“Gently,” was the reply.
It started that way, but as he adapted to the increasing pace and elevation, it wasn’t so gentle. He hadn’t run as hard since his collapse, but he didn’t want to quit, for fear that they would think he was in distress. In fact, he had easily passed earlier in the test, but the doctor was scientifically curious about such an intact specimen at such an advanced age, and given that the pulse and the EKG were clipping along as orderly as those of a young man, speed and elevation were increased until, sweating as if he were running in the desert, Jules was racing at the ramp’s peak elevation and at fourteen kilometers per hour. He didn’t want to die, but he couldn’t ask to stop.
“Feel good?” the doctor asked.
Jules nodded as if it were true, but his expression was too pained to convince. Then, he thanked God, the machine was stopped.
“You passed for someone much younger. How do you like that? Leave the EKG on and have a seat. We’ll watch until your pulse returns to normal, just to make sure.”
“I passed?”
“You did a lot more than pass.”
“I mean, the whole thing?”
“They won’t go beyond the actuarial tables for your age, but they’d write you a million policies if they could. They like people like you. They like Gilbert’s syndrome. They like non-smokers. You’re good business. What company?”
“Acorn.”
“High-value?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll live forever.”
“Actually,” Jules told him, “I’ll live till I die.”
A WEEK LATER, Armand Marteau delivered the policy in person. He had been saved, and the weather cooperated with his happiness, bursting into premature spring. He brought four copies. “Most people,” he informed Jules, “put one in a safe deposit box, keep one at home, and give a copy to each beneficiary. Thus, I’ve brought four for you, and a card you can carry in your wallet. Let’s go over it for your consent so you can sign off on a seven-sixty-A to show that the terms have been explained and accepted.”
The policy was locked-in – for Luc, for Cathérine, and a portion (ten percent: a million Euros) for élodi, who wouldn’t receive a copy. The insurance company would find her. Cathérine had to have the policy in hand so as to get the money as quickly as possible. Her copy would be in an envelope to be opened only after Jules’ death, but he would push her to plan for what they wanted to do. She would protest that it was impossible and therefore senseless, but she would accede – not because of him but because of Luc.
Armand Marteau carefully went over the terms. Ten million Euros. Everything else paled in the face of that. “Euro five million to be held in trust for Luc Hirsch by Cathérine Hirsch, née Cathérine Lacour, Trustee. Euro four million to Cathérine Hirsch, née Cathérine Lacour. And Euro one million to élodi de Challant. It would be good for you to provide me with addresses, contact information, and, if possible, a photocopy of their identity cards, although none of this is required.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I don’t think I’ll be able to copy the card of Mademoiselle de Challant. Did the physical rank me highly?” Jules asked. He knew. He wanted confirmation.
“The highest for your age.”
“The bank references?”
Armand Marteau reddened. “Yes, they were fine.”
“But?”
“The trust. The bank can give no information as to its owners. The money in it was as you said, the numbers and titles correct, but no names are accessible to me.”
“Taxes,” Jules said. “You understand.”
Armand looked around, lowered his voice. “Yes. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. The normal procedure would be to pursue it until there was an answer, but I passed it through.”
“And what if, purely hypothetically, I were not the owner of the trust? What would happen? Would that be fraud?”
Because of his interest in the matter, Armand may not have been the most meticulous examiner possible, although as a salesman he was not an examiner. “No, it would not be fraud. When we vetted that provision the responsibility became ours, as we are obligated to exercise due diligence. Fraud would be more in the nature of misrepresenting your health, or anything that occurs after policy acceptance, such as a faked death. It’s our job to determine if you qualify for the policy, not yours. After all, there’s no law that says we couldn’t write a ten-million-Euro policy for a Gypsy.”
“A poor Gypsy?”
“Most of them are poor. I think maybe all of them. Just as long as you pay your premiums ….”
“Armand,” Jules said. Armand was young enough that Jules could be familiar. “Why didn’t you pursue it?”
“Because of this house,” he said, looking up and around. “It suggests that perusing it would be unnecessary. Your manner and bearing, and your kindness, also suggest that it would be unnecessary.” By now, Armand knew that something was out of kilter. He saw it in Jules’ eyes and expression. “And because, Monsieur Lacour,” he said, “I have a family.”
“You have a family.”
“Yes.”
“Who would, otherwise,” Jules asked, feeling his way, “be in distress? If you had not sold this policy?”
In briefly closing his eyes, Armand Marteau confirmed that this was so.
Neither of them said anything until Jules asked, “What would happen to you if they discovered that I was not the beneficiary of the trust?”
“They won’t. They can’t.”
“How is that?”
“The verification is done with emails, and every six months the servers are wiped clean. That’s Acorn, worldwide, if the law allows. Certain records we have to keep, but we keep only those. There have been too many investigations, I suppose. No one ever bothers anyway to check the appropriateness of the sale. It’s the premiums that count, and, as you saw, suicide is excluded, as would be hiring someone to murder you, or anything such as that. If you die tomorrow, that’s too bad for them. They’d fire me, that’s for sure, but I received a two-hundred-thousand-Euro bonus just for writing the contract, I get another two hundred thousand when the policy pays out, and they can’t touch that either.”
“You don’t like them.”
“No,” Armand answered nervously, “I don’t.”
Jules smiled slightly. “Neither do I.”
Now they stared at one another somewhat in shock, having discovered, although not daring to speak of it, that they were accidental co-conspirators. Because of this, they both became extremely polite and distant, as if they were afraid of one another.
“So,” Jules asked as he saw Armand out, “tell me again. When do they dump the servers?”
“August.”
“What date?”
“The first.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’ve been there a while.”
“You’ve been a great help, Monsieur Marteau.”
“And so have you, Monsieur Lacour. Thank you.”