Marcus is my age, a trust lawyer who has never in his life said a word he could not trace back to a clause.

“Say the question again,” he said.

“Where are the original formation documents?

Not copies.

The originals, the ones with the wet signatures.”

I heard his yellow pen tap the pad twice.

“Zurich,” he said.

“The vault, not the bank branch, the other vault, the one on Bahnhofstrasse your father leased in 1988.