No Purchase Necessary: No Purchase Necessary, #1

By Victor Foia

In a move to disrupt our materialistic society and shed light on the consequences of pervasive greed, reclusive billionaire Victor Emanuel Jovis launches a free online game of chance that sparks a frenzy of worldwide participation. No Purchase Necessary irresistibly entices gamers with its triple appeal—no cost to play, the allure of speculative gains, and a staggering prize for one fortunate winner. As the game takes on a life of its own with a relentlessly spreading popularity, more than a billion players invest countless hours chasing financial rewards, ultimately plunging the global economy into chaos.

Sebastian Sinclair, a brilliant mathematician with a unique visual synesthetic perception, leads a peculiar existence informed by pure mathematics and his abiding love for Charlotte. Their bond and his entrancing universe of numbers hold powerful sway over him, affording little room for additional interests and pursuits. While he remains oblivious to the game, the storm unleashed by Jovis wreaks havoc worldwide. But when tragic events upend Sebastian's life and thrust him into uncharted territory, he can no longer ignore the devastating impact Jovis's innocent-sounding game has on the world.

Ensnared by the crosscurrents of Jovis's malevolent design, Sebastian witnesses grim instances of street violence, police corruption, and murder. He grapples with hopelessness and despair in his darkest moments, yearning for redemption while channeling his math prowess toward a higher purpose. Will his skills be sufficient to bring the apparently unstoppable game to a close?

In this two-volume series, embark on a journey alongside Sebastian as he navigates a landscape where unchecked desires clash and the boundaries of morality blur. Immerse yourself in a narrative infused with reflections on art, history, and mathematics. Experience the fusion of storytelling with thought-provoking themes as you contemplate the pitfalls of rampant materialism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor Foia
• Release date: Sep 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223022961

Book preview

By the same author:

Dracula Chronicles

A historical novel about the life and times of Vlad the Impaler, a.k.a. Dracula

Book One: Son of the Dragon

Book Two: Empire of the Crescent of the Moon

Book Three: House of War

Book Four: Death of Kings

Future volumes to be announced

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For Timothy, whose feedback was invaluable in helping me refine the plot of this story

And, as always, for Diane, without whose patience and moral support, this book would never have come to life

One must have a dancing star within oneself to give birth to chaos.

Zarathrustra hat das nicht gesagt

Nicht von Friedrich Nietzsche

Part One

A Whimsical Super Bowl Commercial

Super Bowl commercials have evolved into a cultural phenomenon, captivating millions of viewers eagerly anticipating the ad breaks during the game. Renowned for their high production values, humor, and creativity, these ads represent a substantial investment for advertisers. In recent years, the cost of acquiring a thirty-second slot has surged beyond the five-million-dollar threshold, reflecting the immense viewership of the Super Bowl, which consistently surpasses 100 million people. The ever-intensifying competition among brands ignited an ingenuity race as advertisers have strived to craft unforgettable advertisements that resonate with audiences long after the game ends.

Under these circumstances, it’s no wonder that only major brands can afford to sponsor the championship game. However, during the most recent Super Bowl, a previously unknown company secured a minute-long slot for each of the four quarters. Yet, despite pouring over forty million dollars into its advertising campaign, this enigmatic sponsor’s commercials spectacularly fell short of the anticipated entertainment standard. According to an Instagram influencer specializing in sporting events, Newcomer to high-priced advertising, NPN Corporation, drew a collective ‘WTF’ from the Super Bowl viewers, most of whom opted for a restroom break after watching a few seconds of the company’s hopelessly boring commercials.

1st Quarter

The Goat Mask

In NPN Corporation’s first Super Bowl slot, its CEO, seated in a wheelchair and bizarrely wearing a goat mask, got off to a shaky start by speaking incoherently for sixty seconds.

My name is Victor Emanuel Jovis, he said to the camera, slowly delivering his words in the gravelly voice of an elderly gentleman. The camera zoomed in on his right hand, showing a web of bulging veins under shiny, translucent skin freckled with liver spots. I’m a wealthy man who could afford to ignore the unpleasant things in life but who has chosen a different path.

He paused and breathed wheezily a few times. Sorry, he croaked. A lifetime of smoking is taking its toll on me. Coughing repeatedly, he continued. What do I think about the deprivations of ordinary people while my fellow billionaires and I can hardly find a way to spend our money? What do I feel when scientists, farmers, educators, and factory workers earn a fraction of what narcissistic politicians and semi-literate entertainers earn? And what do I do when I see rampant consumerism accelerating the demise of our planet?

He paused as if to recover from the effort of speaking. Then, instead of answering his questions, he threw out a non sequitur. I don’t have much time left and can’t take my fortune with me, so I’ve decided to give it back to society, and I mean every penny of it. I shall accomplish this by offering free access to an online game of chance to everyone of voting age worldwide. He turned to leave the stage but stopped and said over his shoulder, "Oh, I forgot to tell you the name of the game is No Purchase Necessary, or NPN for short."

The network cut back to the game, leaving viewers baffled and wondering if the episode had been an error in programming.

Chapter 1

Before Charlotte entered my life, I had never forged a profound emotional bond with another human being. Mother died giving birth to me, so deprived of shared memories, I loved her in an abstract way, as if she were a saint. As for Father, he inspired only lukewarm affection, being an introvert who loathed sharing himself. It was only after his untimely death that I discovered a profound wellspring of love deep inside me that had been there all along.

Throughout my childhood and youth, I lived in social isolation, not acquiring friendships or meaningful connections. If people showed interest in me, I responded with indifference; and if they disliked me, I ignored them without malice. An exception to this benign misanthropy was my relationship with two kind men who somehow breached my spiritual seclusion: my foster father and tutor. They helped me become a mathematician and, in the process, faintly tolled the bell of friendship within me.

If I had difficulty relating to people, I was equally disinterested in things. Growing up in Paris, I had no use for toys, books, television, or movies. And during my teenage years in the States, while my schoolmates amused themselves with cars, sports, and video games, I found such pastimes unappealing. Even money left me cold, viewing it solely as a means to a modest lifestyle. In my peculiar value system, the pursuit of wealth was demeaning.

However, there was one thing that enthralled me: numbers. Prior to Charlotte capturing my heart, they were my sole passion.

I was a preschooler when I discovered that numbers are not just words or symbols; they are, in fact, three-dimensional objects of varied sizes, forms, shapes, textures, colors, and even smells. They exist in a transcendental domain, which they inhabit alone, waiting there to be summoned whenever humans need them to make sense of the physical world.

By chance, I stumbled upon the fascinating universe of numbers when trying to understand what the symbol 3, which I chalked on the sidewalk, had to do with the three shells I had brought home from my seaside vacation. I thought that if I could touch the shells, I should be able to do the same with the number that told me how many they were. But, of course, the only thing I could touch was chalk dust.

After staring at the double-curved symbol on the ground for over an hour, I was no closer to visualizing the number three than when I had started. Barely conscious of the passersby who swerved around me with mumbled remarks, I stubbornly focused on the Arabic numeral, believing there had to be something tangible behind it.

And then it happened: as if descending into the depths of my inner being, I suddenly found myself in a landscape brimming with an infinite array of objects, each distinct from the other. In front of the crowd, a yellow, pear-shaped gnome stood to attention, as if waiting for me. I instantly recognized it as number 3, though it had no marking on its body.

From that moment onward, I sought out every opportunity to revisit this unique realm. The numbers would soar through the air like flocks of birds upon my arrival, and I would join them in their flight, unaffected by gravity. Streams of colorful light connected some numbers to others, and it was later that I understood they represented attributes defining individual families.

I named this inner world Espace des Nombres, Numbers’ Space, and spent nearly every waking hour inside it. While I found fulfillment there, I didn’t realize that my happiness was like the false contentment of an addict who couldn’t function without their drug. Since I lived mainly unsupervised—Father was frequently away, and Simone, my live-in nanny, was hooked on daytime TV—no one knew how thoroughly I gave myself over to numbers.

For some time, I was sure everyone had their own Numbers’ Space. But then Father and Simone said they perceived nothing if they closed their eyes and contemplated numbers. Because they are old, I thought. So, to test my assumption, I asked some boys living in our building if they visualized numbers as I did. They laughed at me, which led me to surmise that my condition was unique. I have something belonging to me alone, I told myself, rejoicing in my gift.

Learning about Eden in my first religion class made me realize how similar it was to my Espace des Nombres.

Eden, or paradise, our instructor, Abbé Grégoire, had explained, is a celestial sphere where the righteous enjoy eternal bliss after death.

What must you do there to experience such a sensation? I asked.

He smiled indulgently. Nothing, mon enfant. Once you enter Eden, divine happiness fills you to the brim.

And can you fly inside there?

My schoolmates snickered at my naïve question, but Abbé Grégoire hushed them. In paradise, you are weightless and can move in any direction simply wishing to do so.

I know what he means, I thought, gratified.

It dawned on me that Eden was an acronym for Espace des Nombres, proving that God had granted me access to a terrestrial paradise unknown to others. He did so to compensate me for taking Mother to his celestial sphere.

When not surrounded by numbers, life was for me a series of banal actions that all living creatures performed: eat, rest, eliminate… Repeat.

But inside my Eden, God endowed me with divine powers, making life thrilling. There I could always discover surprising things and never run out of excitement. In time, I learned to sneak into Eden with my eyes open. Such convenient access multiplied the hours I could spend among numbers while pretending to be engaged in the surrounding activities. I dissembled in this manner while attending classes, field trips, and meals at home with Father and Simone.

Everyone in my circle was aware of my love for math, but no one knew of Eden until I revealed it to Charlotte. She helped me find happiness beyond its confines, though expanding my emotional world came at a prohibitive price.

Chapter 2

With Father morbidly reluctant to discuss either Mother or himself, the meager knowledge I gained about my parents comes from others. My primary source was Simone, whom my parents hired just before my birth. But even she had scant information about them.

I was roughly seven years old when I asked her about my family.

All I can tell you, she said, is that Odette grew up in an orphanage, which explains why you have no maternal kin.

Simone had the annoying habit of referring to my parents by name.

And Father?

Franz came to this country from Hungary in ’56.

Do I have any blood relations there?

She snapped, How should I know? Ask him.

Why did he leave his native land?

She assumed a reticent demeanor, as if she’d been told not to discuss the matter. The rumor has it that he ran away after doing something terrible over there.

I was startled to hear that and asked Father if what she said was true.

Simone talks too much, was all he said. And when I inquired if I had family in Hungary, he just shook his head.

I eventually learned from my foster parents why he left his country.

In 1956, the Red Army invaded Hungary to quash its rebellion against Soviet-imposed communism. On November 4, the start of the invasion, a blast from the cannon of a Russian tank killed my grandparents. Father witnessed the horror and memorized the number painted on the side of its hull. The next day, he courageously faced the hail of bullets coming from all directions and climbed on that armored vehicle as it roamed up and down Grand Boulevard, shooting at demonstrators. When someone inside popped open the hatch, he dropped a Molotov cocktail into the hold, fatally injuring the crew.

The following day, his photograph was on the front page of many European newspapers. With a bounty on him, he escaped to the West, changing his last name from Szatmáry to Sinclair.

Of course not, Simone said on another occasion when I naively inquired if Mother was the first woman Father had dated. Then, she continued with coarse laughter, Before he married Odette, Franz was a Casanova.

The literary reference eluded me, but not the significance of her insinuation. How do you know that? I asked, hiding my resentment.

He was a regular customer at a Rive Gauche tavern where I worked. She rolled her eyes. Oh, you should’ve seen how dashing he was. He stood out from other young men like a prince among beggars. Women of all ages were captivated by his dark looks and revolutionary fame.

I felt an inexplicable sadness, thinking that Mother had been just one among several loves Father had experienced.

Being a poet further increased his appeal, Simone added. Though no lady other than Odette read his poems because he wrote only in his tongue.

How did they meet?

She was a typist at the Hungarian Embassy when, hoping for a promotion to receptionist, she decided to learn Magyar. So she placed an ad for a language tutor, and it was Franz’s misfortune to answer it.

Whenever people said hurtful things to me, I retreated among numbers. I did so in that instance, and though I couldn’t mute Simone’s voice, the sense of comfort and security numbers gave me blunted the edge of her spite.

I never understood what he saw in your mother, she remarked with cold-hearted indifference. She was myopic, flat-chested, and six years older than him. She inhaled deeply, then let out a wheezy sigh. He could’ve had anyone he wanted, including me, and I was something then, believe me. Instead, he took an unattractive and desperate woman as his wife.

Father told me, I lied, she was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Naturally, he would never have shared such intimate thoughts with me. Only once did he show his feelings for Mother when I asked, Why did you burn every picture of her when she died?

He had looked away, murmuring, Seeing her without being able to touch her was unbearable.

Chapter 3

In my early childhood, I would covertly take Simone’s hairbrush to bed in the evening, then replace it before she awoke in the morning. I got away with doing that until one day when I overslept, and she discovered my innocent fetish.

Why did you borrow my brush, Sebastian? she said. Your hair doesn’t require—

Because it’s Mother’s.

She giggled, cruelly indifferent to my need for a connection with my missing parent. Don’t be silly. There is nothing of hers in this apartment. She told me how Father had removed all traces of Mother in an outburst of grief following her funeral. He took her clothes, shoes, and accessories to the Marché aux Puces, then burned her photos. The only thing of hers he saved was the hunter-case gold watch she’d given him as a wedding gift, which he always kept with him.

But what about the picture taped to your mirror?

How could you think that beauty was Odette? she said with crass insensitivity. Look,—she opened a celebrity gossip magazine showing the woman from the mirror in a glamorous pose—that’s Jeanne Moreau, the famous movie star.

I liked how the corners of Moreau’s lips sloped downward, giving the impression of deep compassion, and I wished she were my mother.

Three other movie stars featured in the tabloid also caught my attention, each for a different reason. Simone identified them as Marie Laforêt, Mylène Demongeot, and Danielle Darrieux.

You may borrow the magazine, but I want it back.

In my room, I spent some time examining the faces of the four stars. Then, combining their most appealing features, I developed a composite mental portrait of my mother—loving, beautiful, and protective. To complete this imaginary persona, I endowed it with a warm and caring voice, like that of a popular television announcer.

From then on, this was the image I conjured whenever I craved Mother’s presence, which often occurred in my childhood.

When she answered my summons, our visits were lamentably short; but hearing and seeing her filled me with a contentment that only numbers could match in the days before Charlotte.

I’d usually say, "Je t’aime, Maman, I love you, Mom, and she’d reply, Je t’adore, mon loutin, I adore you, my sprite. Then I’d add, Papa and I miss you. Every time she left, she would admonish me, Sois sage, mon nounours, be good, my teddy bear."

Upon telling Father about my visits with Mother, he remained silent, but his face grew somber and tears welled in his eyes. Though I was still very young, I understood that she was a subject he preferred to avoid. He only mentioned her once, on my seventh birthday, when having finished our breakfast, he took out his gold watch and stared at it until the hands reached nine o’clock.

Your mother died at precisely this moment seven years ago, he said, placing the watch in my hand. Never part with it, as it’s the only keepsake of her you’ll ever have.

How did she get it? I said, hoping to learn more about Mother. But as always, he clammed up, and it was left to my foster father to answer my question a few years later.

The watch had been pinned to Mother’s blanket by whoever abandoned her on the steps of the orphanage. They’d hoped perhaps that the nuns would sell it and use the proceeds to make her life easier. A note attached to her swaddling said the timepiece had belonged to Etienne Dudevant, the mayor of Sisteron in Napoleon’s time. Thinking that perhaps Dudevant was one of Mother’s ancestors, the abbess of the nunnery running the orphanage researched him. Then, when Mother turned sixteen, the abbess gave her the watch, and a written account of Dudevant’s background.

Sisteron was a fortified town in Provence, which happened to be on Napoleon’s route to Paris following his escape from Elba in March 1815. After Dudevant arrested the town’s royalist garrison and threw open the gates, the grateful emperor gave him his pocket watch.

Until I learned the provenance of Mother’s heirloom, I paid no attention to its ornate engraving. Only then did I see on the inside of the lid Napoleon’s signature below the inscription, "Du sublime au ridicule, il n’y a qu’un pas, from the sublime to the ridiculous, there is but one step."

One day, those words would perfectly describe my tragic situation as I went from the sublime to the ridiculous in a single step.

After Father left the apartment that afternoon, I thought of Mother, and she cheerfully appeared, greeting me with, "Bon anniversaire, mon petit lapin, Happy Birthday, my little bunny. Then, after gazing at me with her beautiful blue eyes—Marie Laforêt’s contribution—she added, I’d love to kiss you once for every minute that passed since you came into the world."

I saw an opening to impress her. Do you know how many kisses that would be?

I’m not good with numbers, she replied with Jeanne Moreau’s self-deprecating smile.

I glanced at my gold watch—it was 3:00 PM—then computed the number of minutes elapsed since her death, accounting for the intervening leap year. After adding the minute it took me to calculate, I said, You’d have to kiss me 3,683,096 times.

She applauded me. Aren’t you quite the mathematician? she said, then added with mild reproach, But also a show-off.

Chapter 4

In the beginning, numbers were simply magic toys that endlessly entertained me. I’d bounce and kick them, pretending they were soccer balls, or treat them like balloons tethered with light beams. Their behavior, now predictable, now surprising, was an inexhaustible source of wonder and amusement.

But when Father taught me basic math operations the summer before starting school, my passion for computing was born, ending for good my idle playing. I discovered that I could add, subtract, multiply, and divide without the methodology he had drilled into me. From then on, I never again used paper and pen to make calculations, as they would only slow me down. Instead, I’d simply focus on the numbers I wanted to manipulate, and the answer would flash in my mind’s eye. Even extensive operations, such as raising a number to a large power, might take me only seconds to complete.

Wanting to demonstrate to Simone my newly discovered prowess, I said one day, Ask me how many seconds are in a month, a year, or whatever time interval you choose.

She was peeved that I interrupted her viewing of an Arsène Lupin rerun, and to get rid of me, she irritably said, Three months, three days, and three hours. I almost instantly gave her the answer, and she wrote it down. Now let me watch my show.

When I returned from school the next day, she was waiting for me with a sheet of paper covered in her calculations. To my disappointment, instead of praising me for getting the correct number of seconds, she said, I don’t know how you did that, but you’d better stop doing it. It’s not normal. She appeared frightened, and afterward, whenever she saw me sitting alone without reading or doing homework, she’d say, "Hope you’re not doing that weird thing with numbers again."

Of course not, I’d reply, but she knew I was lying.

As a budding mathematician, I soon observed that certain numbers couldn’t be divided and, realizing they were uncommon, began to collect them with the dedication of a philatelist. Father said they were called primes, and mathematicians have studied them for over two millennia. In time, I would myself spend hundreds of hours teasing out the laws governing these aristocrats of the abstract world.

Primes have a smooth texture resembling the oily surface of a tropical leaf and an iridescent sheen that continually changes colors for no apparent reason. Simply gazing at them gives me a thrilling sensation. And, while they have no practical use, one of the primes did solve an orientation problem I experienced in Eden. I had discovered that while entering there was easy, finding my way out was another matter. The deeper I ventured into that unfamiliar and crowded landscape, the greater the risk of getting lost. And not returning to the real world on time could mean being late for some event without a valid excuse.

Fortunately, there was a prime, 137, tall enough that I could see it from anywhere in Eden. So, placing it near the exit portal as a signpost, I could go on exploring at will, always finding my way back home.

I had no idea that others also were interested in 137 until much later when I learned that physicists considered it the most critical number in the universe. They calculated that if its reciprocal, referred to as the fine-structure constant, were only four percent smaller, stellar fusion could not produce carbon, and consequently, life as we know it would not exist. Wolfgang Pauli was so obsessed with the mystical significance of this number that he chose to die in room 137 at Rotkreutz Hospital in Zurich when diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. And Richard Feynman declared, You might say that the hand of God wrote 137.

Unlike Feynman, I believe the hand of God wrote all numbers, seeing how they behave like living creatures, each with a unique personality. They can be friendly, shy, irritating, and boastful, though never hateful or mendacious. And they make noises ranging from barely audible grunts to loud screeches. Some numbers are beautiful, others plain; a few are unattractive, and fewer yet downright ugly.

But the attribute that means the most to me is the numbers’ ability to associate themselves with negative emotions I cannot express. A different family of numbers is attuned to each affective state: fear, dislike, disappointment, despair, hate…. So, whenever one of these feelings arises in me, the corresponding family springs into action to dampen it. If it succeeds, the stress of that pent-up sentiment subsides. To observers, I appear unmoved, regardless of the circumstances, though I’m subject to the same reactions as everyone else. While others openly express their feelings to cope with inner turmoil, I find solace in numbers to weather my emotional tempests.

During the early days of dating Charlotte, I learned that numbers can also be poetic. And when I tried to express my love for her in iambic pentameter, they eagerly helped me craft my poems. I was secretly proud of my writing, believing it matched the lyricism of Petrarch and the ardor of Catullus. But when I read her a sonnet, after converting the numbers to letters, it sounded like something in a tongue neither of us knew. We laughed, though she did so with more gusto than me, and I never repeated the experiment. Evidently, the poetry of Eden doesn’t travel well.

Chapter 5

My addiction to numbers came at the price of alienation from everyone around me. Grownups in our apartment building whispered about me when I passed them by, using such words as maladroit and gauche .

Have you noticed how he avoids eye contact? a silver-haired lady said to her companion in the elevator one day as the door closed behind me.

On another occasion, I overheard the concierge talk about me with the mailman.

My niece, who’s about his age, the concierge related, fell off her kick scooter at his feet and skinned her knees. You know what Sebastian did as poor Mathilde bawled?

I saw the incident, the mailman said with the gravity of a witness to murder. He simply stepped over her and continued on his way.

No empathy, the concierge mournfully concluded.

The mailman echoed her. No empathy.

I had no recollection of the occurrence, as I probably was immersed in Eden at the time. But had I noticed Mathilde’s fall, I would’ve helped her rise without displaying compassion. Emotions that others could easily express remained hidden within me throughout my youth. Only when Charlotte entered my life did I learn how to articulate them.

The teachers at my école primaire, elementary school, were impressed with my math skills, but called me aloof and repeatedly criticized me for not taking notes. My schoolmates bullied me when I refused to join their schoolyard games and, with juvenile candor, referred to me as putain d’attardé, fucking retard.

These unpleasant encounters would rally the numbers to my defense, making it easy for me to disregard criticism, name-calling, and threats of violence.

Only my father saw nothing wrong with me. When Simone told him that my single-minded interest in math made me a loner, he pooh-poohed her concerns. Sebastian’s no more a loner than me.

She puckered her lips as if tasting a tart berry. Coming from a man with no friends, that’s not a reassuring comparison.

After Father left for work that day, she reminded me he’d been very popular before meeting Mother. "But when Odette became his idée fixe as math has