The Zurich Conspiracy

that. But Sebastian Sauter was, as she’d discovered recently, a man full of pleasant surprises. He still behaved somewhat cautiously, to be sure, and until now he’d only given her a few glimpses into his inner life, but she found him on the whole an utterly delightful package of a man. Even if she’d only admitted it to herself so far.
    “You’re here earlier than I expected,” she said. “I was going to bake a quiche Lorraine for you, but I haven’t even started.”
    “Do you have any fresh bread?” Sauter picked his jacket up off the floor and hung it in the closet. Then he took a flat metal tin out of his briefcase and a plastic container.
    “Caviar!” Josefa exclaimed in delight. “And sour cream! I’ve some baguettes in the freezer. We can bake them.”
    Sauter brushed his thin hair back. “Wine, woman, and wow!” he teased and promptly got a poke in the ribs.
    “Wine, weird, and wow,” Josefa retorted.
    They sat in the living room afterward, on a blanket that Josefa had spread out on the rug. Their stomachs were full of caviar, sour cream, and crusty white bread. Sebastian Sauter lay on his side, his head propped up in his hand. He was listening to Josefa tell him about the picnic in the park and how she had repaired a kite with tools from her handbag.
    “I didn’t know how nice it was to fly a kite. It’s as if your soul were flying along with it; I felt so light and exhilarated. I don’t think I ever flew a kite as a kid. I felt a little today what it’s like to be a happy-go-lucky kid.”
    “Yes, that what kids have going for them. My son makes me see the world through a kid’s eyes again. It certainly is good for Sali if he can forget himself when he plays.”
    Josefa wrapped her full skirt around her knees.
    “You know, Sali’s an amazing kid. There’s so much life in him. He can be so thrilled. He’s had such awful experiences, but nevertheless there’s such…such a powerful will in him to be happy. He takes in beautiful things like a sponge. The trust that he has in spite of everything—in me, in other people, in life—it’s…it’s…” Josefa felt tears welling up inside her.
    Sauter would never interrupt her in moments like this. He’d learned to let people talk. That was the policeman in him. He’d simply wait until she spoke again.
    “To see that, you know, it gives a person hope. Hope that it’s not only bad things that last. You have to give good things space to survive.”
    Sauter seemed to sense that she wasn’t only talking about Sali but about herself as well. He cleared his throat. “I’ve often thought about how divorce has affected my son. Always shuffling between parents. But Kevin’s developing astonishingly well. I think I’ve become a better father. That’s what I imagine at least. Children bring out the best in you.”
    Josefa began to pick up the used paper napkins. “Then maybe I can still become a good person if only I’m with Sali long enough.” She went to the kitchen.
    “A reconciled person,” he called out after her.
    “What did you say? A nice person?” Josefa replied. She came back smiling with two bowls of crème bavaroise. “You should have seen the salads Emilie brought. She’s such a creative cook.”
    “Who’s Emilie?”
    “Paul’s new flame. A Frenchwoman. Paul has a terrible accent when he speaks to her. I can hardly stand it sometimes. But he loves her meals. And she’s thin as a rail. Incredible.”
    She did not mention Bruno Zicchun and his remarks. They only touched on the subject of Loyn when it was unavoidable. Josefa was happy to have some space from those events. And she knew Sauter didn’t want to be put into the position of having to comment on a colleague’s investigation. He liked to keep these worlds strictly separate.
    “And then,” she continued, “I ran into that old man again who regularly brings his Siamese cat for a walk in Irchel Park, unleashed. It follows him like a dog. Last summer—I think it was last summer—I helped him with a crossword puzzle. He had to find a long keyword. He could still remember it, imagine that! He even still knew the question perfectly well. The man has some memory, simply unbelievable. And he must be at least eighty.”
    “So what was the question?”
    “It was in verse, something like this—let’s see if I can remember: He moves our personal belongings, strangers’ worlds pass through his hands. He knows their comings and their goings, but never