The Zurich Conspiracy (17 page)

Back in her apartment, she collapsed on the couch. The outing had exhausted her, but she was unable to nap. Paul’s words were echoing in her ears.
So that’s how well he knows Schulmann, huh! Was even on the losing end. How does it all fit together anyway?
She was startled by the doorbell.

“I’ve mislaid that policeman’s phone number,” Esther said breathlessly, “the one who interrogated me about the burglary. I need a document from him for the insurance, and I don’t know the guy’s name. Maybe you know the name of the other guy, he came downstairs with you?”

“Sebastian Sauter. I was with him at the zoo the other day.”

Esther’s eyes almost popped out of her head.

“I finally got his cap back to him.”

“Did he call you?”

Josefa thumbed through her address book, ignoring the obvious implication. “Did he get my cell number from you?” she shot back.

“Possibly. They wanted to know so much after the burglary. They gave me a good grilling. But cops are so darn boring and conservative. They put me to sleep in two minutes.”

“Maybe,” Josefa muttered, writing the number down on a piece of paper. “But they don’t get excited about anything very easily, my dear, they’ve seen it all. As a woman, you can get mad and lose it and it won’t shock them.”

Esther took the paper with a wink and rushed upstairs to make the call. Ten minutes later she was at the door once again.

“That lousy bureaucracy,” she moaned. “It can really get on your nerves. I was bounced around
five
times until I got the right person! It’s positively a labyrinth.” She sat down on the gymnastics ball Josefa had bought for her back exercises. “And do you know what takes the cake? They say that Sebastian Sauter does not work in their department. He has nothing to do with thefts and burglaries.”

“Who did you finally get to talk to?”

“The man who interrogated me last.”

“And what did he say?”

“I had the right department, but
he
was on the case and not Sebastian Sauter
.
”

“And what’s Sauter responsible for? Did you dig that up?”

Esther hopped up and down on the ball. “Yes. Capital offenses, I believe.”

“Capital offenses? What’s that?”

“Murder. What else?”

It flashed through Josefa’s mind on the streetcar that she’d left the champagne truffles from Confiserie Sprüngli in the fridge. Her visit to her father’s would begin with an apology right off the bat. Fortunately she had her brother’s birthday present with her. She missed her stop, though, and had to walk all the way back from Klusplatz. Maybe it was her unconscious wish to sidestep the family gathering.

Her father’s house actually belonged to her stepmother, Verena, who brought it into the family when they married. Josefa, just sixteen at the time, suffered a double shock: a new woman by her father’s side and a new home. The house was in fact a cozy old villa with many nooks and stairways, fruit trees in the garden, and an old stone well in front of the wrought-iron gate. But her stepmother’s industriousness and pep were a constant aggravation. Josefa did not rebel openly, as Markus did when he turned twenty; she just snapped shut like an oyster. Whenever her father urged her to be a bit more responsive toward his new wife, Josefa would give him the silent treatment, sending him into a white-hot rage every time. Professor Rehmer might come up with the most complicated linguistic and philosophical theories, but he was buffaloed by his daughter.

Josefa promised herself she’d be nice to him tonight, for her brother’s sake.

Verena was the one who answered the door when she knocked. Her short, dyed, honey-blonde hair was combed back with hair gel, which accentuated her pretty, symmetrical face. She’d turned fifty recently, but Josefa’s father was going on sixty-five.

“So nice to see you again,” Verena said. Was that supposed to be a veiled criticism? Josefa asked herself. She hadn’t paid Verena and her father a visit for a year at least. Last Christmas she’d fled to Egypt instead.

“I bought some champagne truffles and forgot them in the fridge, sorry,” she said, taking off her jacket.

“No bother,” Verena parried. “Your father can’t have anything sweet now anyway. Diabetes.”

“He’s diabetic? Since when?”

Verena escorted her to the living room. “For about four months,” she said quickly. “Age-related.”

Josefa went into the paneled room and stopped short. “I thought we were celebrating Markus’s birthday,” she gasped, looking around at the dozen or so guests assembled there.

Verena gently took Josefa’s arm to try and calm her down. She could smell her stepmother’s expensive perfume. “Your father’s getting the Max Frisch Prize from the city of Zurich. He wanted to celebrate with a few old friends.”

And his kids are to be walk-ons standing beside the great artist
. Josefa wanted to turn on her heel and storm out that very moment.

They were all there: the dean of the university, the theater director of the Schauspielhaus, the municipal commissioner for culture, the publisher of Rehmer’s collected works, a famous actress who had declaimed his texts on stage, and a few women Josefa didn’t know. Probably the honest wives.

“Josefa,” her father exclaimed, making his way over to her. Josefa had to admit he cut an imposing figure with his massive head of snow-white hair. “Markus missed his flight and will be a little late.” That was all he had to offer as words of welcome. And who should be sitting on her right at the festooned dinner table but her father’s assistant at the university who had bored her at many a party with his servile behavior and show of musty knowledge. On her left sat the Schauspielhaus director’s wife, not uttering a word. She’d probably forgotten how to speak, since everybody around her was talking as if born for the stage.

“What company is it you work for again, Frau Rehmer?” the assistant inquired.

Since Josefa had her mouth full at that moment, Verena answered. But Josefa felt no compunction to explain her departure from the firm.

“You must certainly meet many interesting people,” a lady far down the table remarked.

“Josefa does not move about in the circles of ordinary mortals; she prefers the company of millionaires and Hollywood stars.” Her father was whetting his knives.

Josefa tried to maintain her composure. “That’s not true. My best friend, for instance, is an ornithologist, and she is neither immortal nor a millionaire.”

“An ornithologist, how exciting!” the director’s wife piped suddenly. Apparently Josefa had hit a nerve. “What’s her name? I’m sure to know her. I’m in the Ornithological Club.”

“Helene Meyer.”

“Yes, yes, I know about her. She lectures at the university sometimes.” The taciturn wife was visibly animated now, in contrast to Josefa.

As the guests moved into the parlor for coffee, she said her farewells. Her father didn’t protest. But his assistant, to her amazement, took her aside.

“Your friend, Helene Meyer, I knew her father,” he said.

“Helene’s father?”

“Yes, Peter Meyer. A tragic case.”

“Tragic? Why?” Josefa’s curiosity was aroused.

“You don’t know? He lost almost all his money when Swixan went broke. He committed suicide soon after.”

Josefa couldn’t hide her surprise. “No, I didn’t know. How awful.”

“Yes, I lost a good friend in Peter Meyer. I’m glad you’re friends with Helene,” his words delivered with heartfelt sincerity.

Verena followed her to the coat rack. She had style; Josefa had to give her that. After a cordial hug she returned to her guests in the parlor.

Josefa walked down the hill to the main road. It had turned unpleasantly cool. A taxi glided past her, then came to a dead stop. The door opened and a slim, agile figure peeled out.

“Markus!”

Her brother wore a long, thin cloak.

“You shouldn’t walk around at night with hair like that,” he said. “Bats will get caught in it.”

“Bats have already sucked all the blood out of me. They look like Papa and his guests.”

“So he’s invited all of Zurich over yet again.” She never had to explain much to Markus. “C’mon, let’s go to your place instead.”

Josefa climbed into the taxi, telling him all about their father’s soirée on the way to her apartment. She helped him lug his bags up the stairs. He must have brought enough instruments for a whole rock band. She saw by the hallway light that he had a thin mustache; his hair was cut so short that the corners of his skull stuck out.

“What did Papa win the Max Frisch Prize for anyway?” Markus inquired, retrieving a beer from the fridge.

“No idea. It was a surprise,” Josefa replied in a tired voice. “I don’t know his books.” That was only half true: she’d browsed through some a couple of times.

Markus handed her an envelope. “I hope you can do better with this, with my music. It’s the new CD I made with Fredric.”

“Who’s Fredric?”

“My boyfriend.”

Aha. So he was in love with men again for now. She knew so little about him; she knew very little at all about the lives of people in her life. Did she even know her brother? She’d never gone to visit him in London, never seen his apartment, or gone clubbing with him to places he played in. And it was exactly the same with her best friend.

After four years, Helene was in many respects still a mystery to her. But she had had so little time; her work had consumed all her energy and until recently Josefa’s greatest interest was the company.

Markus studied her. “You’ve been having a hard time of it, right?”

She nodded, garnishing slices of bread with Parma ham, tomatoes, sour pickles, and hard-boiled eggs. She told him about resigning from Loyn, about her plans, and about the threatening e-mails she’d been receiving. Markus picked up the mayonnaise, topping the sandwiches with it.

“And what did Papa say to your resignation?” Markus asked.

“I haven’t said a word about it. You know him; he’d have used it as an excuse to bawl me out for majoring in marketing instead of something sensible. Anyhow, I’m a failure as far as he’s concerned.” She was on the brink of tears.

“So what? Why give a damn about that? How old are you—thirty-five? So you don’t need to listen to what Papa thinks anymore.”

“I know, but these things haunt you whether you like it or not. You never get rid of that shit.”

Markus ate his sandwich thoughtfully. A tiny tomato seed stuck to his chin. Josefa had to fight the urge to dab it off the way she used to in the old days.

“What’s that?” Markus wanted to know, pointing to a child’s drawing on the kitchen wall. Josefa told him about Sali.

Markus smirked. “But you were never the least bit interested in kids before.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You always thought kids were a plague. You used to literally run away from them.”

“That’s not fair,” Josefa countered, though she secretly knew he was right. “I probably had enough on my plate looking after my kid brother.”

“That wasn’t my fault, it was Papa’s. He pushed you into a role that was over your head, and—”

“It was never too much for me,” Josefa interrupted him vehemently. “But I could never do the right thing by Papa. Nothing was ever good enough for him.”

“He was probably overextended because Mama died,” Markus muttered, adding a bit louder, “You’re expecting something from Papa that he’ll never give you enough of: affirmation, recognition, praise, whatever.”

“Why shouldn’t I expect all those things? Why shouldn’t he give me what parents normally give their children?” Josefa asked indignantly.

“Our father’s admiration is reserved for himself; there’s no room for anyone else. That’s the way it is, and you can’t change it. You’re good at your job and always get recognition. Isn’t that enough?”

“At least you’re an artist, Markus. For Papa, art counts for something, even if it’s rock music.”

“Nonsense. I bet he’s never listened to one of my CDs.” Markus took a hefty swig of beer and swiped a hand over his mouth. “It’s not that important, though. Look ahead, dear sis, put all this behind you. You’ve got too much baggage. You’re only torturing yourself.”

Josefa kept staring at the table and squashed a few bread crumbs.

“Tell me, was there any conflict between our parents before Mama died? Apart from her illness, I mean. Was there any tension between them?”

Markus fumbled around in the pocket of the coat he’d hung on the back of his chair. “Dunno. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I vaguely remember them having a fight over something or other,” Josefa said, getting up and opening the kitchen cupboard.

“Better ask Papa. But if I know him, he’ll be as silent as the grave.”

All the same, Josefa was convinced she’d get her father to talk one day.