The Zurich Conspiracy

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