The Zurich Conspiracy

and disappearing with Kelly at her side.
    “Do you share my opinion that Joan did it again, magnificently?” Josefa asked, turning toward Bourdin, but he was already on his way out of the lounge. Not a word. She was simply left behind, like an umbrella. The company limousine wouldn’t be taking her back to Zurich, then. Damn it. Bourdin was treating her as if she were his maid, a second-class citizen. She, Josefa, who had just helped Loyn stage that glamorous show!
    Josefa suddenly felt rooted to the spot, unable to move. Her breathing became shallow, the air blocked like steam in a kettle with the lid on. Her arms and hands cramped up. She only half perceived what was going on around her. Her ears were ringing. All of a sudden she felt a metal handle in her hand, linked to a taut wire rope with a monstrous steel ball at the end. And Josefa was spinning round and round, holding onto the handle as the heavy ball began to swing around. It spun in ever larger circles, turning and turning, shattering everything in its way, smashing walls to bits, mowing down metal scaffolding like matchsticks, breaking windowpanes to pieces. Get out of the way, get out of the way! She was turning faster and faster, the ball careening more and more powerfully through the air, relentless in its triumphal march of destruction. Finally, after everything was flattened, Josefa let go of the ball, releasing it in one last, erratic spin, and watched it rocket off and disappear into the vague, blurry distance.
    And then, all of a sudden, she could breathe deeply again, the air moving in and out of her lungs unobstructed, which stopped her cramping. Josefa heard a voice and blinked. The veil slowly lifted: A woman was standing in front of her. She wore a blue-and-red uniform and put a hand on her arm. Josefa could now understand her words.
    “The driver of your company car gave me your luggage.”
    “My luggage?” Josefa asked in a daze. “Oh, yes.” She’d completely forgotten about it.
    “Don’t you want to sit down? You look pale,” the stewardess offered, exuding a subtle perfume.
    “No, no, everything’s fine,” Josefa assured her as she slowly regained her composure.
    The lady in uniform gave her a worried look.
    “You’re really very pale.”
    “I sometimes get dizzy,” Josefa quickly explained. “I’ve got low blood pressure, you see. But that’s really…that’s not a disease. Typical woman’s problem.” She attempted a feeble smile. “And better than high blood pressure. I’ve obviously been working too hard lately and haven’t had enough sleep. Many thanks for your concern.” She nodded quickly at the stewardess, who still looked dubious, picked up her luggage, and headed to the taxi stand.
    On the ride to Zurich Josefa was lost in thought as she watched the ugly suburban houses pass by. She still felt the fear in her bones. She’d thought she’d left that scary phase behind her long ago. Something in her mind’s eye had persecuted her as a girl growing up—and she had said goodbye to those years, hadn’t she? It was the anger of a helpless teenager, not her anger. And yet, here it was again, suddenly breaking out, uncontrolled, unbridled—that made her afraid. Probably nerves , she said to herself. The sooner I’m home, the better .

The rain had stopped in downtown Zurich, and it was already dusk. Josefa unlocked the door to her apartment building and went up the stone stairs to the fifth floor—there was no elevator in this somewhat neglected building that defied the modern age. A feeling of warmth and security suffused Josefa in spite of her great fatigue. Home again. No more hotel rooms and restaurants for the time being.
    She walked through her apartment like a cat that had come home after days of roaming and was now taking in the old familiar scents. She opened the windows onto the green back courtyard and soaked in the cool evening air. For three years, Josefa had been renting an apartment in this building, located in a large quarter of the city that had Jugendstil buildings several stories tall with high, stuccoed ceilings. Plopping into the rocking chair, she let her eyes wander around the room: the oil paintings on the walls that she’d painted when her life wasn’t dictated by the day planner; the pile of unread magazines (no doubt featuring ads for Loyn bags); the colorful cushions on the parquet floor; the long, narrow Oriental rug; the bookshelves; the clay figurines from Peru; and