The Zurich Conspiracy

to have a son so she could name him after Josefa’s grandfather, Giuseppe. But a girl turned up and she amended the name to Josefa.
    Sauter smiled, and then his face suddenly showed concern.
    “You look a little pale, Frau Rehmer. Are you all right?” How the guy can change the subject so fast! Josefa felt taken by surprise one more time.
    “Yes…I’m…It’s better. I…”
    A man in uniform opened the door and beckoned to Sauter; he hesitated, searching for words, his gray eyes scrutinizing her face. “Look out for yourself, very carefully,” he said gravely. “You’ve got my phone number.” And he was gone in an instant.
    Josefa watched him leave, dumbfounded. Dumbfounded and somehow frustrated. She couldn’t even say why.
    The Red Cross coffee was so potent that by afternoon she felt strong enough to take Sali sledding at the Üetliberg. Two hours before leaving she sat cross-legged on her living room carpet checking her camera battery. She intended to document Sali’s adventure in the snow. When the phone rang, she hesitated. Maybe it was another reporter. She let the answering machine pick up.
    “Josefa? Are you there?” It was Helene. Josefa dove for the phone; she had to talk to her friend in peace and quiet.
    “I’ll be right at your door with a bottle of champagne. There’s something to celebrate.”
    That’s just like Helene, Josefa thought as she ran to the kitchen to take some smoked salmon out of the fridge and start heating up some rolls in the oven.
    “Yummy, yummy,” Helene exclaimed, entering the kitchen. She probably got the expression from her Canadian boyfriend. “It smells like fresh bread!” Josefa kissed Helene’s ice-cold cheeks in greeting, noticing her friend was sporting a new hairdo, more feminine than usual.
    Helene put the champagne down on the table. “I’ve got a lectureship in California, for one year,” she announced, beaming. “And guess what the best thing about it is? Greg’s coming to California too!”
    Josefa’s jaw dropped. California. She tried to smile but didn’t quite succeed. “And when does it start?”
    “In the summer.” Helene unwrapped the cork. “Don’t look at me like that, Josefa! Be happy for me.”
    Josefa rubbed her chin. Well, she couldn’t possibly feel Helene out now on the thorny subjects she’d planned to. “I’m a little surprised,” she confessed, and it was the truth. “Just give me a minute to digest the news.”
    Her last words were drowned out by the sound of the cork exploding from the bottle and rocketing to the ceiling. Champagne spilled onto the table, but Helene rescued the rest of it, finally raising her glass in a toast.
    “ Prost , to our future!”
    Josefa clinked her friend’s glass without much enthusiasm. “Whatever it may bring,” she muttered.
    “You’ve got a new camera?” Helene had discovered the camera lying on the rug. “Show me…It looks terrific.”
    Josefa waved her off.
    “You’ve probably got much better equipment, Helene. But I’m pleased with it. Pictures come out well. Have a look.”
    Josefa fumbled around in a drawer for a thick envelope with photos of Tenerife. Helene leafed through them, commenting now and then about the colors and composition. Then she suddenly fell silent. In her hand was the picture of Ingrid on the hotel patio. Something in Helene’s expression made Josefa perk up.
    “That’s a German lady I met a few times. Do you know her?”
    Helene just mumbled something unintelligible, then continued thumbing through the stack. The next picture she stopped on was a close-up of Ingrid.
    “That’s Freya,” she said clearly this time.
    “Freya?” Josefa was puzzled. “No, her name’s Ingrid, and she comes from Germany.”
    Helene put the picture back into the pile. “Ingrid’s her second name. She’s really Freya Hallmark, but she hates the name, so she calls herself Ingrid.”
    Josefa gave her a blank stare. “You know her?”
    “Yes, she’s my cousin. Second cousin or something like that. In any case the daughter of my mother’s cousin.”
    “I thought your mother’s name was de Rechenstein?”
    “My grandmother was German. Her husband was from a patrician family in Berne. When he died she took the children and moved in with her parents. That’s why my mother grew up in Germany.”
    “And…Why was Ingrid—I mean Freya—on Tenerife at the exact same time I was, and in the same hotel, of all things?”
    Helene had a swig of champagne.