The Einstein Pursuit

40

Harrison Zidane was born in Algeria, but he hadn’t lived there in decades. He had spent the majority of his adult life traveling the world in search of his next investment. Venture capitalism had been very kind to him over the years, and he had amassed a considerable fortune. He wasn’t in the same league as the sheiks of Dubai, but he was close enough.

There was little on earth he couldn’t afford.

The bulk of his wealth had come by means of pharmaceutical speculation. In the past he had financed numerous small companies on the verge of medical breakthroughs. When these companies had eventually made their discoveries, they drew interest from the biggest players in the industry. Over the years, Zidane had watched as his laboratories were bought by pharmaceutical giants such as Pfizer, Novartis and Bayer.

With more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes, Zidane took great pride in sharing his wealth. His contributions had funded the creation of cutting-edge scientific equipment, the development of numerous medications, and a long list of clinical trials. His most recent philanthropic effort was the building of a new hospital in Como.

To commemorate the event, the mayor held a small ground-breaking ceremony in Zidane’s honor. Nothing too fancy, just a strip of dirt and some refreshments.

The mayor spoke. ‘It is with great pleasure that I offer this shovel to Mr Harrison Zidane. Without his generosity, this endeavor would not be possible.’ He turned and handed the shovel to Zidane, who smiled as if he had just won a gold medal. ‘Today, as we break ground on what is sure to be a world-class facility, we, the grateful citizens of Como, thank you!’

The smattering of onlookers — most of whom were from the mayor’s office, the impending hospital’s administration, or the media — broke into a courteous round of applause.

‘It is I who am thankful,’ Zidane said in impeccable Italian. ‘Thankful for a community that has welcomed me with open arms and loving hearts. To the people of Como, I offer my gratitude for all that you have done.’

Having completed his rehearsed speech — he wanted to find the perfect compromise between magnanimous and sentimental — Zidane dug the shovel into the ground and smiled for the audience. Cameras clicked as he flipped the first scoop of dirt to the side and offered the handle to the mayor. Together, they lifted another shovelful of dirt from the ground. After a few more pictures, Zidane’s commitment to the ceremony was over.

As the rest of the spectators mingled, Zidane made a quiet, graceful exit. He had spent the morning giving interviews and answering questions from the gathered crowd, and now that the site had been officially opened, there was no need for him to stick around any longer. As much as he enjoyed the notoriety, he simply had better things to do than spend the day sipping punch and nibbling cookies.

His limousine was parked just outside the roped-off area that marked the future site of the hospital, and his driver was waiting dutifully. Once Zidane was safely inside the limo — beyond the range of ambitious reporters, prying eyes and the glaring sun — he opened a bottle of chilled Taittinger and filled a crystal flute for himself.

It wasn’t an act of celebration. The hospital project was never in doubt.

And it wasn’t an act of arrogance. There was no one in the limo to impress.

Zidane simply preferred fine champagne to water.

‘Where to, sir?’ the driver asked.

‘The harbor, please.’

‘Very good, sir.’

The driver raised the partition, then pulled into traffic.

Zidane sat back and watched the charming streets pass by as they made their way toward the harbor. He remembered when he had first visited Como, back when the area was known mainly for its production of silk. Sadly — at least for those who appreciated exquisite finery — that aspect of Como’s economy had been seriously weakened as foreign competitors introduced cheaper manufacturing. The silk trade had carried the city since medieval times, but now tourism was the primary industrial focus in Como.

Nestled between the foothills of the Alps and the banks of the lake, Como offered a multitude of museums, parks, theaters, churches and public gardens. The combination of natural and man-made beauty drew thousands of visitors every season. These tourists supported a variety of shops and restaurants throughout the city.

As they approached the water, Zidane tapped on the intercom button and provided further instructions. ‘Keep going to the end of the harbor. Close as you can get to the farthest dock, if you will. Thank you.’

The driver did as he was told, maneuvering the limo to the edge of the roadway adjacent to the most distant pier. He parked the car and hurried to open the rear door.

‘Thank you, young man,’ Zidane said as he exited the vehicle. He had left the champagne flute in the back seat, but he still clutched the bottle of Taittinger.

The driver eyed his hand curiously.

‘Waste not, want not,’ Zidane offered. It was another of the many words of wisdom that he had valued over the years.

‘Of course, sir,’ the driver said.

‘Here, this is for you.’ Zidane pressed a yellow two-hundred-euro note into the driver’s palm.

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ the driver said with a smile. His service now complete, he tipped his hat and made his way back to the limousine.

Zidane turned in the opposite direction and strode purposefully toward the farthest slip. Waiting for him there was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. It was the love of his life: his Amira.

Named after his mother, Amira was a breathtaking yacht focused on opulence rather than speed. It was meant to evoke a sense of luxury, not adrenalin. There were other boats on Lake Como that were bigger and faster, but none had the Amira’s grace.

Standing on the lowest of the boat’s three levels was Zidane’s dutiful butler, a man known simply as Frisk.

‘I trust everything was in order?’ Frisk asked as Zidane made his way across the gangplank. His role as butler included nearly every aspect of Zidane’s life, from preparing his meals to arranging his travel. If something unexpected had occurred in Como, it was Frisk who would be held accountable.

‘All went according to plan,’ Zidane replied. He raised the bottle of champagne. ‘Tell me, do we have any strawberries aboard?’

‘The table on the foredeck has been prepared for your afternoon meal. I shall add strawberries to the menu. Also, we are ready to depart at your convenience.’

‘You were able to find the organic hazelnuts?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the Gruyère?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the salmon?’

‘Flown in from the Pacific this morning, just as you requested.’

Zidane practically drooled with anticipation. He knew the ship’s hold was stocked with these and other delicacies that Frisk had procured while he had attended the hospital event. ‘Very good. Let’s go home.’

In the last half-century, the general populace had developed a much better understanding of this region of northern Italy, due in large part to its having become the preferred destination for some of society’s most recognizable and affluent citizens. The grand summer estates of famous musicians, cinema stars, fashion designers, and business moguls dotted the shores of Lake Como. Many of these properties had garnered praise the world over, appearing in magazines and movies simply to showcase their exquisite setting.

Despite this recent interest, the shores of Lake Como had been recognized for their idyllic beauty for much, much longer. Pliny the Younger had constructed the oldest villas, Tragedia and Comedia, sometime in the first century AD. The lake itself and this region of Italy had been popular among the world’s aristocracy for nearly two thousand years.

For a man like Zidane, it was the logical place to call home.