The Zurich Conspiracy

anything else for that matter.
    Pius carefully laid a briefcase on the table.
    “Here are my ideas for the thank-yous to the St. Moritz VIPs,” he said, leaning toward her and bracing his arms on the table, his face enticingly close to hers. Josefa could smell his aftershave and even imagined for a moment that he might kiss her.
    “Loyn is not the only thing in the world, Josefa,” he said softly. Then he was out of the room in a flash. Josefa sat there for a minute, composing herself; then resentment got the better of her again.
    “No, the world is only slimy caves and blind bats,” she grunted as she picked up the phone and asked Claire to come in.
    Through her window she could see the swallows dancing.
    Oh my God! Werner Schulmann. He calls himself a communications consultant and an expert on new media. Josefa had worked with him a few years back when Loyn threw a birthday party for its new collection at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Schulmann purported to be a specialist for every imaginable kind of technical gimmick—video sound shows, lighting effects, large-screen projections. They had worked together well while planning the event; he was easy to get along with, was open to her ideas, and had charm and a pleasant, sporty appearance. But he let her know in San Francisco that he didn’t like to spend his nights alone and made her an unambiguous proposition that she politely turned down. Schulmann still wouldn’t drop it, and Josefa had to be even more explicit: “You must take no for a no.”
    He just smiled and said suavely, “Do you really know how much your eyes expose your sexual hunger? Maybe you should do something about that.” Then he turned on his heel and left with a spring in his step. Josefa was speechless—that’s what annoyed her the most afterward. Why hadn’t she come up with a good retort right off? She was normally so quick-witted.
    Back in her hotel suite later that evening, she ordered a bowl of soup and a pot of peppermint tea. When the doorbell buzzed, she assumed it was room service and opened the door without looking through the peephole first. Schulmann was on her before she realized her mistake. He grabbed her and began kissing her and fondling her breasts. Josefa was terrified and overwhelmed; she tried to get out of his grasp, the struggle seemed like an eternity. When all of a sudden Schulmann let her go. The buzzer. The waiter. The soup. She threw open the door as fast as she could.
    “Please c-c-come in…” she stammered. The waiter looked unsure of himself, and Schulmann took advantage of his hesitation to push past them and disappear down the corridor.
    “Is everything all right?” he asked, placing the tray on the table.
    Josefa shook her head. “Can I get another room?”
    She was still rather new at Loyn back then. That birthday party was her acid test, and Schulmann’s production was an important component. The next day Schulmann acted as if nothing had happened, and Josefa only talked to him when absolutely necessary. But her grudge festered. She rejected out of hand the idea of telling her superiors; she constantly heard about some “bedtime story” or other on every floor of the office. Who would ever come to her defense?
    Back in Zurich she argued in her post mortem that Loyn ought to shift their focus onto its products and their best-known advertisers; the distinguished and understated Loyn image was not well served by extravagant sound and light effects. She never received an official response to her report, but Schulmann never got another assignment from Loyn.
    The sound of approaching footsteps snapped her back to the present. Claire appeared in her doorway in a salmon-colored two-piece suit that made her look paler than she already was. Closing the door in anticipation of their conversation, she took a seat across from Josefa.
    “Walther has had a talk with me,” Josefa said, getting right to the point. “We’re getting a new marketing head.”
    Claire said nothing.
    Didn’t she get it? Josefa thought, adding, “The new man’s name is Werner Schulmann.”
    “I know,” Claire said flatly.
    “You know already?” Josefa flared up. “Am I the last person in this company to find out?”
    Why does nobody tell me anything?
    Claire leaned back in her chair, as if trying to avoid a blow. “Werner Schulmann told me yesterday.”
    Josefa stared at her in disbelief.
    Claire squirmed in her seat. “Werner and me…we…OK, we’ve