by Audrey Braun
Is it just my imagination, or is this woman behaving as strangely as the man? The man. Where is the man? He’s somehow disappeared. I look down. The papers and my passport are still on his desk. I snatch them up and hold them to my chest.
“I don’t understand,” I say, stuffing everything into my backpack.
“Please. Come. I’ll show you.”
We walk out through the giant front doors, and I’m sure I’m going to find the Swiss version of the FBI waiting for me with handcuffs. My knees soften. The scab on my leg begins to burn.
Erika directs me with a hand to my shoulder down the sidewalk and around the corner. She’s saying something about the yesterday’s holiday, the sunshine, and a place not far with a Turkish bath, for women only, she adds. Lovely.
I look around at the cars, searching for the one they’re going to toss me into. But there’s nothing, and no one seems suspicious.
We come to stop in front of a sleek glass door. A gray stone building from the Middle Ages. It’s been renovated, recently it seems, with the clean lines of tall modern windows, white, streamlined chandeliers, and the curvy pieces of art nouveau furniture I can see through the door. It doesn’t look like a bank. It looks like a cross between Tiffany’s and the house of Le Corbusier.
“Where are we?” I ask.
Erika swipes her key card against a plate near the door. “The bank. Your bank. The one with your account.”
“Is this still The Bank of Switzerland?”
“Yes. We just split the bank in two. This is how we separate our retail clients from the premium clients.”
“Premium clients?”
“The clients who carry a different kind of balance.”
I don’t ask.
The door opens with a satisfying click.
I’ve never been inside anything quite like this. It has the dreamy feel of a film director’s home in a magazine. Someone who’s married a European artist, both famous, both eccentric. Black chaise lounges with sheepskin throws to the right and left of a black, oversized fireplace that appears to get plenty of use. The floor is finely waxed parquet pulling the eye in all directions, demanding one take in the room.
Erika ushers me all the way in. We’re approached by a young man who behaves like a waiter. He seems to be expecting us. He offers me the choice of champagne, wine, or espresso. Tea if I prefer.
Good God. No. I don’t want anything. What I need, truly need in this moment, is to sit down.
Erika seems to be reading my mind. She directs me over to a black leather chair behind a cowhide rug. I settle into the plush seat. It’s like a second skin. Erika sits across from me. An Eames coffee table fills the space between us.
“Annaliese Hagen was my great-grandmother,” I blurt. By now my head no longer feels as if it fits quite right on my neck. I might have gone on babbling if not for the noticeable shift in the air when I spoke my great-grandmother’s name. It seems to hover in the air above us.
“Yes. I know,” Erika says. “I saw in the paperwork. I also saw that we’ve been trying for years to reach you. All of your statements were returned to the bank. Until recently when our research team dug deeper and discovered your married name and address.”
“You mean you recently mailed them to my house?”
Erika nods.
So that’s how Jonathon found out.
“I wasn’t fully aware of the account,” I say. “Apparently, the lawyer passed away before completing all the changes to the will.”
“I see. Well, in any case, you must be very proud to be the great-granddaughter of Annaliese Hagen.”
“I suppose I am. Are you familiar with her?”
Erika looks at me as if I’ve just grown another head. “Of course. She was one of the first to make the way for us. For women. Look at me.”
“What do you do here?” I ask.
“I’m president of this bank.”
“Oh. Well.” I have to admit I wouldn’t have guessed. In fact, I nearly blurt out that I myself am married to a president of a bank, but keep my mouth shut for too many reasons to count. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.” I glance up at the wall clock. It’s shortly after eleven. “I’m sorry. May I see my account now?”
“Of course.”
Erika raises her hand and the man who appears to be a waiter crosses the room to her side. She whispers something in his ear and he nods and is off again.
“Jan is one of my assistants,” Erika says. “He’ll bring the file right over.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem. So what brings you to Zürich?”
How can I even begin to answer? I decide to stick with the simplest, and perhaps truest answer I can think of.
“My great-grandmother. I’ve only just learned about her.”
“Really?”
“My mother died years ago. I never knew much about my family to begin with.”
Erika leans back and shakes her head as if she finds the whole thing puzzling. How can a family not know such a thing about its own member? “You look like her,” Erika says.
“Annaliese?”
“Yes. Strikingly so. Have you never a seen a photograph?
“No.”
Erika’s eyebrows shoot up. I can just hear her thinking, Americans, what an odd bunch they are. “I’m sure you’re planning to visit Hagen Haus. There are photos of her there.”
“Just as soon as I finish up here. I’m staying at Pension Freymann not far from there, actually.”
“Ah. The twins.”
“You know them?”
“Of course. Switzerland is a small country. Zürich an even smaller town.”
“Well, now you’ve got me intrigued. I’m looking forward to seeing those photographs.”
“You will see. There’s quite a resemblance. Now. Let’s not keep you waiting.”
Erika glances around, and Jan approaches her with a folder. She takes it and thanks him, and he walks away with a precision to his feet.
She hands me the folder. Her gold, embossed card is clipped to the front.
“I have a question for you,” I say.
“Please.”
“What is the law here in Switzerland if a will states that a spouse is not to be left the estate? Is there a way for them to take it anyway?”
Erika eyes me. “I’m not understanding exactly.”
“What I mean is, can a husband take a wife’s money even if her will specifically states he has no right to it?”
“I see. I’m not a lawyer, of course, but I do know cases of inheritance can be very complicated. I’ve seen incidences where a family member has proved through the courts that the person who made such a will wasn’t in a clear mind at the time it was made and therefore the will became invalid.”
“Is that the only way then?” I ask. “To claim someone is insane?”
“This is no easy task. It takes close observation and documentation for this to be considered. But I’m sure there are loopholes. There always are.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have some concerns about your estate, Mrs. Donnelly?”
“Celia.”
“Excuse me. Celia.”
“Yes. Yes. I do.”
“We have plenty of financial advisors here on staff who would be more than happy to help you. If its legal assistance you need we can arrange that, too.”
“Can I write up a will? I mean, just like that, and have it notarized and everything?”
“I assure you we can accommodate you in every way possible. Would you like a private room to go through the file?” Erika asks.
“A private room?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say. A private room? What do they think I’m going to do that I can’t do right here?
Erika excuses herself, and I open the folder. No more than a minute goes by before I regret turning down the private room. Had I been tucked away somewhere, then all the posh
people in the swankiest bank on earth wouldn’t have heard me scream. They wouldn’t have seen me bolt upright and then collapse on the floor at the sight of my husband being shown through the door.
34
Thirty million dollars in dividends alone.
I might be able to comprehend several million. It doesn’t seem so outrageous when I think of what the average house is worth in my own neighborhood. Or college tuition for kids and grandkids. But thirty million? The number doesn’t quite register. Not even after I’m fully conscious. Not even after I’m pretending relief upon seeing my husband there to help. Not even after walking out the door on his arm as he steadies me, and then continues to hold tight after it’s clear I can walk on my own. What registers is that my backpack is on my back and I’m clutching the folder in my hand. No one has taken these things from me.
When we reach the corner I stop and feign weakness. Jonathon’s car is against the curb, the door already open, a strange man at the wheel. Jonathon keeps a tight grip on my arm. He’s close enough for me to smell his unwashed skin. It smells of our bed at home, a place that until this moment I’ve forgotten existed. We’re husband and wife. We’re complete strangers. We’re enemies. Has he spoken to me yet? I can’t remember hearing his words inside the bank. Perhaps I blocked them out. No, no, he’s said something, I remember now. “She isn’t well. She didn’t bring her medication. I apologize.”
A look exchanged between Jonathon and Erika. I saw it through the strings of my hair. Erika bore witness to how crazy I am. I flipped the hair from my face and exchanged my own look with Erika, one of concern, one that said I am a premium client and I will need your assistance, a look I’m sure holds much more weight.
Out on the sidewalk Jonathon speaks through clenched teeth. “Give me the folder, Cee.”
I clutch it to my chest.
“I need you to get in the car.”
“All right,” I say.
The last thing I’m going to do is get into a car again with someone I don’t know, even if that someone happens to be my husband.
I place my feet firmly apart, knees bent.
“Ready to go now?” he says.
“Yes. As a matter of fact I am.”
I jab my elbow sharply into his gut, and he sinks forward with a groan.
I bolt across the street, narrowly missing the oncoming Strassenbahn, which blares its horn long and hard, drawing everyone’s attention to Jonathon doubled over in his trench coat.
I stop and stuff the folder into the backpack. Beneath the bottom of the moving train I see the man from the car run to Jonathon’s side. Jonathon remains hunched over with his hands on his knees as more and more legs gather around him. When the train passes I face him from across the street, my scarf tied neatly around my neck.
Jonathon and the man start after me.
I flee for what I know will be the very last time.
35
That night I barely sleep. I’m still unsure of my next move, still feeling that wherever I go, Jonathon is sure to find me. I can’t just remove Oliver from the safety of Seth’s home without a solid plan of what to do next. I’m rich beyond anything I could have wildly imagined, but it isn’t as easy as paying my way back to Portland. For all I know there’s a warrant out for my arrest.
I keep my backpack ready at my side. By morning there’s no sign of Jonathon. I skip breakfast and catch the train to the nearest Internet café.
An e-mail from Willow—
I tried not to read what he sent but then curiosity got the best of me. Celia. You lucky girl. I look forward to the day when we can sit down over coffee and you can tell me what sort of witchcraft you’re practicing so I can learn to cast the same kind of spells.
Anyway, what have you discovered? Btw, are you writing all of this down? You should. It would make a bestseller some day.
Nothing new here. I haven’t seen Benicio all day. He didn’t answer when I took him breakfast this morning. I assume he’s as exhausted as you were when I first saw you. I’ll go check on him later.
xo,
Willow
One from Oliver—
Dad finally stopped texting. Seth and I just got home a few hours ago. He had me stocking books all day at his store! Actually I didn’t mind. His store is pretty awesome. It’s an old house, kind of like ours, turned into a bookstore with a little coffee shop and a small selection of vinyl records. The place is super busy all day. He’s paying me minimum wage so I guess I just started my first job. Anyway, what am I supposed to do about school? WHEN ARE YOU COMING? Seth wants to know, too, but he told me to tell you it’s not because there’s a problem, just because he wants to know if you’re OK. Gotta go. We’re jamming again. Did you know Seth has two daughters? They’re like nine and ten and they already play bass and guitar.
All these ordinary words, both his and Willow’s, are poetry to my heart. There’s something so astoundingly beautiful in the unexceptional moments of their lives.
Oliver,
I’m so happy things are going well at Seth’s. He’s a good man. I’ve never met his wife, but I’m sure she must be extraordinary if he chose her.
It won’t be long now before I see you, though from the sound of things you might not want me interfering with the good time you’re having. We will figure something out about school. Don’t worry. Please give my love to Seth and take a big hug for yourself.
Always,
Mom
And then—
Willow,
So much to tell, so little time. Everything under control. Details to come soon as they are ever changing.
xo,
Celia
Ps. thank you so much for letting me know about Benicio. But I think you got it backward. He’s the one who casts the spells, not me.
I’m looking for inspiration. For someone to tell me what to do next. I pedal uphill on a borrowed bicycle from the pension. It isn’t easy, especially after running through town on my bad leg. What gets me up the hill is the boost of adrenaline coursing though my veins.
A large, boxy white building pops into view on the hillside above me. Until then it’s been obscured through the trees and hills. Hagen Pharmaceuticals. I’m close enough now to see Hagen Haus, too, and the trail that once led my great-grandfather to his work. A trail that must have burned every time Annaliese laid eyes on it.
I park the bike outside Hagen Haus, a quintessential Swiss chalet with red begonias exploding from window boxes. I check behind me, as I’ve done all the way up the hill. The single lane slopes down toward Zürichsee. I haven’t seen another soul, but the feeling of being followed weighs heavily on the air.
I step inside my great-grandparents’ home and am smacked with a strange sense of bewilderment. I become disoriented, as if experiencing the ill effects of time travel. The laws of nature have been set adrift and it takes a moment to get my bearings.
A blonde woman close to my own age helps stabilize things by crossing the room to greet me. She speaks little English. I set several euros on the counter for the entrance fee. I don’t have a lot of time. I tell her straight away that I’m Annaliese’s great-granddaughter. I tell her of my mother and grandmother, of the letters that revealed all that’s been hidden from me until now.
The woman cocks her head. And then her eyes grow large and round.
“Mein Gott,” she says. “Wir sind verwandt!” We’re related!
She steps around the counter and embraces me inside an incredible hug. “Petra Seifert,” she introduces herself while searching my face and hair, my hands, which she holds inside her own. She says there are other cousins who look more like Annaliese than she herself does, though none so remarkably as me. “Schau mal.” She gestures to the photographs all over the walls and tells me to see for myself.
The sepia images are haunting. It’s as if someone has taken images of my face and superimposed them onto the bodies of women dressed in long petticoats and gowns, portraits taken at a fair.
; “I must call my sister,” Petra tries in English. She picks up the phone and speaks quickly in a dialect I have trouble understanding. I get the gist of it. A granddaughter has come out of nowhere. Looking like the Geist of Annaliese.
Before long Petra and I have locked arms for my personal tour through the house. Upstairs is the desk, microscope, and chair Annaliese sat in while she worked on chemical compositions no one would ever see or use. “At least not in her lifetime,” Petra adds.
I take in the room. The simple white linens and glass doors leading onto a balcony with a view of Zürichsee and the Swiss Alps beyond. Annaliese would have begun her day rising from this bed to such magnificence. But I’m more interested in what Petra meant by not in her lifetime.
“Oh my dear, there is so much you don’t know,” she says in German. Several decades ago a chemist who was researching Annaliese’s papers came across something that the others thought insignificant. Some combination of properties, the purpose of which Annaliese had strangely never written down. This wasn’t like her. She was an excellent record keeper. For years historians wondered if the pages might have belonged to one of Walter’s assistants, but they were found with Annaliese’s and the handwriting was unmistakable. But what this particular researcher found when he matched Annaliese’s diaries to the time in which the papers seemed to have been written was that there was something troubling going on in her personal life, an issue with her husband, that they were trying to resolve in the bedroom.
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Ja? Verstehst du?”
I nod that yes, I do indeed understand.
Not long after Annaliese worked on this, Petra explains, it was discovered that arsenic was included in their cold remedy, and not long after that, Annaliese left Walter for America.
“Are you saying that all these years later Annaliese’s formula was used to make Viagra?”
