THE LAST STRAW: Not a week goes by without the discovery of large-scale financial fraud at the heart of some institution in which trusting members of the public have invested hard-earned money. The latest example comes from Rome, where this week a man was arrested for stealing coins out of the Trevi Fountain, writes Frank McNally
Named by police as Roberto Cercelletta, the accused did not protest innocence; nor could he. According to the New York Times's report of the incident, he had been a nightly feature at the fountain since 1968, splashing around the late-Baroque masterpiece with special equipment, including a rake and a magnet, and sometimes emerging with more than $1,000 for 15 minutes work.
The phrase "raking in it" was invented for the case. Come to think of it, so was the phrase "net profit" (that's enough puns - Ed). A phrase more likely to feature in court, however, is "guilty but insane". Cercelletta is described by the NYT as having a history of alleged mental instability. And while I'm no legal expert, my feeling is that lawyers representing a man who devised a method of earning $1,000 a day tax-free in 15 minutes will have their work cut out to make an insanity plea stick.
Even if you've never been to Rome, you'll remember the Trevi Fountain from the classic film La Dolce Vita, in which Anita Ekberg, unable to find a coin, throws herself in. It's one of the most famous scenes in cinema. Indeed, in architectural circles, the actress was long considered to be a Baroque masterpiece in her own right, characterised as she was by curved lines, ornate decoration and extravagant spatial effects.
But for those who have visited the Eternal City, the fountain was probably part of the itinerary. And for most tourists the experience is not complete without making a wish, according to the prescribed tariff: one coin to guarantee a return to Rome; three for an Italian romance; five for something along the lines of Anita Ekberg; and so on.
The Trevi Fountain was first planned by Pope Urban VIII (one of many urban renewal schemes) in the mid-1600s. But it was several popes later before work began in 1732, and it needed three decades to complete. When you consider this - and the fact that it took 34 years to arrest Cercelletta - you begin to understand Rome's association with eternity.
But in fairness to the police, part of the problem was that for many years, it wasn't clear he was doing anything illegal. The tradition has been that the fountain coins go to charity. Yet the basic transaction involves grown adults, who should know better, throwing their money away on a wish that probably won't come true; the only consolation being that their foolishness will benefit good causes.
I know you're probably saying that the National Lottery works on the same basis. But at least with the lottery, we get a smiling accountant assuring us everything's above board. There was no independent observer at the Trevi Fountain, though.
And while the weekly, official clear-out yielded some return for charity (the phantom filterer only worked six nights a week), it's estimated the loss ran into many tens of thousands of euro a year.
Cercelletta's nickname is "D'Artagnan", apparently because, when younger, he had long wavy black hair and a dashing beard. He also seems to have been inspired by the part of the Musketeers' slogan that goes: "All for one". He does, however, claim to have shared the money with others in need, and police admit bafflement at his lack of possessions. Apart from a moped and a mobile phone - Romans are required by law to have these - he appears to own nothing.
Entrepreneurs reading about this will naturally think: why don't I build my own fountain and get rich? Certainly, the make-a-wish scheme is a capitalist dream: the public pays handsomely for nothing (the wishes are traditionally secret and thus conveniently free from audit of any kind); maintenance is minimal; and returns are tax-free. But it's as well to remember that the Irish experience with water features is rather different from the Italian one. The most famous in Dublin in recent times was the Anna Livia, formerly in O'Connell Street, into which passers-by threw rubbish and occasionally washing powder, but rarely money.
Ireland's relationship with water is, as we know, a vexed one, and tourists tend to be damp enough already without standing around gushing sea nymphs. The financial success of the Trevi must be at least partly due to the intense heat of the Italian summer, which makes tourists flock to water, oppressed by the weight of change in their pockets. No doubt his lawyers will prove that Cercelletta earned little in the winter. And that as for his high-season profits, he was only continuing an ancient tradition of fiddling while Rome burned.