One Trillion Dollars Read online

  “And?” Eduardo asked as the jet flew back to Florence later in the night. “How does it feel to be a trillionaire?”

  John glanced at him askance and sighed. If only he knew the answer. “At the moment I feel like I’m in some kind of Disneyland for the wealthy.”

  The media’s siege on the Vacchi property had meanwhile ended. With the reporters and camera teams gone, they could once again enjoy their meals out on the terrace. When John returned to his room the next morning he saw that someone had put delivered everything he had bought in London. There were dozens of cartons, paper bags, and items wrapped in colorful paper. At first it felt like Christmas unpacking all these boxes, but then when he was finished and was surrounded by umbrellas, diamond studded tie clips and cufflinks it all seemed rather pointless.

  He was sitting on his bed feeling worn and at a loss when the phone rang. He answered it absentmindedly.

  “Good morning. How are you feeling?” It was the stranger.

  John first took a lungful of air and tried to clear his mind. “Fine, thanks,” he said vaguely. “I’m doing well, I think. Thank you for the fax, by the way.”

  “My pleasure.”

  It seemed ages ago, even though it had been only last week. “It was — how should I put it — something of a surprise. A last minute rescue, you might say.”

  “Yes,” the dark voice said calmly.

  “I suppose there’s no point asking you where you got that medical report?”

  John heard a dark, suppressed laugh that seemed extremely relaxed. The man on the other end of the line hadn’t even bothered to say “no”.

  “Well, I’m in your debt now at any rate,” John told him. “In case you place value on that.”

  For a moment it was so quiet that he thought the connection dropped. Then the stranger said, “That means very much to me. Maybe we’ll come back to that at some point.”

  The way the man said it made John feel uncomfortable. Or was it that he had reawakened memories of Lino? The fact that his own brother wanted to cheat him? He wasn’t sure.

  “Now that you are the wealthiest man in the world,” the stranger said, “what will you do next?”

  There it was again. He had managed not to think of it for a while. You could forget a whole bunch of things when you travel across half a continent for a shopping trip. You could even forget prophesies and holy missions, especially so, in fact.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said hesitantly, thinking that he was not obliged say anything to a stranger on the phone, who wouldn’t even mention his name. “At the moment I’m still getting used to having the money — shopping spree in London, dinner in Paris; those sorts of things.”

  “Understandable. And you deserve it. But have you thought what you’ll be doing next year, or in five years, or in ten years? Where will you live? How should the world around you look?”

  John stared at the mountain of pullovers and scarves and hated them all. “I … uh … haven’t decided yet,” he explained, feeling suddenly breathless. Was that what he had meant to say? At any rate it sounded better than, “No idea!”

  “You haven’t decided yet. That’s understandable? What alternatives are you considering?”

  “When you have a trillion dollars you can do whatever you want,” John answered rather more cheekily than he had intended. “There are a hell of a lot of alternatives.”

  “Certainly.” If the man was upset by John’s wisecrack answer, then he didn’t show it. “Decisions, decisions, I guess you could say. People who don’t have the liberty of making their own decisions scarcely know how hard it can be.”

  “Exactly,” John said and nodded, feeling totally confused.

  The stranger went on. “But, it seems that the prophecy is causing you headaches. Am I correct?”

  This guy seemed to know everything. “What prophecy?” he asked anyhow.

  “Don’t joke around with me! The prophecy made by your forefather Giacomo Fontanelli; the heir to the fortune will restore mankind’s lost future. I would be sorely disappointed in you if the question of what exactly he meant by that wasn’t going round and round in your head.”

  I haven’t even read the prophecy in the original, John thought. Because it’s written in Latin, and the heir to the Fontanelli fortune had never have learned the language. John didn’t say that, though; he simply remained quiet.

  Again this low-key laughing, like it was far away, maybe from the heights of the Himalayas? “John, you will require my help once again. Think about it.” He hung up.

  Every day John got invitations from banks, opening events, receptions, soccer games, gala events. He was asked to sponsor philanthropic organizations, got offers to join the Lions Club, the Rotary Club, or other exclusive circles. Cristoforo enjoyed reading these invitations over lunch. Then he would put them aside and say: “You’re not ready for that yet, John. It’s better to stay out of the limelight for now. Wait until things have settled down. Take your time to grow into all of this.”

  However, Eduardo had an invitation to a theater premier in Florence for this Saturday evening and tried to talk John into joining him, and since John had nothing else planned, he agreed.

  It turned out to be a very small and avant-garde theater located in a part of Florence that most tourists didn’t even know existed. The play was also very avant-garde, which meant that the young eccentric actors shouted seemingly senseless dialogues at the audience, crowded into a tiny space with barely room for one hundred people, and then pounded on barrels once in a while and poured colorful slime over each other. When the play was almost finished they tore their clothes off their bodies, and by the time the whole thing was over most were nearly naked as they bowed to the applause, which was virtually endless not least because the mostly male audience couldn’t get enough of the sight of bowing, bare-breasted actresses.

  Very sophisticated, John reflected ironically. He didn’t understand anything during the show. Maybe he’d have to take his language lesson with the professore more seriously.

  There was a reception after the performance, which included theater critics, friends of the house, and guests of honor. The play’s author was answering questions from the press. He was a rather timid man with a wild hairstyle, John Lennon glasses, and bad breath. After a while, the stage technicians, lighting people, and the freshly showered actors and actresses joined the get together. Alcohol flowed like a stream and the reception turned into an endless party.

  An agile guy dressed in black, like most of those present, was up on John, although he was trying to play it cool. He worked hard not to mention the word “money,” talking instead about “overhead” and John soon came to understand that the man managed the theater’s finances. All of a sudden he felt people saw him as nothing more than a walking ATM.

  A while later he got involved in a conversation with the director, whom he could not seem to avoid. Trying to get past the guy to grab a drink was like trying to get around the Great Wall of China. The director asked him if he could imagine having his life story made into a theater play.

  “But I’m still alive,” John told him. “It would be rather an incomplete play.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter,” the director told him.

  In the course of the evening John lost track of time and how the night progressed. Someone offered him some coke. Marco was constantly there, silent and sober. One of the actresses insisted that she and John repeat the play, at least the part where she gets her clothes ripped off. John ignored the flashing camera lights.

  On Monday morning the photo was in all the newspapers. The Vacchis only grinned, but John decided that something had to change in his life.

  $10,000,000,000,000

  “AND THIS is how you adjust the Venetian blinds,” the real estate agent explained. He was a small, agile man with immaculately styled hair. He pointed to a high-tech looking console mounted on a wall. “Of course, you can also let the automatic system take care of it.” He was puttin
g a lot of effort into his sales pitch, visibly irritated by Eduardo, who stood around with an unsatisfied look on his face and found reasons to criticize everything.

  John looked up at the slanted windows. They had blinds with snow-white lamellae that went up or down and could change their angle with a silent hum, depending on how the sun was shining into the giant living room. Impressive, like everything else in this house, but this was not really a house or even a mansion, it was a dream palace.

  “It was designed by one of the best architects in the country, as I’ve mentioned,” the agent told him for at least the third time.

  Everything was white and glistened in the sun. In front of the high windows was a terrace with an artistic, wavy balustrade, and beyond that was the Mediterranean Sea sparkling in unreal azure-blue, which would have almost looked like kitsch on a postcard. A narrow path led to the beach, which stretched for miles, shared only with the few other owners of similar palaces.

  “Nice,” John said to himself. He had for a moment forgotten the presence of the others. This could be his house if he wanted. All he had to do way say yes. Odd — never before in his life had he thought about buying a house. He’d simply never had the money — or even a job where he’d be able to save up enough for the down payment on a mortgage. But now, flush with money, he could buy this mansion and, if he wanted, even the whole stretch of coastline too. But still the feeling of ownership seemed to refuse to sink in.

  One trillion dollars. Since the day he had entered this strange cosmos where he had more than enough of everything, the world seemed to have changed into a giant playground. He could do whatever he wanted, and it still did not seem to make a dent in his wealth. No matter how much he spent, the money there was more money when he woke up than when he went to bed.

  But how could he ever consider something to be his when he never done anything to get it or worked for it at all? Maybe, John thought, I will turn into an asshole that will go around feeling like THE big shit and when I feel I haven’t been treated accordingly, I’ll just buy the whole corporation for the fun of firing the employee who acted like an ass.

  “Who did this house belong to before?” John asked.

  The real estate agent went through some papers in a folder. “A famous music producer,” he told him enthusiastically. “I just can’t remember his name. He had a big hit with that song — how did it go again?” he hummed some sort of melody that John did not recognize. “Anyhow, he invested in a movie with one of his female singers, which was a total flop so he lost the house to the bank.”

  “Aha,” John said. So that could happen too. He looked around again and tried to imagine how the place would look furnished and decorated. He wondered if golden records had once adorned the immaculate white walls or if valuable carpets had lain on the light-colored floors, which looked as smooth and glossy as liquid. Maybe famous musicians had strolled up and down the bottle-green marble stairs, which led up to the entryway. Maybe highly talented pop stars had been entertained in the dining room, or signed record deals here. And who knows what went on upstairs with the countless bedrooms, bathrooms, and the fitness studio?

  All this could belong to him, John Fontanelli, the man without a lick of talent. It was hard to believe.

  Eduardo went over to John. “It’s a little cramped for the wealthiest man on earth. Don’t you think?” he said. “I knew we’d be wasting our time in this neighborhood.”

  “I like it.”

  “What?” Eduardo was visibly upset. “John — please, don’t tell me you’re really thinking about this. This kind of mini-mansion is a dime a dozen around here. There is nothing special about this place. I mean, not even a billionaire would be satisfied.”

  John had to chuckle. It was downright touching how Eduardo was concerned with John’s image.

  “No, really,” Eduardo went on. “Portecéto!? Portecéto is a hick-town. Not a soul has ever heard of Portecéto. You can’t even find it on most maps.”

  “Maybe that’ll change when I live here.”

  “I think you should buy the Calmata, if the offer is still on the table, and build a mansion there, designed by the best architect in the world.”

  “I will not move into a nature preserve. I would feel like a straight-up asshole.”

  “Then buy a nice old palazzo and have it renovated.”

  “I can still do that any time. But this would be a start.”

  “A start?” Eduardo said with a touch of hope. “Yes, alright, I guess it’d a start…”

  After seeing the newspapers on Monday, the Padrone had stopped reading invitations. On Friday, however, he held a plain looking card with something scribbled on it in the air, and asked, “Does the name Giovanni Agnelli mean anything to you?”

  “Isn’t he an Italian businessman, or something?” John guessed.

  “You could say that. Agnelli is a bit like the uncrowned king of Italy. He’s the head of FIAT and the richest man in the country — well, he was the richest man in the country — and he has holding in virtually every industry.” Cristoforo stopped and was lost in thought. Then he went on; “I once met him in the university. He’s a bit younger than me, but he also studied law. Even back then he was a very charismatic man …” He waved the card around again. “He wants to invite you to La Scala, in Milan next Saturday. ‘La Traviata.’”

  John must have had a confused expression, because Alberto hurried to explain, saying: “It’s an opera by Verdi.”

  “It sounds as if you think I should go,” John said.

  “If only as a contrast to the little event you attended last Saturday.”

  “I thought I was supposed to take time out? Besides, I’m not too keen on operas.”

  “The opera is actually irrelevant. I think it would be good for you to get to know Agnelli. He is an interesting man. He has style, grandezza … a real gentleman. He could be an example to you of how a wealthy man handles money, power, and influence.” He smirked. “He owns Ferrari too, by the way.”

  The Teatro alla Scala rose before him like a light-brown and yellow palace as he drove up in the Rolls at just before two thirty. Uniformed pageboys opened the doors and guided him and the bodyguards past the crowd and into the foyer. Hanging between the Roman pillars were banners announcing a special performance to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the Collaborazione Fernet-Branca, and smaller signs pointing out that it was reserved for invited guests. Despite being a bright afternoon, the building was dim inside and the crystal chandeliers were lit, their lights reflecting on the highly polished floors. General murmuring and chatter reverberated from the stone walls. Small glasses filled with darkly colored herb liqueur were served from silver trays.

  John had the feeling quite a few of the guests recognized him, but with furtive glances pretended not to. They ascended the red-carpeted staircase to get to the walkabout hallway and VIP boxes. There were very tall, old-fashioned panel doors with handles placed high, as if the people who made them were giants. Then they saw Agnelli, who was surrounded by what looked like an entourage of servants. He greeted John.

  “It’s an honor,” said the billionaire, and it sounded as if he really meant it. He had graying, wavy hair, almost like the Padrone, but he seemed more energetic and dynamic, a man who could still fascinate women despite his age. Countless fine wrinkles on his animated face testified to a wild youth. “I don’t envy you,” Agnelli explained as they entered their box, and the bodyguards behind them made their arrangements. “I know what it means to inherit a fortune. Often, it seems as if the money owns you, instead of the other way around. You’ll have to fight. You really must put in an effort.”

  “I already have one fight behind me,” John said spontaneously. “Maybe you heard.”

  “Yes. With your own family too. That was bad. But you can take my word that that was only the start.”

  The box was surprisingly small. Only two chairs fit inside. And the rest of the theater, with all the red cushioned chairs and six rows o
f boxes above them like chicken cages, also looked small to John.

  Then there was the one thing he could not avoid: the opera. Agnelli listened intently but John was bored to death. The stage looked imposing, though, and the actors wore impressive costumes, and the conductor, Signor Riccardo Muit, as John read in the program, gave his best. But still, John would have preferred a rock concert — maybe the Rolling Stones or even Bruce Springsteen.

  He and Agnelli talked during the intermission. Agnelli told John that he would be retiring soon and his nephew, Giovanni Alberto, would be heir to his fortune. “You too will have to think about such a step one day,” he told him. “It’s not easy. My son, Eduardo, for example, would be totally unqualified to succeed me. He hasn’t got the character: he would ask astrologers or clairvoyants for advice on every decision and in no time everything would lay in ruins.”

  It didn’t feel as if Agnelli was about to retire however. On the contrary, it seemed the whole business world revolved around him. Time and again distinguished gentlemen, accompanied by elegant ladies, would come over to shake the magnate’s hand, and he would introduce them to John Fontanelli. Courteously, John shook all their hands; firm ones, greedy ones, weak clasps, brutal grips, and kissed the hands of the ladies, just like Signora Orsini had taught him. He looked into kind eyes and aggressive ones, into interested eyes and ones that were dull or disdainful, and into friendly eyes, too.

  “Guignard,” a Frenchman introduced himself. “Jean Baptiste Guignard. I’m very pleased, Signor Fontanelli.”

  “Jean,” Agnelli explained to John, “has made his passion into a living. Is that how you’d put it, Jean? He owns a wharf in Cannes where he builds yachts.”

  Coney Island popped into John’s memories. How they had played in the sand on the beach and looked out over the ocean and saw the sleek shapes of yachts and the tiny people on them. They knew those were rich people — mythical creatures. They weren’t human beings who you could just walk up and talk to. Wealthy people were separated from the normal ones in a fantastic way, closer to the angels than humans. And they lived on yachts.