“First, I have to ask why you might want it. We ask that of all our potential clients, so we can know their desires. In your case, it’s not readily apparent that you would need such a policy.”
“I haven’t moved any substantial sums out of the country since Hollande,” Jules said, truthfully, thinking of the cash he took to America for use whenever a credit card wouldn’t do, “and I don’t believe in tax avoidance even if I find the regime of taxation to be punitive and unfair. However, great wealth is often deliberately tied up in distasteful complications that cannot be fully understood except by experts. Upon death, a gate falls on your assets, and the wealthier you are, the more time it takes to lift that gate.”
Armand nodded. Everyone knew, or at least suspected, that this was true.
“Except for insurance proceeds. When I die, I want my daughter to have some money immediately, to tide her over until the estate is settled.”
“Who would argue with that?” Armand asked. “It’s entirely reasonable.”
“So then, what’s the cost of a term policy for ten million?”
“It’s a very large policy, and at your age the premium changes every year, settling somewhere between a base cost (the minimum you’ll always pay) and a maximum. The premium determination is made taking into account the investment proceeds of the previous year, but in the first year you pay only the minimum, which is, nonetheless, considerable, and which, in turn, depends upon your health. Do you smoke, or have you ever?”
“Never.”
“How would you characterize your health? Excellent, good, fair, or poor?”
“Excellent.”
“You’re not in treatment for any diagnosed disease or condition?”
“Not at all, fortunately.”
“Let’s say then that you are in excellent health, a non-smoker, etc. If you meet all the criteria and rate high in the physical, your first-year’s premium, payable in quarterly installments, would be two hundred and thirty-five thousand Euros. But in the second year, with the worst possible investment assumption, you might have to pay as much as a million fifty-nine-thousand Euros.” He pulled out a laminated chart and unfolded it. “You can see here how it gets crazy. At age one hundred, your premium could be nine million, two hundred thousand Euros, but that’s just for illustration, because at the maximum rates by then you would already have paid many times the value of the policy. No one’s ever done that.”
“Two hundred and thirty-five thousand, divided into four installments?” Jules said. “Why so little in the first year?”
“To bring customers in. Suicide is precluded in the first two years, as are death in a self-piloted aircraft, accidental death in mountain climbing, car racing, and quite a few other pursuits. Statistically, if you’re top-rated on the physical, charging the minimum is even a bargain for us. The physical is comprehensive. We write the policy at these rates only if you pass.”
“I’m sure I’ll pass, and so I’ll take this,” Jules said as routinely as someone buying a newspaper.
Armand felt a surge of elation. Suddenly it was as if he had no weight. “For ten million?” He could still hardly believe it.
“Yes.” Jules acted detached and unconcerned.
“We’ll need bank references.”
“Of course.” Jules went to Shymanski’s desk and took out a leather portfolio, into which before Armand Marteau’s arrival he had placed copies of his own bank statements and other documents. “My checking account number at BNP Paribas, the branch here” – he threw his right hand in the air, as if directing traffic, pointing to – “thirty-one Rue de Paris, is seven three, eight one, four nine two, eight six. That account is for everyday expenses.”
“The balance?”
“I don’t know, really. Somewhere between two and three hundred thousand.”
As Armand Marteau wrote, he said, “Is there another financial reference, perhaps of greater substance? Not that that’s not of great substance! But I ask only because the policy is so large.”
“Again, the money is tied up. But, yes, I can give you another. Unlike the checking account, it’s not in my own name. It’s a trust linked to the house here. The title of the trust is my address.”
Armand Marteau wrote the address as Jules gave it to him, reading it back to make sure it was accurate.
“Exactly, followed by ‘Nineteen Sixty-Eight Trust’.”
“Numbers or written out?”
“Numbers. We established it at the time of the student revolts, because we didn’t know what was going to happen.” Shymanski had indeed established it then, and for that reason. Jules knew the account number at Société Général because for years he had made symbolic ten-Euro per month payments into it so as to be included in the insurance coverage pertaining to the house.
“It’s not in your name?”
“No, it’s a trust. Just the address. I fund it periodically, of course.” That was entirely true.
“The balance?”
“Again, I don’t really know.” He knew roughly. It was the last Shymanski trust not to have fallen to the monster boys, and Shymanski had stuffed many of his remaining assets into it. They would have it, Shymanski had told Jules, disclosing the amount, by the end of the year. Meanwhile, it was frozen. “But it’s certainly north of fifty million,” Jules told Armand.
“Fifty million?” Armand Marteau repeated as a question, his eyes almost bulging.
“It serves real estate needs, here and in many other places. Commercial as well.”
“You will pass the physical,” Armand said, almost as an order.
Jules took this graciously. “Of course I will. I run and swim every day. I don’t know how long I’ll stay in good health, given my age, but, right now ….”
“That’s another thing,” Armand said. “The high-value policies come automatically with disability. If you become legally disabled, you get five thousand Euros a month. The benefit is part and parcel of the life insurance. You can’t choose to reject it.”
“Why would I?”
“Ah! Well, here’s the problem – for some people. Obviously, you wouldn’t need it, but you’d have to take it for the whole policy to remain in force, and you can’t work. You could manage your personal investments, but you’d be forbidden to practice your profession, whatever that might be, in any form whatsoever. But you’re retired, is that not so?”
“No. I’m on a reduced schedule, but employed by the University. I teach privately as well. I compose. Surely I could sit in my house and write music?”
“You could. But if you were found out, the policy would be voided.”
“I couldn’t continue to have private students?”
“No.”
“What if I didn’t charge them? I don’t need the money.”
“It wouldn’t matter. It’s the customary activity that figures in.”
“I couldn’t write a sonata for my own entertainment?”
“Have you, in the past, ever sold a musical composition?”
“Yes.”
“Then, no.”
“How would anyone know?”
“They might not, it’s true, but if they did ….”