ran out of money, what would happen to the causes he had helped to finance? What would happen to Partners In Health?
By this time, Kayak was thriving, and Paul’s stock had become a fortune, if only on paper. Paul told Tom not to worry. He would make sure that PIH didn’t fail. “I don’t have a hundred million dollars yet,” Paul told him. “But I will.”
Tom wasn’t alive to see that day. He died at ninety, in January 2011—not penniless but close to it, Paul heard. Paul didn’t have to rescue PIH, which had many other large donors by then, but he pledged to keep on giving money to the organization—another million once he had his Kayak winnings, and a hundred thousand a year for ten years after that. He had also joined the organization’s board.
The year after Tom died, Haiti suffered its dreadful earthquake and ensuing cholera epidemic. When PIH’s board was deliberating over ways to stanch it, Paul suggested that they use one of the expensive cholera vaccines, and then declared, “I’ll backstop it.” He added, “And let’s vaccinate a hundred thousand people.” Choosing a number simply because it sounded impressive was an old move of Paul’s—“the big-number strategy.” And it worked. It helped to get a vaccination campaign started, which helped to slow the epidemic and indirectly to increase the world’s supply of cholera vaccine. In the end it cost Paul nothing, because the Red Cross ended up paying for the drugs. But the gesture—“I’ll backstop it”—was one Tom would have made.
Paul’s conscience had been affected by Tom, much in the way one’s conscience is affected by one’s father, by what one’s father says and does. When Paul was asked why he wanted to give money away, you could hear something like an echo of Tom’s voice, both in the quick reply—“What else would you do with it?”—and then in Paul’s explanation: “I’m a little bit communist in that I don’t think money ever really belongs to one person. Money’s supposed to move around. I mean, money’s a fiction, right? Money’s this fictitious thing created to facilitate trade and for building things, so I think hoarding it is a disaster, because it goes against what money was created for.”
Tom had agreed to let his name be put on a building only once—on PIH’s Thomas J. White Tuberculosis Center in Haiti. Like Tom, Paul had been making most of his donations quietly, often anonymously. The boy who, like Tom, had felt it was his job to make peace in his childhood home had also, in recent years, become his own family’s go-to guy. And since Tom’s death, Paul had made repeated vows that he, too, would end up giving away everything he owned.
Often when Paul said this, he would add: “I just don’t want to give it all away yet.”
5
On November 9, 2012, the morning after the sale of Kayak was announced, Paul woke up to find his picture on the front page of
The
Boston Globe.
“Priceline Makes a $1.8 Billion Deal for Kayak” read the headline. The caption added: “Kayak cofounder Paul English shaped apps that compare travel searches.” All this in the newspaper that he used to deliver on his bicycle. In his place, of course, many hometown-boys-made-good would have been delighted. Paul felt like going into hiding.
Emails, texts, phone calls, even knockings on his door. All his channels of communication were flooded, less with congratulations now than with requests for money: pleas for help from pathetic-sounding strangers who might or might not be con artists; from old friends and new acquaintances representing worthy charities; from a doctor who had been treating him, now asking, on behalf of his hospital, if Paul would mind being contacted by the development office. Also from a friend of a friend who wondered whether Paul could spare fifty thousand for a real estate investment. The woman arrived at his door a few nights later, wearing a tennis dress though the night was chilly. Paul turned
By this time, Kayak was thriving, and Paul’s stock had become a fortune, if only on paper. Paul told Tom not to worry. He would make sure that PIH didn’t fail. “I don’t have a hundred million dollars yet,” Paul told him. “But I will.”
Tom wasn’t alive to see that day. He died at ninety, in January 2011—not penniless but close to it, Paul heard. Paul didn’t have to rescue PIH, which had many other large donors by then, but he pledged to keep on giving money to the organization—another million once he had his Kayak winnings, and a hundred thousand a year for ten years after that. He had also joined the organization’s board.
The year after Tom died, Haiti suffered its dreadful earthquake and ensuing cholera epidemic. When PIH’s board was deliberating over ways to stanch it, Paul suggested that they use one of the expensive cholera vaccines, and then declared, “I’ll backstop it.” He added, “And let’s vaccinate a hundred thousand people.” Choosing a number simply because it sounded impressive was an old move of Paul’s—“the big-number strategy.” And it worked. It helped to get a vaccination campaign started, which helped to slow the epidemic and indirectly to increase the world’s supply of cholera vaccine. In the end it cost Paul nothing, because the Red Cross ended up paying for the drugs. But the gesture—“I’ll backstop it”—was one Tom would have made.
Paul’s conscience had been affected by Tom, much in the way one’s conscience is affected by one’s father, by what one’s father says and does. When Paul was asked why he wanted to give money away, you could hear something like an echo of Tom’s voice, both in the quick reply—“What else would you do with it?”—and then in Paul’s explanation: “I’m a little bit communist in that I don’t think money ever really belongs to one person. Money’s supposed to move around. I mean, money’s a fiction, right? Money’s this fictitious thing created to facilitate trade and for building things, so I think hoarding it is a disaster, because it goes against what money was created for.”
Tom had agreed to let his name be put on a building only once—on PIH’s Thomas J. White Tuberculosis Center in Haiti. Like Tom, Paul had been making most of his donations quietly, often anonymously. The boy who, like Tom, had felt it was his job to make peace in his childhood home had also, in recent years, become his own family’s go-to guy. And since Tom’s death, Paul had made repeated vows that he, too, would end up giving away everything he owned.
Often when Paul said this, he would add: “I just don’t want to give it all away yet.”
5
On November 9, 2012, the morning after the sale of Kayak was announced, Paul woke up to find his picture on the front page of
The
Boston Globe.
“Priceline Makes a $1.8 Billion Deal for Kayak” read the headline. The caption added: “Kayak cofounder Paul English shaped apps that compare travel searches.” All this in the newspaper that he used to deliver on his bicycle. In his place, of course, many hometown-boys-made-good would have been delighted. Paul felt like going into hiding.
Emails, texts, phone calls, even knockings on his door. All his channels of communication were flooded, less with congratulations now than with requests for money: pleas for help from pathetic-sounding strangers who might or might not be con artists; from old friends and new acquaintances representing worthy charities; from a doctor who had been treating him, now asking, on behalf of his hospital, if Paul would mind being contacted by the development office. Also from a friend of a friend who wondered whether Paul could spare fifty thousand for a real estate investment. The woman arrived at his door a few nights later, wearing a tennis dress though the night was chilly. Paul turned
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