“Thank you,” Josefa replied, squeezing by him. Everybody was assembled in the meeting room. Josefa felt her heart beating: My team, the team; built it myself, she thought proudly. She had ten people under her, of different ages because she prized both dynamism and experience. This team was her greatest achievement!
Albert Tenning, the youngest member, was placing a bowl of fragrant butter croissants on the oval table when Josefa called the meeting to order. Surveying the ten eager faces, and about to begin her paean of praise for their good work, she suddenly noticed Claire. Something about her expression was disconcerting. She didn’t only seem tired but somehow just not there. What was going on? Well, she’d have to clear that up later. Josefa gave a brief, routine summary of the last few days’ events, handing out recognition and thanks, making some suggestions for improvements, and listening to her colleagues’ comments.
Nobody mentioned Joan’s absence at the gala dinner, though that was to have been the main event. But Josefa had already passed the word around that she would straighten that out with management later. If Bourdin ever got wind of the fact that her colleagues had openly bitched about the debacle, he could charge Josefa with disloyalty, a fact that was evident to the whole team.
“There’s to be a nine o’clock meeting with the CEO in the large board room,” Bianca Schwegler, Josefa’s reliable secretary, reported as soon as Josefa declared the meeting adjourned.
That’s just in twenty minutes! Josefa looked quickly around for Claire who was standing right behind her.
“Read this before you go to the meeting,” Claire muttered, pressing a telegram into her hand.
Josefa caught her by the arm. “We’ve got to talk afterward.”
Claire gave her boss what seemed to Josefa a beleaguered look and then nodded briskly.
The weekly meeting with Bourdin was always on Friday morning, unless he was en route somewhere—that was the drill. But this Friday the room was exceptionally full when Josefa arrived. Bourdin had summoned the regional sales managers from various countries to Zurich—and had not informed Josefa about it. He was already enthroned at the head of the conference table, with Hans-Rudolf Walther, the chairman of the board of directors and the stinking rich owner of Loyn, next to him. Was there an important agenda item she knew nothing about? Walther was well known for taking a personal interest in Loyn’s day-to-day business. At fifty-seven he was too young to retire; still, it was very rare for him to come to a Friday meeting.
Bourdin had already launched into his usual verbal torrent, his voice at times cracking: “…established a brand for the unbiased time traveler around the globe…modern nomads who look for the cornerstones of their circle of influence in lasting aesthetics…” Josefa was only half-listening when she realized she still had the telegram in her hand. She leaned back a little in order to open it discreetly on her lap.
Dear Frau Rehmer,
Permit me to extend to you my profound thanks for the cordial and competent way you look after your guests. You facilitated wonderful and stimulating days for me and my wife in most pleasant surroundings. Hearty congratulations!
Yours, Curt Van Duisen
Josefa’s heart leapt. Curt Van Duisen was one of Walther’s old friends—if that wasn’t a good sign she didn’t know what was! Bourdin was still droning on, his speech obviously drawing to a close: “…thanks to our colleagues, who give their all…” Josefa tucked the telegram into her pants pocket. “…our project manager…US sales manager…the head of PR…and last but not least…” Josefa straightened up imperceptibly. “…our leader, Hans-Rudolf Walther, who made everything possible. They all deserve our applause.”
Josefa sat there for a moment, absolutely rigid. He wouldn’t dare ignore her so obviously! Everyone present knew that she’d done the impossible in St. Moritz. She felt some eyes turn toward her. Bourdin announced that he’d like to show the sales managers the newly opened showroom—“an architectural gem,” he boasted—on the ground floor, featuring products from all previous Loyn collections. So that’s it, she fumed.
Josefa was glued to her seat, at a loss for what to do next—should she confront Bourdin? Suck it up and ignore the slight?—when Hans-Rudolf Walther came up to her.
“Frau Rehmer, I’d like us to have a talk, in private,” he said with a smile, laying a paternal hand on her arm. “Please come to my office in ten minutes.” Without waiting for an answer he turned on his heel to rejoin the turmoil.
Back in her office, Josefa pulled out the documentation for the next big PR event, a music festival showcasing some famous musicians, which she’d already prepared a draft for. Maybe Walther was interested in finding out more about it. She hurried to the bathroom, freshened up, and took the elevator to the top floor.
Of course Walther hadn’t arrived yet. It was the privilege of the powerful to keep others waiting. His secretary offered her a seat, but Josefa stood at the window instead; the magnificent view of Lake Zurich and the Alps in the distance was captivating, like a Ferdinand Hodler painting. The city lay at her feet, and visions of warm summer evenings came to mind: she imagined waves licking against the stones, her brown, tanned legs in the warm water, a haughty swan, head held high, passing by, boats with billowing sails floating on the blue water.
“Frau Rehmer,” Walther said, interrupting her daydream. Hans-Rudolf Walther was the proverbial éminence grise at Loyn: Everything about him was gray—his suit, his tie, his hair, even his skin looked gray. He extended a hand to invite her into his office, and Josefa followed, sitting down at a little round table and placing her dossier on it.
“Well now, Frau Rehmer,” Walther began, in the somewhat contorted, jovial manner of an established man who is about to explain something to a clearly younger woman. “Your performance was once again magnificent. We all find it exceptional. Since you’ve been in charge of event marketing, everything has been running absolutely splendidly.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Herr Walther,” she replied, but couldn’t resist following it up with, “I’d have been even more pleased if that had been said during the meeting.”
Walther turned a little to the left. His seal ring sparkled.
“Now look, you mustn’t take that too seriously. Francis is the spontaneous type, a bit unstructured, the way geniuses often are. He quite simply forgot about it in his enthusiasm. That is why I am making up for it now; you are very near and dear to us,” he offered, with a look meant to melt her away at once.
Whatever Bourdin did, Walther would cover for him. Bourdin was vital to the company; Walther had put his money on him, and Loyn’s success proved him right.
He started talking again without asking for a response.
“You’ve carried out almost superhuman tasks in the last several days, Frau Rehmer; you’ve hardly had time to catch your breath. That’s about to change. We should like to relieve you of some tasks that have nothing to do with your core activity.”
Now it’s coming, Josefa thought. I knew it was coming.
Walther laced his fingers together, forming a dome with his hands.
“We have decided to fill the position of marketing head externally, again.”
“Herr Walther, I’m very astonished by your decision. Particularly after the bad experience we had,” Josefa replied, trying to stay as calm as possible.
Walther knew what she was talking about. The head marketing spot was vacant because the man who last held it had been a fiasco, driving everyone in the firm crazy. And since then, Josefa had taken over most of his duties, with Bourdin carrying out the rest.
“You know,” Walther explained, “we need a competent head for such an important area. We need a middleman, a hinge, a contact person for our colleagues, our guests, and company management.”
“Our colleagues? Our guests? But that part of it is working extremely well,” Josefa blurted out, feeling nauseated with anger. She even considered showing him Van Duisen’s telegram—but no, she wasn’t some kid looking for re
cognition.
“Frau Rehmer,” Walther continued, in his paternal tone, “no one has the slightest doubt about your competence. Perhaps you didn’t understand me properly. We want to relieve you of some of your duties. So that you can concentrate on your core work. And I am convinced that this time we’ve hired an exceptionally capable, outstanding candidate. His name is Werner Schulmann.”
Josefa was dumbstruck. She felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her feet.
Pius Tschuor was standing in the doorway of Josefa’s office. With his full, dark hair that a carefully groomed haircut couldn’t even tame, together with his blue eyes and perfectly chiseled, masculine mouth—not too full, not too soft—Pius was a striking individual. Josefa sometimes wondered how Loyn was ever able to catch the guy. She’d discovered him herself—or more precisely, his pictures, she thought coyly. She’d seen his photographs in a gallery and contacted him immediately, then passed his portfolio on to Bourdin, who instantly signed him up to do the next catalog. And in no time at all this young man had become a kind of court photographer at Loyn. This was the bread-and-butter job he would use to finance his passion, which was admittedly not very lucrative: He photographed underground cave systems, dark lakes, hidden gorges, and small, mysterious creatures that saw light for the first time thanks to his flash units. It puzzled Josefa why Pius would choose to hide his athletic physique from the light of day, and from so many admiring eyes, just to flee into the bowels of the earth.
“Is it longing for the female uterus,” she once teased him, with a wink. That was how she communicated with him: wisecracking, kidding him, poking the fire but never playing with it. If they were working on a project together, there was an immediate, concentrated rapport between them; she was seldom at odds with Pius, and he always seemed to know instantly what she wanted.
Now he was considering her silently, an inquiring gaze on his handsome face. Josefa was in an unmistakable bad mood. She sat in her chair as if turned to stone; her arms propped on the armrests, her hands folded, stubbornly looking straight ahead. Finally she spat it out: “I feel like screaming right now.”
Pius prowled like a puma around the desk and stopped at the window. “Oh-oh-oh,” he uttered. “How bad is it this time?”
Josefa rubbed her nose. “Bad enough to ruin my whole holiday.”
“Nobody in this company has any right to an enjoyable vacation, you know that,” he replied with a smile.
“No right to a vacation, no right to recognition, no right to be treated with human dignity,” Josefa exclaimed, realizing she shouldn’t speak so loudly with the door open. But she didn’t give a damn. About anything else for that matter.
Pius carefully laid a briefcase on the table.
“Here are my ideas for the thank-yous to the St. Moritz VIPs,” he said, leaning toward her and bracing his arms on the table, his face enticingly close to hers. Josefa could smell his aftershave and even imagined for a moment that he might kiss her.
“Loyn is not the only thing in the world, Josefa,” he said softly. Then he was out of the room in a flash. Josefa sat there for a minute, composing herself; then resentment got the better of her again.
“No, the world is only slimy caves and blind bats,” she grunted as she picked up the phone and asked Claire to come in.
Through her window she could see the swallows dancing.
Oh my God! Werner Schulmann. He calls himself a communications consultant and an expert on new media. Josefa had worked with him a few years back when Loyn threw a birthday party for its new collection at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. Schulmann purported to be a specialist for every imaginable kind of technical gimmick—video sound shows, lighting effects, large-screen projections. They had worked together well while planning the event; he was easy to get along with, was open to her ideas, and had charm and a pleasant, sporty appearance. But he let her know in San Francisco that he didn’t like to spend his nights alone and made her an unambiguous proposition that she politely turned down. Schulmann still wouldn’t drop it, and Josefa had to be even more explicit: “You must take no for a no.”
He just smiled and said suavely, “Do you really know how much your eyes expose your sexual hunger? Maybe you should do something about that.” Then he turned on his heel and left with a spring in his step. Josefa was speechless—that’s what annoyed her the most afterward. Why hadn’t she come up with a good retort right off? She was normally so quick-witted.
Back in her hotel suite later that evening, she ordered a bowl of soup and a pot of peppermint tea. When the doorbell buzzed, she assumed it was room service and opened the door without looking through the peephole first. Schulmann was on her before she realized her mistake. He grabbed her and began kissing her and fondling her breasts. Josefa was terrified and overwhelmed; she tried to get out of his grasp, the struggle seemed like an eternity. When all of a sudden Schulmann let her go. The buzzer. The waiter. The soup. She threw open the door as fast as she could.
“Please c-c-come in…” she stammered. The waiter looked unsure of himself, and Schulmann took advantage of his hesitation to push past them and disappear down the corridor.
“Is everything all right?” he asked, placing the tray on the table.
Josefa shook her head. “Can I get another room?”
She was still rather new at Loyn back then. That birthday party was her acid test, and Schulmann’s production was an important component. The next day Schulmann acted as if nothing had happened, and Josefa only talked to him when absolutely necessary. But her grudge festered. She rejected out of hand the idea of telling her superiors; she constantly heard about some “bedtime story” or other on every floor of the office. Who would ever come to her defense?
Back in Zurich she argued in her post mortem that Loyn ought to shift their focus onto its products and their best-known advertisers; the distinguished and understated Loyn image was not well served by extravagant sound and light effects. She never received an official response to her report, but Schulmann never got another assignment from Loyn.
The sound of approaching footsteps snapped her back to the present. Claire appeared in her doorway in a salmon-colored two-piece suit that made her look paler than she already was. Closing the door in anticipation of their conversation, she took a seat across from Josefa.
“Walther has had a talk with me,” Josefa said, getting right to the point. “We’re getting a new marketing head.”
Claire said nothing.
Didn’t she get it? Josefa thought, adding, “The new man’s name is Werner Schulmann.”
“I know,” Claire said flatly.
“You know already?” Josefa flared up. “Am I the last person in this company to find out?”
Why does nobody tell me anything?
Claire leaned back in her chair, as if trying to avoid a blow. “Werner Schulmann told me yesterday.”
Josefa stared at her in disbelief.
Claire squirmed in her seat. “Werner and me…we…OK, we’ve been together for six months. I met him at a mutual friend’s. In Paris. He called me up afterward and…he invited me to dinner. And I fell in love with him. Just like that.” She was in agony.
Josefa was thunderstruck. Claire Fendi and Werner Schulmann. Claire and that…that…How could such a smart young woman be taken in by a con artist like that! Claire never talked about her private life; that was none of the corporation’s business. That was another reason Josefa had always relied one hundred percent on her discreet, trusty, always ready and able assistant who was now spelling out her defeat in rapid-fire words.
“I thought he felt the same way. He…he gave me presents and wrote a love letter every day. Then yesterday he told me—not until yesterday!—that he had been offered and accepted the job at Loyn. He said we could still be together, but nobody must find out about it.” She tossed her head back. “I didn’t know a thing about it before yesterday, Josefa. He never breathed a word about it…I don’t know what to do.”
Josefa tried to read her pallid face. Did Claire know about her run-in with Schulmann? Had he told her about it? She rejected the idea immediately. It wouldn’t have been in his interests to portray himself as a stud. But maybe he’d tried to winkle information out of Claire about Loyn and about her boss…
“Did you tell him anything about the company?”
“The usual trivialities, the sort of things you tell your partner.” Her soft voice started to break. “I don’t want him interfering with my work. It’s an impossible situation. He didn’t even ask me before accepting the offer! He kept the whole thing under wraps.”
Josefa felt increasingly dizzy. The five years with Loyn had not been easy, but now one problem after another was stacking up before her eyes, threatening to bury her.
“The sad thing is,” Claire said, “that he’s starting next week.”
“What? Next week!” Josefa blew up. Walther hadn’t uttered a word about that. Clearly they intended to give Schulmann a grace period while she was on vacation. They were giving him time to stake out his turf. Her turf.
She needed to think this through in peace and quiet.
“Take care of this,” she said to Claire curtly, pointing to Pius’s photo file lying on the table.
Claire took the folder and looked Josefa straight in the eye. Josefa spotted something defiant there, some rebelliousness.
“Why didn’t you apply for the job?” Claire asked in a firm voice. “You ought to have applied. With your qualifications you’d have made a super marketing head!”
Josefa felt she’d been caught off base, caught in the act by her own assistant. She looked away and was annoyed at the ensuing pause. She was struggling to find the right words, and Claire could tell. When she finally answered, her voice was more strident than she intended.
“Why? Well, for starters, the position was already filled, that is, by Bourdin and me—I’m in effect running marketing. They could have offered me the job. It would have been obvious to talk to me about it first.”
The Zurich Conspiracy Page 3