.16. The amount of fertile land is also decreasing, both in size and in yields. Erosion through unavoidable cultivation will increase. Salinization will occur where irrigation is a must, and this will eventually poison the ground. In twenty-five years there may be perhaps 800 square meters of land per capita, which really isn't more than a big garden, if you like. How is that going to work?” He let his hand drop in exasperation. “It can’t work.”
For a while they didn’t say anything, each lost in his own thoughts. Then McCaine leaned back in his easy chair, which squeaked. “I still can’t believe it,” he said. “What about raw materials? Fontanelli Enterprises has a de facto monopoly on many metals of strategic importance. We could shut down mining if we wanted. Or what about energy? We don’t have control over all o
f the oil market, but we could still drive prices up. Surely, these measures must influence your calculations.”
Collins sat back down on the edge of his desk. “It does, but if you apply pressure on a complex system then circumventive strategies will be developed. And they will be developed automatically, simply by making alternative materials more attractive. Let's take energy for example. As the price of oil goes up, other alternative energies will become more affordable, relatively speaking, such as solar energy.”
“I would not mind that.”
“But you would lose your leverage. It is the same with raw materials. There are historic examples. During the world wars each side tried using boycotts and naval blockades to block their enemy's access to raw materials that were vital to the war effort. The result was the development of alternatives — and sometimes the alternatives are better than the previous materials.”
McCaine’s expression had turned to stone as he placed his hands on the armrests. “So are these your conclusions? That all is lost and it’s only a matter of time?”
“I didn’t say that. My conclusions are that your potential influence on the system and its ability to prevent systematic collapse are insufficient. To put it bluntly: you don’t have enough power.”
“Well, thanks,” McCaine said dryly.
“I don’t want to say that it would not be possible with some international cooperation…"
The professor stopped talking when his visitor threw his head back and let out a raucous laugh, half shouting and half laughing. “International cooperation!” McCaine roared. “Professor, what planet do you live on? When and where did an effective type of cooperation ever happen? Do you have any examples? I can only see examples of disasters, like all those environmental conferences that were no more than smoke and mirrors. No, please, spare me the fantasies. That is ridiculous.”“We have the most precise and profound projection that has ever been created. We could calculate every possible result of any suggested countermeasures during an international conference and present them to the delegates the same day.”
McCaine shook his head vehemently. “Forget it.”
“We could announce…”
“Nothing will be made public.”
“You are the boss.” Collins’ gaunt figure seemed to withdraw into itself. “But if very drastic steps are not taken soon, then I can offer no projection other than a profound, widespread famine and disease beyond your wildest imagination, and in the end an Earth that is bleak, polluted, and exhausted and not worth living on anymore.”
They were waiting for them in front of the building in which Ursula’s parents had their little apartment with a balcony. Out of now where, Marco was standing in front of them with a serious expression and said, “Good day, Mr. Fontanelli.” He was trying not to make it sound reproachful, but he couldn’t. The other men got out of the car looking grim and didn’t say a word.
The Valens lived on the fifth floor, there was no elevator. They were waiting eagerly by the door as John and Ursula went up the gloomy stairway, two ordinary, unassuming people whose faces lit up when they saw their daughter. They greeted her warmly, and her mother told John “Welcome,” but then added that she didn’t speak English, a phrase she needed to repeat a couple of times before John understood her.
Her father spoke a little English. The computer company where he found a job thanks to his own former employee was American, and he had picked up the little bit of English he knew from there. Back when he was younger, he had learned Russian in school, he told John, but he had since forgotten it all. He laughed a lot while talking and had greeted John as if he had known him for ages. While they ate, he kept putting his fork down to rub his wrists. John knew it was his rheumatism, because Ursula had told him in advance.
Ursula looked like her mother — the two women might even have been confused for sisters if it weren't for the older Valen's old-fashioned clothing and gray apron. Ursula had to act as a translator since her mother wanted to know a lot about John, about his parents, grandparents, if he wanted to have children and how many. When John said ten, Ursula refused to continue translating. But her father had understood and told her mother. They laughed, and Ursula blushed.
“This is where I grew up,” Ursula told John later as they stood on the balcony and looked down at the playground. “The old swing is still there. I loved that thing. And over there by the garbage cans … a boy tried to kiss me when I was eleven.”
“Not the most romantic place.”
“I didn't think so either.”
The apartment was small and all the furniture and knickknacks made it even more cramped. Ursula’s old room now housed a model train setup that had been built with care and dedication. Her father demonstrated it enthusiastically, while her mother made final dinner preparations.
They drank some sparkling wine, named Rottkäppchen, which meant Little Red Riding Hood, before they ate. John did not quite understand what Little Red Riding Hood had to do with wine. But the bubbly tasted good. After dinner her parents dug out the photo albums. John got to see Ursula as a naked little child, in kindergarten, first day of school, and as a kid on vacation in Hungary. They also had to endure the slides of their vacation in Gran Canaria, where they celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary. By the time John and Ursula were ready to go it was midnight and Ursula’s father was not quite sober any more.
It was raining lightly. The noticeably quiet bodyguards took them to Ursula’s apartment at the other end of town. When John told them that he would not need them any more for the night and could have sworn he heard them snarl.
When McCaine left the institute in the late evening the first drops of rain were already falling, and by the time he got to the guesthouse in Hartford, where he had reserved a room, it was pouring. He was the only guest there that night and the room was almost too large for one person. He threw his bag and wet coat on the king size bed and went over to the terrace without turning on a light.
He could forget about sleep. The rain poured down like a Biblical flood. Thunder boomed and lightening flashed across the sky as if the heavens were falling.
$38,000,000,000,000
HOW COULD THIS be? He had done everything possible. He had sacrificed nights and friends and relationships, he had starved, worked his fingers to the bone. How could this be? It all had fit together so well. Fate had chosen him for this task, he had always been certain of that. Providence had shown him the way, taken him to where he was today … He had sacrificed his life to follow his destiny; there was no doubt about that. Not a single one. And now it was apparently all for naught?
Unimaginable! Impossible! Intolerable!
McCaine stared out through the windowpanes at the wild elements, pressing his hands against the cool glass, feeling the pulse in the fingertips. The rain was blown hard against the windows, turning them into windshields without wipers. He could no longer see the street below, not even when lightning flashed with an intense bluish-white light, leaving ghostly impressions on his blinded retinas. Somewhere a shutter was rattling back and forth, a dog was howling miserably as if he was being skinned alive. But neither could penetrate the noise of the storm. The thunder crashed and pounded as if Armageddon was just around the corner. He simply stood there and watched, letting himself be shaken by the powerful forces, if only it might erase just a tiny portion of the despair burning within him and eating him up.
It had all been too late, too slow. The professor’s calculations had confirmed what he had feared all long. He had started too late. He had known this deep down since the Vacchis had thrown him out. He had failed. No! This simply could not be. He done everything he could, had sacrificed so much, literally done everything possible. It was now up to the prophecy to fulfill itself on its own.
Another bolt of lightning flashed and a crash of thunder — concurrently this time, coming down at him like the wrath of God. He reeled back from the window, blinded and half deaf, he thought for a split second he had been
torn to shreds, and he might have cheered if he had been. He ripped off the tie which felt like a noose around his neck. He tore his jacket off, threw them both carelessly into the darkness of the room.
He just could not get it into his head. The monstrous incomparable wealth that had been in his hands, wealth beyond all imagination, power nobody else had ever possessed … could it all really mean nothing? Was it really possible that all this was not enough to drag the world back from the brink and guide it down a sustainable path? A path that would lead to a future worth living in? Could it really be that no such plan was possible? He had always had a burning confidence that had given him encouragement during those nights when he had no coal to heat his room and when he sat wearing sweaters and coats at his table, holding a pen in his gloved hands, writing, reading, and learning. He had been possessed by a confidence as clear as the rising sun — even in the moments of desperation during the start of the business, when the stocks went down and his investors wanted their money back. He had always been sure of himself. He knew that it would end well because providence had shown him this path and had chosen him from among all other people to accomplish this very special task.
Was none of it true? Was this the way it was supposed to end? But what about all those incredible coincidences! So many breaks that had leveled the path for him, events that helped him do things he otherwise never could have done. No, this could not simply have been a delusion. All the statistics and the chances spoke against it. Impossible! He had been guided for all those years, for his entire life.
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