The Zurich Conspiracy

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.

Winter hadn’t come this early for years. It was mid-November, but already a deep layer