A Small Fortune (18 page)

A man in the tourist booth at the train station books me a room in a pension near Hagen Pharmaceuticals, or rather TOHI. He points me to the right train, smiles when the doors close, and waves when I pull away. I’m so weary, so lost in a fog of delirium that just before I step onto the train I turn and say to him in German, “Do you know who I am?”
Wissen Sie wer ich bin? Die Urenkelin von Annaliese Hagen
. The great-granddaughter of Annaliese Hagen.

I struggle against the rhythm of the train luring me into sleep. I picture Benicio in the bed I left only hours before. Blood rushes to my head and chest, keeping me awake. The longer I imagine him sprawled across the sheet, his head on my pillow, his hand reaching through my hair, the more the blood pools deep and heavy between my legs.

I didn’t expect it to feel like that.

Like what?

I think you know.

A man in a blue uniform startles me by thrusting a hole puncher in my face.

The train ticket. Of course. I scramble for the ticket in the pocket of the pea coat. He punches it and moves on.

I push Benicio from my thoughts as the tidy, ornate, picture-perfect streets give way to green spaces and hills and then the glassy blue water of Zürichsee.

The cool, clean air is exactly what I need when I step off the train. The pension is a kilometer up the road from the stop. I raise the collar of the pea coat and walk, or rather limp along the river, passing quiet farms, sheep, vineyards, and long stretches of green until I spot the house atop a small hill lined with crops that slope away from the house on all sides. A lane splits through the squares of green to the front; another lane leads away in back. The house is white stone with double rows of a dozen windows along the side. Red shutters clap open beside each one. The roof is thatched. A smoke stack emits a wispy trail of smoke. In the distance the snowy peaks of the Alps. I can’t help but be reminded of stark-lessoned fairy tales.

I sleep like buried treasure. In the morning I’m delighted to find the boiled eggs and Brötchen with orange marmalade and fresh coffee waiting in the small dining room exactly as I imagined. The table is set for one. Apparently I’m the only guest.

“
Guten Morgen
!” someone booms from the kitchen. It’s not Frau Freymann, the woman who checked me in the evening before, but a man, a large man, with a freshly shaven face, white cropped hair and pale blue eyes. He introduces himself as Frau Freymann’s brother. The resemblance is striking.

“
Zwillinge
,” he says as I stare. Twins.

I nod. It’s clear he’s answered this stare a thousand times.

“
Bitte
,” he says, gesturing to the chair behind the place setting.

I take a seat, and to my surprise, Herr Freymann takes a seat across from me. We begin the first real conversation I’ve had in German in nearly twenty years. Speaking comes slowly to me, but I understand most of what he says about the farm and lake, and when I don’t, I ask him to repeat it. He seems to like this about me. The fact that I’m not afraid to ask. He tells me I have
Mut
. Courage. You have no idea, I want to say. “
Danke
,” I say.

I finally ask about Hagen Pharmaceuticals.

He appears puzzled. Everyone knows of it, he says. They still call it by the Hagen name even though it’s changed twice from the original.

He points up the road. “
Fünf Kilometers
,” he says. It isn’t far. He suggests I take one of the bikes they have for guests.

Then comes the question. “
Warum
?” Why? Why do I want to go there?

In that moment Frau Freymann comes through the kitchen and sits at the table across from her brother. She’s overheard the question and wants to know, too.

I glance back and forth between their faces, the male version morphing into the female and back again. It’s distracting. I’m trying to keep my story straight. Trying to tell it in English would be difficult enough, let alone German.

I’m a Hagen, I explain.

By the looks of their identically raised eyebrows I’m either not making any sense, or they don’t believe me, or they understand me completely
and
they believe me but they’re anxious to tell me something.

It’s the latter. They ask if I know of the “Hagen Haus.”

I shake my head.

A museum. The house Annaliese and Walter lived in is now a museum put together by the children’s children of Annaliese’s brothers and sisters. They’re the only ones left. The closest in line with Annaliese. Or so they thought.

I have so many questions. Where do they live? What’s the family name?

“Seifert,” Frau Freymann says. Annaliese’s maiden name. Annaliese’s brothers had many children who in turn had plenty of their own. They’re everywhere. They’re her neighbors.

I want to run outside and knock on doors, introduce myself, and search their faces for my own. But the banks have already opened, and I need to catch the train back into town. There’s a nine-hour time difference between Switzerland and the West Coast of the States. Not a very big window to work with.

I stand and shake Frau and Herr Freymann’s hands. The twins even smell the same. Cherry soap and starched shirts, a trace of garden soil. Their faces are flushed and their grins large and loose, revealing the slight difference in their smiles with Herr Freymann’s chipped front tooth.

They laugh and pat my back and appear to be nearly as delighted by the discovery as I am.

The cheer and lightheartedness stay with me on the train.

There are two e-mails from Willow. The first—

Where are you staying? Please send address.

xo,

Willow

I quickly fire off the address of Pension Freymann. If anything should happen to me someone needs to know where I am, or in the least, where I’ve been.

A peculiar feeling comes over me. Somehow I know that the second e-mail isn’t from Willow before I even open it. It was sent from Willow’s account last night, not long after I signed off.

Celia,

I can’t tell you what these days have been like for me, not knowing if you were dead or alive, not knowing if I would ever see you again. The pain of missing you has been constant. It never stops. It never goes away. I can barely stand to be in this room knowing you were just here. I can barely stand to NOT be in it, too. Knowing your body was right where mine is now brings a whole new torment.

But you’re alive! This is enough to make it bearable. Willow explained some of what has happened, but she seems to be keeping the most important facts to herself. That’s fine. She wants to protect you. I can’t argue with that.

There is so much I need to tell you. Things I should have said before. Things I wasn’t completely honest about. Just know this—if it’s possible to fall in love with someone the second you lay eyes on them, then that is what happened to me with you. I fell harder than I ever knew was possible. If you don’t believe me, just look at my damaged face.

B

My heart and mind splinter into a million pieces. I shut the computer down and wander out onto the sidewalk.
Things I wasn’t completely honest about
.

I’m not paying attention to where I’m going and run straight into a teenage girl.

“
Entschuldigung
,” I say. Excuse me.

“
Macht nichts
,” the girl utters—it doesn’t matter. She heads on her way. It doesn’t matter. He lied to me. It doesn’t matter. My feet chug against the cobbles. It. Does. Not. Matter.

There are too many things that need my attention for me to think about this now. I stuff Benicio down and vow to keep him there for as long as I can. I need to be strong. I think of Sonja weeping in the courtroom as she tries to fight for what’s hers.
It made me look weak
, she said in her letter. I will not look weak.

I buy a scarf. Blue-sage, extra long, and surprisingly inexpensive for such soft wool. I wrap it twice around my neck. Looking like the Swiss woman I am, I set out across the Münsterbrücke where I drop down into the medieval streets in search of The Bank of Switzerland.

The Fraumünster church towers above me. The golden clock face on the spire reads shortly after ten. For a moment I stand mesmerized by the stained glass of the church, the blue so striking it feels like a living thing, reaching out, warming the skin on my face.

The lanes are narrow and the sun can’t always reach through. People come and go in all directions. No one seems to take notice of me. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.

I stop for one small errand at the store Herr Freymann told me about. I stuff my purchases in the backpack and am on my way.

Grand double doors of ancient carved wood make up the entrance to the bank. Like stepping into the hall of an old castle, the ceiling towers several floors high. Glassy marble squeaks beneath my shoes. The acoustics are so tight it’s as if everyone converses in whispers.

I’m standing on the same marble floor Annaliese and Sonja stood before me, surrounded by the same gray-blue walls of stone. I imagine Annaliese daydreaming past the tall, thin windows, devising chemical formulas above the teller’s heads as she waits to get her money.

The longer I stand there, the more the place takes on the feel of a Protestant church. Simple and opulent, beautiful and plaintive. On closer examination I notice cracks in the grandeur, the frayed edge of a mural, an electrical outlet that’s come loose, small chips in the marble floor where the sections meet at my feet.

A young man in a sharp blue suit cuts toward me and asks if I need help. He shows me to his desk in the open floor plan of the room.

The chair smells of fine leather, its back thick and stiff, and I feel too small for the size of it. The man—did he say his name?—looks and smells freshly scrubbed, dipped in cologne. His mahogany desk is obviously handmade, well made. An antique.

He writes down the information from my passport. He studies the paperwork from my mother and types something into his computer. After a moment a change comes over him. His shoulders seem to lift. His eyes, I’m sure, appear to concentrate harder on the screen.

“Did you find the account?” I ask in German.

“
Moment Bitte
,” he replies; the smile on his face from earlier has been replaced with a mouth that’s all business.

And then the smile suddenly returns as he stands and asks me to wait, just a moment. He will be right back.

My heart begins to race. Has Jonathon done something? Is there still some missing piece I’m not getting? Or am I simply reliving Annaliese’s nightmare? Are they going to make me wait just to amuse themselves? I squeeze my backpack to my chest, stare through the tall thin windows, and wait.

In the dense bubble of quiet, jet lag begins to unfold like a thick, heavy gel inside my brain, a weary burn in my eyes.

After what seems like ten minutes, the man returns with an elegant-looking woman wearing a creamy pantsuit over a silky blue blouse. Her makeup is tastefully done. Her blond hair is fastened neatly at the nape of her neck. She holds out her hand for me to shake.

“I apologize for the wait.” She speaks English. “Erika Zubriggen. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Donnelly.”

“Celia. Please. You can call me Celia.”

“Would you like to come with me?” Erika asks.

“Is there a problem?” My tired brain struggles to make sense of what’s happening. My hands are suddenly fists. I’m prepared to stand my ground.

“Not at all,” Erika says. “It’s just you’ve come to the wrong bank. Well. Not exactly the wrong bank. What I mean is you’ve come to the wrong, what is the word, branch, yes, I think that’s it, the wrong branch of the bank.”

Is it just my imagination, or is this woman behaving as strangely as the man? The man. Where is the man? He’s somehow disappeared. I look down. The papers and my passport are still on his desk. I snatch them up and hold them to my chest.

“I don’t understand,” I say, stuffing everything into my backpack.

“Please. Come. I’ll show you.”

We walk out through the giant front doors, and I’m sure I’m going to find the Swiss version of the FBI waiting for me with handcuffs. My knees soften. The scab on my leg begins to burn.

Erika directs me with a hand to my shoulder down the sidewalk and around the corner. She’s saying something about the yesterday’s holiday, the sunshine, and a place not far with a Turkish bath, for women only, she adds. Lovely.

I look around at the cars, searching for the one they’re going to toss me into. But there’s nothing, and no one seems suspicious.

We come to stop in front of a sleek glass door. A gray stone building from the Middle Ages. It’s been renovated, recently it seems, with the clean lines of tall modern windows, white, streamlined chandeliers, and the curvy pieces of art nouveau furniture I can see through the door. It doesn’t look like a bank. It looks like a cross between Tiffany’s and the house of Le Corbusier.

“Where are we?” I ask.

Erika swipes her key card against a plate near the door. “The bank. Your bank. The one with your account.”

“Is this still The Bank of Switzerland?”

“Yes. We just split the bank in two. This is how we separate our retail clients from the premium clients.”

“Premium clients?”

“The clients who carry a different kind of balance.”

I don’t ask.

The door opens with a satisfying click.

I’ve never been inside anything quite like this. It has the dreamy feel of a film director’s home in a magazine. Someone who’s married a European artist, both famous, both eccentric. Black chaise lounges with sheepskin throws to the right and left of a black, oversized fireplace that appears to get plenty of use. The floor is finely waxed parquet pulling the eye in all directions, demanding one take in the room.

Erika ushers me all the way in. We’re approached by a young man who behaves like a waiter. He seems to be expecting us. He offers me the choice of champagne, wine, or espresso. Tea if I prefer.

Good God. No. I don’t want anything. What I need, truly need in this moment, is to sit down.

Erika seems to be reading my mind. She directs me over to a black leather chair behind a cowhide rug. I settle into the plush seat. It’s like a second skin. Erika sits across from me. An Eames coffee table fills the space between us.

“Annaliese Hagen was my great-grandmother,” I blurt. By now my head no longer feels as if it fits quite right on my neck. I might have gone on babbling if not for the noticeable shift in the air when I spoke my great-grandmother’s name. It seems to hover in the air above us.

“Yes. I know,” Erika says. “I saw in the paperwork. I also saw that we’ve been trying for years to reach you. All of your statements were returned to the bank. Until recently when our research team dug deeper and discovered your married name and address.”

“You mean you recently mailed them to my house?”

Erika nods.

So
that’s
how Jonathon found out.

“I wasn’t fully aware of the account,” I say. “Apparently, the lawyer passed away before completing all the changes to the will.”

“I see. Well, in any case, you must be very proud to be the great-granddaughter of Annaliese Hagen.”

“I suppose I am. Are you familiar with her?”

Erika looks at me as if I’ve just grown another head. “Of course. She was one of the first to make the way for us. For women. Look at me.”

“What do you do here?” I ask.

“I’m president of this bank.”

“Oh. Well.” I have to admit I wouldn’t have guessed. In fact, I nearly blurt out that I myself am married to a president of a bank, but keep my mouth shut for too many reasons to count. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” I glance up at the wall clock. It’s shortly after eleven. “I’m sorry. May I see my account now?”

“Of course.”

Erika raises her hand and the man who appears to be a waiter crosses the room to her side. She whispers something in his ear and he nods and is off again.

“Jan is one of my assistants,” Erika says. “He’ll bring the file right over.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem. So what brings you to Zürich?”

How can I even begin to answer? I decide to stick with the simplest, and perhaps truest answer I can think of.

“My great-grandmother. I’ve only just learned about her.”

“Really?”

“My mother died years ago. I never knew much about my family to begin with.”

Erika leans back and shakes her head as if she finds the whole thing puzzling. How can a family not know such a thing about its own member? “You look like her,” Erika says.

“Annaliese?”

“Yes. Strikingly so. Have you never a seen a photograph?

“No.”

Erika’s eyebrows shoot up. I can just hear her thinking,
Americans, what an odd bunch they are
. “I’m sure you’re planning to visit Hagen Haus. There are photos of her there.”

“Just as soon as I finish up here. I’m staying at Pension Freymann not far from there, actually.”

“Ah. The twins.”

“You know them?”

“Of course. Switzerland is a small country. Zürich an even smaller town.”

“Well, now you’ve got me intrigued. I’m looking forward to seeing those photographs.”

“You will see. There’s quite a resemblance. Now. Let’s not keep you waiting.”

Erika glances around, and Jan approaches her with a folder. She takes it and thanks him, and he walks away with a precision to his feet.

She hands me the folder. Her gold, embossed card is clipped to the front.

“I have a question for you,” I say.

“Please.”

“What is the law here in Switzerland if a will states that a spouse is not to be left the estate? Is there a way for them to take it anyway?”

Erika eyes me. “I’m not understanding exactly.”

“What I mean is, can a husband take a wife’s money even if her will specifically states he has no right to it?”

“I see. I’m not a lawyer, of course, but I do know cases of inheritance can be very complicated. I’ve seen incidences where a family member has proved through the courts that the person who made such a will wasn’t in a clear mind at the time it was made and therefore the will became invalid.”

“Is that the only way then?” I ask. “To claim someone is insane?”

“This is no easy task. It takes close observation and documentation for this to be considered. But I’m sure there are loopholes. There always are.”

“Yes.”

“Do you have some concerns about your estate, Mrs. Donnelly?”

“Celia.”

“Excuse me. Celia.”

“Yes. Yes. I do.”

“We have plenty of financial advisors here on staff who would be more than happy to help you. If its legal assistance you need we can arrange that, too.”

“Can I write up a will? I mean, just like that, and have it notarized and everything?”

“I assure you we can accommodate you in every way possible. Would you like a private room to go through the file?” Erika asks.

“A private room?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say. A private room? What do they think I’m going to do that I can’t do right here?

Erika excuses herself, and I open the folder. No more than a minute goes by before I regret turning down the private room. Had I been tucked away somewhere, then all the posh people in the swankiest bank on earth wouldn’t have heard me scream. They wouldn’t have seen me bolt upright and then collapse on the floor at the sight of my husband being shown through the door.