One Trillion Dollars Page 7

  John nodded. “I understand.”

  “How do you like your room?” Gregorio asked.

  John, who had only just managed to shove the first piece of fish into his mouth, nodded as he hurried to swallow. “Good. It’s really nice. Great view.”

  “Let him eat first, Gregorio,” his wife said and smiled to John. “It’s the nicest room in the whole house, and it’s been waiting for you for a long time.”

  “Ah,” John said, and didn’t know what else to say. And because he couldn’t think of anything to say, he hurried to stuff some salad into his mouth, and while he chewed he listened to the others talking.

  Alberto didn’t seem to be married, and for the first time John noticed that he did not wear a wedding ring. He did not really look like someone who was married. Eduardo poked around in his salad and seemed to be elsewhere with his thoughts. Alvina and Alberto were talking about one of her former pupils, who, as far as John could follow, moved to Florence, started a software business, and had recently won a major contract.

  The gardener stood up, went over to the Vacchis, thanked them for the meal, and told them that he had to get back to work. He explained that he had taken five bushes out of the ground earlier and they must be put back in, otherwise they’d dry out by tomorrow.

  John felt how his tension gradually evaporated. He had not been aware of how uneasy he had been. It was calming to sit here, stripping the white meat from the fishbone and dunking the bread into the delicious sauce, which was oily and saturated with garlic, while all around him life went on as usual. There was something in this blissful atmosphere that somehow made him feel he would not enjoy many such moments of peace in the future. This was the lull before the storm.

  And it would be a one trillion dollar storm.

  It took John a long time to wake up properly the next morning. It was bright with an unusual light, and he was on unusually nice smelling sheets, on a mattress that suited him, not too hard or too soft. And then he remembered everything again; the inheritance, the flight, the Ferrari, and he did drink quite a bit of wine last night, too.

  But he didn’t have a hangover. He got up, placed his feet on the very soft carpet, and looked around the large room, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The balcony doors were open. He could hear the surf, and he could almost imagine smelling the sea. He looked at the furniture, which was not really to his taste; too dainty, too much glass and too many knickknacks, although they did look solid and he suspected that they were expensive.

  He ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, yawned endlessly and tried to stretch. He remembered everything, but only like a dream. Lord knows how he got here, but it all seemed real enough. Here he was, dressed in silk pajamas, and although a little worse for the wear from last night’s drinking, it was definitely no dream.

  And now? A cup of coffee would be good. A big cup of coffee, hot and strong, but first he wanted to shower. And even a trillionaire had to go to the bathroom.

  The table on the terrace was already set for breakfast. It seemed the Vacchi family-life revolved around this table. Someone had changed the blue awning’s position so that it offered shade from the morning sun, and also a view of the sea.

  This time only the Padrone sat at the table. He called John over with a weak wave of one hand and invited him to sit down next to him. “What would you like for breakfast? We here in Italy seldom take more than a cup of cappuccino, but Giovanna is in the kitchen and ready to fulfill whatever wishes you may have. We even have several different types of American cereals, if I remember correctly.”

  “A coffee would be a good start,” John said.

  She seemed to have heard him, because she appeared with a large cup of cappuccino. She looked like she was suffering from a bit from a hangover.

  “Everyone else is still asleep,” the old man continued. “No wonder; a flight over the Atlantic, a long car ride, and then drinking lots of alcohol to finish it off. My sons aren’t that young anymore, but they don’t want to admit it. I bet Alberto told you all sorts of horror stories about my health, right? I stayed away from the dinner table on purpose. You know, I’ve studied many biographies from people who got very old, and learned that reaching a great age has a lot to do with the way you sleep. It’s not the only reason, but an important one. You can grow to be very old even without being in perfect physical condition if you make sure you get enough sleep. Even so, it’s about time Eduardo showed up; after all, he’s your age.”

  John sipped his coffee and the bitter, hot elixir that entered his mouth from beneath the light-brown creamy cover and ran soothingly down his throat. Then he took a small pastry from a chrome-wire basket. “As far as I can remember, when I went to bed he went to the basement to get more wine.”

  Cristoforo laughed and shook his head. “Then we’ll be alone this morning, I guess.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “That depends on what we make of it. Do you have any plans yet?”

  John bit into the pastry. It tasted slightly salty, but good. He shook his head while he chewed.

  “That would’ve surprised me,” said the old Vacchi. “This whole thing must be like a dream for you. We yanked you out of your environment, dragged you halfway around the world, and hide you here. It must be quite an imposition.”

  “Quite.”

  Cristoforo Vacchi stared at John with earnest and benevolent eyes. “How do you feel, John?”

  John avoided his look and lifted the cup. “Good, actually. Why?”

  “Do you feel wealthy?”

  “Wealthy?” John took a deep breath and grimaced. “Not really. Okay, I bought a Ferrari yesterday, at least I think so. Wealthy? No. More like being on vacation — as if my Italian relatives showed up and invited me on a surprise trip to Europe.”

  “Would you like to see Europe?”

  “I’ve never thought about that before. I think so.”

  “For now, I would advise you against it,” said Cristoforo Vacchi. “But sometime in the future it is something you can do, if you want. Having money so suddenly is a learning process. You must learn to handle money properly, even with lots of money. There is nothing material that you can’t buy, but there are other things that you will need to be aware of. The life you had before never prepared you for this, at least not obviously, so you have a lot to catch up on.”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by ‘not obviously’?”

  The Padrone looked up at the awnings; his eyes followed the contours and then he re-adjusted his chair to remain in the shade. “The sun is not the same as it was during my youth. I don’t think that it’s due to my age. Back then no one complained about the sun. I really think that it is the hole in the ozone layer. It changed the sun. Of course, I mean the light from it that reaches us.” He nodded vaguely. “The man who invented the spray can never intended that to happen, and maybe he is not the only one at fault. Most of the time there are usually many causes that, taken together, have untold effects, and they’re all associated. It’s a web that is hard to unravel. Now do you understand what I meant by ’not obviously’?”

  John thought for a moment, then nodded, even though he had no real idea what the old man was trying to say. “Yes.”

  “I believe the way you grew up has a hidden meaning, and also that you, well, let’s just say that from a certain age you slipped out of our sight.” He shook his head and seemed to be laughing to himself. “Five hundred years to prepare and then we cock it up. Can you imagine? After Lorenzo’s death we had nothing on you except your name and a few files at least ten years old.” He tittered to himself again, took a pastry and dunked it into his coffee before biting into it. “We didn’t even know where you lived.”

  John forced a smile. “Would Lorenzo have been a more suitable heir?” he asked, involuntarily holding his breath.

  The Padrone shook his head. “He would indeed have been suitable. He was intelligent, even highly intelligent. He won several prizes in s
chool for math. He was fascinating to us all, I admit. He would have been suitable — on the face of things. But I already told you that I mistrust the obvious.”

  “I never won any math prizes,” John said. “I have problems doing the math for normal interest rates. And I’m about as average in intelligence as anyone can be.”

  Cristoforo looked at him. “But Lorenzo is dead and you are alive.”

  “Maybe that was a mistake.”

  “It was God’s will,” he said. “Do you think God makes mistakes?”

  John thought a moment, then said, “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think yes.”

  The old man lifted his cup to his lips, drank, and thoughtfully, as if he didn’t really hear what John had said. “You are still young,” he said suddenly. “You are far too young to recognize this world in all its complexity, John. But don’t worry. Believe me, you are the rightful heir.”

  “So why don’t I feel like it?”

  “Because you have to learn. To a certain extent you are still in shock. Your entire life has fundamentally changed, and you must first learn to handle this new life. That is perfectly normal. There is much for you to learn, much to understand, much to experience until then. I would like to,” Cristoforo sipped on his cappuccino, “go to Florence with you later on. I want to show you around, but above all I want to show you the archives. They are held in the offices of our firm, where they have been for five hundred years. Would you like that?”

  He said five hundred years as if it was the most normal thing in the world and as if he had lived through all of them. As if he belonged to a different race, a race of immortal lawyers. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Here in the cellar of the house we have microfiche copies of all the documents,” Cristoforo told him, “but I would like to show you the originals, so that you can get a feeling for the history, for the length of time involved.” He smirked. “Of course, that’s only if I can get Benito to wake up.”

  “It’s a long trip to get to work,” John commented as they passed Lucca and a street sign that said seventy-eight kilometers to Firenze.

  “Well, we don’t have to work often for this to be much trouble.” The Padrone smiled. “Besides, even Dante described the Florentines as greedy, envious, and arrogant people. It is good to keep a bit of distance from this city.”

  “Why don’t you just stay away from the city in general?”

  Cristoforo made a vague gesture. “Tradition, I guess. Besides, it looks good on our business cards when we’re traveling abroad.”

  John nodded and glanced out the window. “That’s reason enough, I suppose.”

  They didn’t speak much during the drive. John was entranced by the views of the Tuscan hills with their vineyards, orchards and whitewashed villas. The old man just stared into the middle distance, lost in thought.

  As they came into the city proper, the old man told Benito to drop them off at Piazza San Lorenzo. “It isn’t far to the office from there, and I can show you some tourist attractions along the way. Not the usual ones, though, — the Piazza della Signoria, Uffizi, Duomo, Palazzo Pitti, Ponte Vecchio. It’s not a good idea to do those on a Saturday.”

  John nodded. Right, today was Saturday. His sense of time was still mixed up.

  The car wound its torturous way through endless traffic jams, past colossal medieval facades before it finally stopped in front of a high, fortified basilica made of brick. Cristoforo told Benito to pick them up at the office at two thirty, and then he and John got out. The Rolls Royce drove away, the crowds in the street gawping at it.

  The streets of Florence were busy. The whole area in front of the church of San Lorenzo was filled with brightly colored sales stands. Countless tourists ambled among them, a myriad of languages mixed up with the rattle of mopeds driving past. John followed Cristoforo, who obviously felt very much at home here. They walked up to a monument that stood in the middle of the piazza, surrounded by a thin, black wrought iron fence; it dominated the whole area. It was a larger-than-life sized statue, on a richly decorated base.

  “That is the founder of the Medici dynasty, Giovanni di Averardo,” the Padrone explained. He had to talk very loud to be heard above all the noise. “He lived during the fourteenth century, and his son, Cosimo, was the first Medici to rule Florence, mainly due to his wealth. The Medici possessed the largest bank in Europe back then.”

  John looked at the figure, sitting there in deep thought, noticing the life-like facial features. The finer details of the reliefs were hidden beneath a black patina of exhaust gasses and dust, which made it look like centuries old filth, but which had probably accumulated over just six months. “Aha,” he said.

  “That was in 1434, if I remember correctly. At any rate, he died in 1464, and his son, Piero, who was called Piero the Gouty, died five years later from the disease that gave him the nickname. And that’s how his son, Lorenzo, came to power. He was twenty years old at the time. Yet, despite his age, he ruled the city with such skill that he was called Il Magnifico, the magnificent.”

  “I see.” Another Lorenzo. He had always hated such lessons in school, but he guessed there would be no way of avoiding this one.

  “In the year 1480 your ancestor Giacomo Fontanelli was born,” the old man continued, looking at the statue. As he spoke, John observed him from the side and realized that these historical events were to him as much part of his life as his own wedding. “Lorenzo had just survived a conspiracy, which killed his brother. He used this as an opportunity to do away with his enemies. And thus Giacomo grew up in a time when Florence was at the height of its prosperity — during the reign of Lorenzo the magnificent.” Cristoforo pointed at the domes high above on the church across the plaza. “Over there, by the way, is where all the members of the Medici have their final resting places. Shall we go have a look?”

  “Sure,” John nodded, tired from the heat, the dust, the noise, and all these history lessons. To imagine all this happened even before Columbus discovered America. He’d rather not bother.

  They walked in a semi-circle to circumvent the densely packed center of the piazza. “That is the Canto dei Nelli,” Cristoforo told him along the way, which meant nothing to John. They finally reached the entrance to the Medici Chapel and paid a ridiculously small entrance fee, before they were allowed to escape the heated tumult of the streets and enter the cool and quiet crypt.

  A crowd of tourists ambled about within with cameras clicking or getting ready to do so. In contrast, he and Cristoforo were quiet and pious and studied the inscriptions of the various Medici family members.

  Cristoforo pointed to the last pillar, the one to the right. “The last Medici was buried over there, Anna Maria Ludovica. Here it says, ‘died 1743.’ The Medici ceased to exist after her demise.” They stood for a while in silence, absorbed the quietness, the coolness, and the musty smells of dead centuries. “Let us go into the vestry,” Cristoforo said finally, and added mysteriously, “I think you will like it.”

  They crossed the dim crypt and entered a short corridor, which they followed until they reached a large room that surpassed in its splendor anything John had ever seen. Pillars and pedestals of white and pastel marble towered above his head, framing niches of darker marble, with black horizontal bands that created a sense of grandeur and space. John stared up into the great vault of the dome spanning the expanse above like the heavens. It took his breath away. And yet all this opulence was only the background for a row of marble statues that seemed so life-like that they looked as if they would move at any moment.

  “My God,” he heard himself mumble. He had no idea that such things existed.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?”

  John only nodded. He was suddenly embarrassed to think he had once considered himself an artist. “Who did all this?” he asked after a while.

  “Michelangelo,” Cristoforo told him. “This was his first stab at architecture.”

  “Michelangelo.” This name said something to him
, something that went way back, but he couldn’t say what it was.

  The Padrone pointed to a sculpture in front of them of a man in a thoughtful pose. “This figure is called Pensieroso ‘the Thinker,’” he explained. “It is supposed to be Lorenzo the younger, the grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent, whose tomb was never finished.” He pointed to a niche beside the entrance. “Lorenzo died in 1492, and his son, Piero, fled when French troops led by Charles VIII invaded Italy and then Florence two years later. Of Giacomo Fontanelli we know only that he and his mother left Florence to seek shelter in a monastery which had previously offered them sanctuary.”

  John stared at the sculpture. He could almost see it breathing; he blinked a few times to dispel the illusion. He was having difficulty following what the Padrone was saying. “Does the monastery still exist?”

  “As ruins, yes. It was abandoned at the end of the nineteenth century, used as an arms depot during World War Two and destroyed in an air raid.”

  John ambled on through the sacristy noticing the way the light played on the surfaces of the statues making them seem almost alive. “The Medici were wealthy, but the dynasty died. So, apart from these statues, what remains of their fortune?”

  “Nothing,” Cristoforo Vacchi said simply.

  “So why are there still Fontanellis and Vacchis? And why does the Giacomo Fontanelli fortune still exist?”

  Cristoforo shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody from our families ever reigned, ruled, or played any prominent role. Remember that many Medici were killed, and most of their relatives too. The Fontanelli fortune was never invested in business, crusades or bribes. It just sat there and grew steadily, unnoticed by anyone. It was its very inconspicuousness that triumphed.”

  The office was only a few streets away, in an ordinary little alley, if anything in Florence could be called ordinary. The alley was a dark, cobblestoned chasm flanked by ancient-looking facades. The front door had been painted dark-green at one time. It was massive and scarred by time and weather, the paint had mostly peeled off, and next to it was a rusty mailbox with the Vacchi name engraved on it. Nothing else.