One Trillion Dollars Page 6

  “Will this disqualify me now in your eyes?” John asked as he shot across a bridge that went over an almost dry creek.

  “Why?”

  “Well,” John said with a tight grip on the wheel and a smirk on his lips, “you find the heir to the Fontanelli fortune, the fulfiller of the prophecy, the one who had been chosen for a half millennium to restore humanity’s future — and the first thing he does is totally useless: buying an extremely expensive sports car.”

  Eduardo laughed. “Then you don’t know my grandfather. He took you into his heart. That’s forever. You can do whatever you want.”

  John looked surprised. “Oh?” That touched him somehow.

  “Besides,” Eduardo continued, “you fit right into a theory that he developed.”

  “A theory?”

  “He had been following the fate of various people who came suddenly and unexpectedly into wealth. You know, like you might’ve read in some newspaper story or other. He says that those who start to save it soon lose it. But, those who fulfill crazy dreams right away learn how to handle the money later on.”

  “So, I guess there’s still hope for me.”

  “Exactly.”

  He just had to do it — when he saw the showroom window with the red cars inside, and the ridiculous looking mannequins and the logo with the black horse on a yellow shield. He felt something like hunger; he had to have such a car, he had to drive it. Right there and right at that moment.

  Things like that always looked so easy in the movies, but on this side of the silver screen a car had to be registered, and had to be insured. You had to go through a thousand different steps in diverse government departments before you could legally drive a car out of the showroom for good.

  Eduardo was by his side to help him with all the initial formalities. The man in the store simply nodded; everything could be taken care of later. John would be able to drive the vehicle right away. All he had to do was pull out his credit card and sign the receipt for an unbelievably large sum of lira, which John did without even trying to figure out how many dollars it was. And then came the magic moment; the owner of the dealership, a very well-dressed man with oily, shiny hair, handed the keys over to John. He and Eduardo climbed into the new Ferrari, the large store window was opened, and then John drove out into the street filled with honking cars.

  Actually, John had never been a fan of Ferraris. He always thought how ridiculous it was when Tom Selleck drove a Ferrari around in the TV show Magnum P.I. A car like that was too expensive and impractical in his eyes. Naturally, he had dreamed of owning a nice car as a symbol of having made it in the world, just like any red-blooded American, but his dreams were set on a Cadillac or Corvette, not a Ferrari.

  As he looked back to the moment when he gazed out the window of the Rolls Royce and saw the Ferrari dealership, it was more like a test to see how much truth there was to all those words the Vacchis had told him. That’s what made him want to buy one immediately — to see if he, supposedly the richest man of all time, could buy a wildly expensive sports car on nothing more than a whim.

  And behold! He could.

  “Your grandfather really believes in the prophecy, doesn’t he?” John asked.

  Eduardo nodded. “Yes, he does.”

  “And you?”

  “Hmm.” A pause followed, and then he answered: “Not in the same way as grandfather does.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I think that my family accomplished something very unique by keeping this fortune intact for such a long period of time. I also believe that it doesn’t belong to us, but to the rightful Fontanelli heir.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you ever think about just keeping it? I mean, who else knows about this money?”

  “No one. I know it sounds crazy, but this is how I was raised. You might not be able to visualize this. I grew up in an atmosphere of patience and planning and working and preparing … all focuses on this one very particular date, a date that had been fixed five hundred years ago. The Vacchis' commitment was to care for the fortune, to nurture it and to make it grow up until the day it would be handed over to the rightful heir. Then, as soon as the heir had full control of the money, we would be free. Then our duty would be done.”

  John tried to imagine such a life; one where people were tied to a pledge their ancestors made centuries ago, and he shuddered at the thought; it felt so unnatural to him. “Is that what you feel … commitment? Isn’t that a heavy burden?”

  “It is not a heavy burden. It was simply our task and only when it is fulfilled are we free to concentrate on other things.” Eduardo shrugged his shoulders. “It may seem odd to you, but you must realize; those things that my grandfather told you about two days ago were stories I have known since I was a child. Fontanelli’s dream was told to me while other kids were told Christmas stories. I know it by heart. Each year the twenty-third of April was like a holiday for us, and we told each other, ‘Now there are only so-and-so many years left.’ I know the sum of Fontanelli’s fortune at any major moment in history. We watched the Fontanelli family down through all those years. We kept track of every wedding and every birth. We knew who held what job and who lived in what city. But, admittedly, we had let it slide a bit during the past years. The closer the final day got, the more confident we were that your cousin Lorenzo would inherit the money.”

  John went out on a limb. “Are you disappointed that it was me in the end?”

  “You can’t ask me that. I was in the university until last fall and never met him. To observe your family was the others’ job. We need to take a right here.”

  John turned and up a small hill. He had to slow down because the road was narrow and winding.

  “Who were the other possibilities?”

  “You were number two. Number three would’ve been your distant cousin. He is a dental technician in Livorno. He’s thirty-one years old, married but without children, which, by the way, is a frequent occurrence in the Fontanelli family.”

  “He will be disappointed.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  Now the road offered better visibility. John saw that it led to a village. At bit off to the wayside — the view of the Mediterranean must be grand from up there — stood a large estate, and John sensed that must be the Vacchi home.

  “What does your grandfather think about me?”

  “That you are the heir Giacomo Fontanelli saw in his dream in the year 1495. And that with your fortune you will accomplish great things for humanity, something that will re-open the door to the future.”

  “Quite ambitious expectations, aren’t they?”

  “To be honest, I think all of this is only mystical humbug.” Eduardo laughed loudly.

  They approached the village. John saw that the road on the other side, the one Eduardo wanted to take earlier, would have been wider.

  “But, in the Vacchi family belief comes with age, according to a family proverb,” Eduardo added. “Both my father and my uncle are at a stage in their lives at which, as true Vacchis at least believe, they think that something useful must be done with the money, and they put in great efforts to think about what this might be. My grandfather doesn’t waste any time with such thoughts. You are the rightful heir, and the whole thing is a divine revelation … and if you buy a Ferrari, then it was part of God’s plan, e basta!”

  Eduardo gave John instructions to help him find his way through the village with snappy finger gestures that John had quickly learned to “read.” The place looked very peaceful. They got to the estate, drove through a broad, wide open, wrought iron gateway and up to a spacious graveled driveway. The Rolls was already parked in the shade of large old trees. John parked the Ferrari next to it. It was odd not feeling the vibration of the Ferrari’s engine or hearing its sound any more.

  “So, what do you think?” he wanted to know.

  Eduardo grinned. “John, I think that you have a trillion
dollars and that you are the king of the world. If you don’t enjoy that, then you are nuts.”

  $4,000,000,000,000

  THE ENTIRE PROPERTY was steeped in history. The treetops swayed in the wind coming in from the sea and made shadows dance upon the stoic old stucco walls laced with countless, thin cracks. They had taken only a few crunchy steps on the gravel when the front door swung open. A well-nourished woman in her mid-fifties, who could’ve easily made commercials for spaghetti, came out and greeted them with a burst of rapid-fire Italian.

  “You must speak slower, Giovanna,” Eduardo called to her in Italian. “Otherwise Signor Fontanelli won’t understand you.” Turning to John, he said in English, “That’s Giovanna, the presiding angel of the house. She will take care of you, but she does not speak English.”

  “At least I understood what you told her,” John said with a grin. “We’ll get along.” John’s father had always wanted his kids to at least understand the fundamentals of their family tongue, but since mainly English was spoken at home, John had had little opportunity to practice. Much of what he had forgotten, however, was slowly being coming back to him.

  They went inside the house and entered a cool, dim hallway. An impressive staircase led up to a gallery. Dim hallways stretched off to the left and right, and a heavy chandelier hung from the ceiling high above. Their steps echoed on the terracotta floors. Eduardo once again told Giovanna to speak slowly and concisely to John, which won him only a sour look. He told John “See you later,” and left.

  John followed the formidable maid up the stairs and through a light-flooded hallway until they came to a large room she told him was his. It was as big as a living room and had glass doors that opened to a broad balcony, which offered a wonderful view of the Mediterranean Sea over its weathered sandstone balustrade.

  “Here is your bathroom,” she said, but John was only interested looking at the shimmering sea. If he needed something, anything, she told him, all he had to do was to dial fifteen.

  “What?” John said automatically in Italian and turned around. She stood beside the bed and held the phone in her hand. It was a modern cordless one, and the base stood on the nightstand.

  “Fifteen,” Giovanna said again, “if you need something.”

  “Yes.” John nodded and took the phone from her hand.

  “And if I need to make a call? Outside the house?” he couldn’t remember the Italian word for operator.

  “Dial zero,” she told him, being as patient as a mother with a child. John asked himself if she had kids. Then he looked at the phone. It had a small clear plastic tab with a tag behind it. It was his phone number: twenty-three.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  As soon as she left, he realized he was tired. It had to be jet lag. He had barely slept a wink during the flight and had no impression of what time it could be. He had felt mixed-up, wired, and exhausted all at once. The bed looked good: wide and freshly made. The drive in the Ferrari had given him a jolt of adrenaline, like strong coffee. He was wide awake and ecstatic as he raced through the landscape, but that was keeping him from being able to fall asleep now, even though he felt like it. He knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink. But he could lie down on the bed and rest just a little bit. That wouldn’t be a bad idea.

  He woke up with a start and looked around bewildered, and then slowly began to grasp where he was and what had happened. It was still bright out, or was it bright again? But the quality of the light had changed. He ran his fingers through his hair, and then shook the sleepiness out of his head. From one second to the next, he had fallen asleep in his clothes.

  Laboriously, he stood up. Where was the bathroom? Who cares? As if drawn by a magnet he went to the balcony doors and stepped outside. The fresh air, smelling of salt and endless distance, cleared his head. The sun hung low over the horizon shining golden-red before him. That must be west, so it must be late afternoon or early evening. He must’ve slept at least five hours.

  Now he took note of the layout of the Vacchi estate. There was the main building, which had two smaller wings reaching toward the sea and attached at right angles from the main structure and capped off with a very large terraces. One of the wings housed his room. Blue awnings were stretched out from the opposite terrace, and a large table was being set underneath them. Wild grapevines grew over the balustrade, upon which large pots stood with red, blue and violet flowers. Someone waved to him, calling him over. “Sunset!” he understood and he recognized Alberto Vacchi. The other man sitting there might be his brother Gregorio, and there was also a woman whom he had not met yet. He saw Giovanna and a young girl, dressed in a formal maid’s uniform. They were placing glasses and plates upon the table.

  John waved back, but remained standing where he was to enjoy the sight of the sea, sparkling in the setting sun like the picture on a kitschy postcard. A large snow-white yacht plowed through the water, and John felt a bit jealous, like most people probably would who were standing on shore looking at such a beautiful ship. Yachts seem to be built for just such purposes, to bring out emotions.

  Then he remembered that he was rich, unbelievably rich. He could buy a much bigger yacht if he wanted. He could buy a dozen yachts. While he was at it, he could buy a private 747, even a fleet of them. And even that would scarcely hinder his monstrous fortune from continuing to grow. With every breath you take, Eduardo said, you have four thousand dollars more. That means it grew faster than he could count, even if he were handed thousand dollar bills. He didn't know why, but thoughts like that made his knees shake. Suddenly, it all seemed too much for him and he started to feel anxious. He feared it would overwhelm him and crush him like an avalanche. How else could he be expected to feel, going from being a poor sucker one day to filthy rich the next?

  He turned around to face the house and walked to the open door. He went inside and sank down onto the carpeted floor — just lie here for a while, he thought. That’s how he stayed until the dark fog had lifted from his eyes. He hoped no one would see him like this.

  After a while he slowly sat up and waited to collect himself. Then he finally stood up, found the bathroom and put his face under the faucet and turned on the water. When he came back out the air smelled like something delicious was being fried. The smell seemed to be coming into his room from the other terrace. He wanted to take a shower and change his clothes, but he didn’t know if his clothes had arrived or where they would be, and he didn’t want to bother anyone. Besides, the smell of food had woven its spell on him, and so he decided that the shower could wait.

  He found his way to the other terrace, which was not that difficult as the house was built symmetrically. The room on this side of the complex, which was located in the same place as his, only on the opposite terrace, turned out to be a magnificent salon. When he stepped out onto the terrace he was greeted amicably.

  “Those transatlantic flights sure do a number,” Alberto said waving John over to him to an unoccupied chair, “Especially those going east. The best medicine is sleep. Sleep and good food. Giovanna, a plate for our guest of honor, please.”

  They sat at a long wooden table, which looked like it had been built for knights centuries ago. The lawyers sat at one side of the table and a number of other guests at the other. Only the Padrone wasn’t there. Of the other guests, John knew only Benito and Giovanna, who was sitting beside him and gesturing wildly as she spoke to him. Large glass bowls stood in the middle of the table with bright, colorful salads, and baskets with freshly baked white bread, and cast iron pots of fried fish.

  The young maid hurried over to bring John a plate after Giovanna gestured to her to do so. He was also given silverware and an engraved crystal glass.

  Alberto took charge introducing the guests to each other. The woman that John had seen from his balcony was Alvina, and she was Gregorio’s wife, so Eduardo’s mother. Her English was good, though she spoke with a strong accent. She told John that she was a teacher in the village school. Then Alberto mentio
ned a list of other names, which John could hardly remember, but he did look at all their faces.

  The stocky man with thinning hair, who sat wide-legged on his chair listening to Giovanna and Benito, was the gardener. The two young guys sitting near them, sawing at their fish, had been there cleaning the indoor swimming pool in the basement of the house that afternoon, which they did once a month to earn a little bit of extra cash. And the toothless old man, who sat smiling with an alcohol-induced buzz, holding onto his wine glass, was one of the local farmers from whom the Vacchis got their fresh fruits and vegetables.

  “This is a family tradition, you could say,” Alberto explained. “A large outdoor dinner and whoever happens to be here is invited to join us. This way we find out the latest gossip from the village. John, you must be hungry, please, go ahead and help yourself.”

  John looked at the bowls and generously filled his plate. The lawyer poured some deep-red, ruby-colored wine into John’s glass from a dark bottle.

  “Your father won’t be joining us?” John asked casually and was a bit startled when Alberto’s face turned a smidgen serious.

  “He’s asleep. Such long journeys exhaust him more than he admits.” He was quiet for a while, and then added: “His health is not what it once was, but he still wanted to join us on the long trip. That’s how he is.”