Deep Dark Blue E-Book

Seraina Kobler

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 285

Beschreibung

An expertly plotted and atmospheric international bestseller set on Lake Zurich. The first in a new series starring the intelligent and warm-hearted investigator Rosa Zambrano for fans of Ann Cleaves and Sarah Pearse. Lake Zurich is Rosa Zambrano's beat. Once a detective with the CID, she's traded in serious crimes for the serenity of the water, patrolling it daily as the first female officer in Zurich's maritime police force. But when the body of Dr Jansen, a renowned fertility doctor and successful biotech entrepreneur, is dredged up in a fisherman's nets, Rosa must call on her old training to solve his murder. This case hits close to home for Rosa - she's a patient of Jansen's, and had her eggs frozen at his clinic only days before he was killed. Her investigation leads her from opulent villas on Lake Zurich's shores to genetic research labs and a thriving escort service on the outskirts of the city - and to four women, each of whom in their own way have rejected the hand they have been dealt by biology or fate. ________________ 'This is not a conventional police procedural. Seraina Kobler is, though, clearly following in the wake of Donna Leon… A highly intriguing debut' Crime Book of the Month, The Times 'Set in the beautiful city of Zurich and full of glorious descriptions of well-cooked and thoughtfully presented food, Deep Dark Blue deals with the subject of genetic manipulation… Quietly shocking and full of intriguing information, this novel shows how much more there is to Zurich than secretive bankers' Literary Review 'Seraina Kobler is a Swiss novelist with an unusual heroine… takes us to the cutting edge… Kobler combines a surprising plot with descriptions of what her characters cook during pauses in the investigation' The Sunday Times 'Elegantly written and featuring a warm and interesting woman as an investigator and unfamiliar but lovely city brought to vivid life, Deep Dark Blue is highly recommended'Irish Independent

Leseprobe

Let us make mankind in our image, in our likeness, so that they may rule over the fish in the sea and the birds in the sky.

—GENESIS 1:26

Contents

Title PageEpigraph1. Ten Days Previously23. One week later456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445. One month later46Available and Coming Soon From Pushkin VertigoCopyright

From afar, the cormorants sounded like bleating goats. He could see their metallically gleaming heads popping up where he had sunk the traps in the water. The orange storm lights were still flashing in the harbour. He was late, and the stupid creatures had taken advantage of this. The fisherman started swearing into his beard. In the past, the birds had just paused here briefly on their journey south. But for some years now, the colony had settled here. Often, when he pulled up the nets, inside them there were only two or three perch that had been gnawed on. He opened the box containing Lady Fingers, Chinese Crackers and Screech Rockets and lit several of them. He would associate the foul sulphuric stench with the birds for the rest of his life. Together with the empty nets and the incredulous expression of the employee whom he had been forced to let go after working with him for twenty years. While he hauled in the traps, he left a message with a hunter he was friendly with, to whom he paid a bounty for each shot bird. The juddering of the winch became slower and slower—something was blocking it. The fisherman put gloves over his calloused hands. The rope felt as if he had nonetheless made a good catch; eagerly he shone his light into the depths. The lamp almost fell out of his hand when a canvas shoe appeared, on a bare foot. Soft flesh, shimmering blue-violet, bulged from the bottom of a light-coloured trouser leg. He had seen a corpse once before, in the woods, many years ago. The skeletal face, with scraps of skin still attached, had crept into his dreams for a long time. He shivered. He quickly called the emergency services and was relieved to hear a human voice.

1

Ten Days Previously

It is said that that the most beautiful city in Switzerland lies by both a river and a lake. Surrounded by water that flows from pristine mountain ranges through an open valley, past densely populated shores. Until finally the city itself emerges from the blue surroundings like an apparition. And there, on the northern edge of the lake, alongside the youthful River Limmat, the medieval old town of Zurich begins.

At Chez Manon, diagonally opposite the Predigerkirche, the coffee machine started up with a hiss. Faces that were still tired disappeared behind newspapers in wooden holders until Manon served viscous espresso in pre-heated cups. A conspiratorial moment of contemplation before the shops opened and tourists clogged up the narrow streets. An ash tree towered from a nearby closed courtyard. It spread its mighty arms only when it reached the height of the roofs. At its foot was a small house with slate-grey window frames. A woman stood in front of it. She had a towel wrapped round her wet hair and was wearing a silk kimono that slipped off her shoulders whenever she bent down. Her feet were encased in earth-encrusted garden clogs of the kind you could buy in DIY stores in the country. Rosa Zambrano snapped off a sprig of verbena and was quite content with herself and the world. For the world consisted of red-cheeked radishes that were growing hidden away between summer pumpkins and broad beans, or courgettes resting in the morning sun, whose saffron-yellow flowers would soon be just right…

Instead of rowing on Lake Zurich as she usually did on her day off, Rosa was in a hurry today. She went back inside, placed the verbena sprig on the wooden table and climbed up the creaking stairs. The last injection had left a bruise on her stomach. She chose a loose-fitting summer dress from her wardrobe. This way she could get dressed quickly afterwards. A sudden whistling noise reminded her of her morning ritual. She hurried downstairs. With one hand she removed the kettle from the hob, with the other she reached for the cast-iron teapot for the sencha. A gift from her ex-boyfriend. She stopped in mid-movement and instead pushed a small stool in front of the shelf. There was a brand-new glass teapot on the top shelf. Rosa carefully placed it on the sideboard and plucked the herbs until only the purple flowers remained. After she had poured boiling water into the pot, the contents soon sparkled like molten gold. Finally, she fetched an empty ice cube tray and scattered the flowers in it, filled it up with water and placed it in the freezer. Then she gathered up the remaining stems. They too would find their place: on the compost heap.

Rosa went into the bathroom, which was in a corner of the kitchen. For a long time now she had actually been planning to convert the shed, where spiders and woodlice lived among layered firewood from the city forest, but at the same time she couldn’t bring herself to banish from the kitchen the free-standing bathtub with its lacquered feet. It stood in direct line of sight of the Swedish stove, so that you could watch the crackling flames as you bathed. Like almost everything in the house, she herself had hung the mirror that she now stepped in front of. A strand of hair threaded with silver curled out of her towelling turban. She pulled a face, then rearranged her expression and smoothed blackthorn blossom oil on her cheeks and neck. Then, more out of habit than anything else, she opened the fridge and closed it again straight away: even if she hadn’t been given strict instructions to turn up with an empty stomach, she probably wouldn’t have managed to eat anything. She put the steaming cup of tea on the side table in the garden and sat down on the deckchair under the ash tree. Rosa leant back. The sun shone through the branches and painted fleeting patterns on her face.

2

The surgery was a little outside of the city in one of those lakeside communities that were named after the colour of the light that bathed the sprawling villas in the evenings. As Rosa cycled out of the city, the first mothers and fathers were already waiting at the pedestrian crossing in front of Tiefenbrunnen station on their way to the nearby public beach. The handles of the buggies were so heavily laden that they would probably have tipped backwards straightaway without the strapped-in children as a counterweight. Cool-bags, camping chairs, shell-shaped beach tents waiting to be put up. Rosa wondered if all of this was really necessary. But she didn’t know. How could she? The poplar trees swayed in the breeze on the traffic island. As did the masts of the sailing ships anchored in the harbour next to the concrete plant—they made Rosa think of chopsticks. A little further on, the plastic tables outside the clubhouse of her fishing club shone through the trees. But a glance at her watch made her pedal harder. Beyond the city limits, the surroundings began to change. The fences and hedges that provided privacy grew higher, interrupted only by heavy iron gates. Limousines and SUVs with personalized numberplates were parked on raked-gravel parking areas. The numberplates were regularly auctioned off, bringing in several million to the city treasury each time. Rosa locked her racing bike outside a building with marble pillars and untied the fabric of her dress where she had knotted it together above her knees for the ride. A life-sized Buddha was enthroned next to the reception desk.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ The shrill voice was a sharp contrast to the gentle bubbling of the decorative fountain on the reception desk. The surgery assistant slid her carefully manicured hand over the telephone mouthpiece.

Rosa tore her gaze from the Buddha, whose hands were resting loosely in its lap, folded into the shape of a bowl. ‘Sorry, I am a bit late.’ She cleared her throat. Then she glanced casually in the direction of the waiting room to make sure that no one was listening.

‘Your name?’ the shrill voice asked. The door was closed. Now Rosa replied in a firm voice: ‘My name is Zambrano.’

Fingernails flew like arrow tips across the full pages of the calendar. ‘Here it is: Zambrano. You are here for the cryopreservation?’

Rosa winced.

The assistant crossed out the entry. ‘Dr Jansen needs a moment, but the examination room is free now.’ She pointed to a door at the end of the corridor before picking up the phone again.

When Rosa sat down at the large desk, she touched her ears. They were glowing and probably dark red. She shook her curls over them. She still felt the need to justify herself. Her middle sister, Valentina, was already a mother. And Alba, the youngest, was about to become one in the next few days. It wasn’t that she didn’t like her little niece and nephew. On the contrary, she regularly cooked for her family, or at least as often as the duty roster allowed. Nevertheless, every time, she was reminded of the void in her life by the jam and gravy stains left by greasy little hands. Alba was further away from her in age than Valentina, but the longer they were adults, the less important that distance became. And, after all, she was the one who had encouraged Rosa.

‘Listen! You can get inseminated as a single woman. If you don’t find anyone, then just go to a clinic abroad in two years’ time. You can have everything done there. Everything!’ Her youngest sister ought to know. Her partner had also undergone treatment a few months ago so that they could conceive. Successfully, as the nine-month bump that Katrin carried around like a living trophy showed. Rosa was regularly inundated with ultrasound images. Or information about how one could dry the placenta after the birth. Try not to think about it! She closed her eyes. She attempted a breathing exercise and gave up after two rounds. Rosa doubted she would ever learn to relax by doing absolutely nothing. She preferred to concentrate on the large prints on the wall. The door opened just as she was studying the structure of a sand dune and contemplating whether it spoke for or against the success rate of a fertility clinic to have a barren landscape adorning the treatment room.

Doctor Jansen’s hair was a little too long considering the rest of his appearance in a white coat, although the trendy canvas shoes he wore without socks were also irritating. They reminded Rosa of the skipper with whom she took lessons for her licence for international waters. Jansen had also already crossed the threshold into middle age, but this made him even more attractive. The arch of his upper lip was curved, and the shadow of stubble was showing despite him being clean-shaven. He seemed to be the sort of person who didn’t have problems, only solutions. At least this is how it had seemed to Rosa at her first appointment a few weeks ago, when he had reassured her: Then we’ll give you all the time that you need. And showed her how best to stretch the fold of skin on her stomach to give herself the hormone injection.

‘Don’t get up,’ he said now. He rubbed his hands routinely with sanitizer, whose scent overpowered his aftershave. He greeted her as he walked past without shaking her hand. He sat down and started typing on his computer keyboard. She didn’t like it when anyone watched her type, so Rosa looked away. She noticed that the photo frame with the subtle gold border had disappeared. It had irritated her at her previous appointments because it was not facing the doctor’s chair but was slightly angled, as if everyone was supposed to see how he wrapped his long arms round the waist of a woman whose red dress billowed in the wind. She had the sort of smile that probably looked identical in all photographs. The couple were flanked by two no less perfect-looking boys, who proudly showed off the gaps in their teeth. A storybook family, Rosa had thought, as her rational side briefly wondered why this put her off as much as it attracted her, even after all these years.

‘I have two or three more questions. Then we can start.’ Jansen turned to her abruptly. ‘We can delay the process a little…’ His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘But of course there is no absolute guarantee.’

So now he was trying to hedge his bets after all. Secretly, Rosa was glad. This put into perspective the slightly arrogant impression he had made on her. Even if it didn’t change the facts: her fertility was diminishing with every day, every hour, every second with which she hurtled towards her thirty-eighth birthday. And not only her fertility: by her late twenties, most of her bodily functions had passed their peak. From the age of thirty, the probability of dying doubled every eight years. Soon her cells would lose the ability to reverse mutations. In short: she ought to have jumped on the nearest suitable man! Instead, she was sitting here having her own eggs frozen at great expense. Rosa peered at the clock. But the doctor didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

‘You haven’t eaten or drunk for at least six hours?’

Rosa nodded. The homeopathic sip of herbal tea seemed an age ago.

‘Have you ever had a general anaesthetic?’

She nodded again. And stroked the area above her knee. A few years ago, she had had a thin skin graft from her back to replace some dead tissue there. Rosa hardly noticed the scar any more. Just occasionally, when the weather changed, did the pale, bulging patch of skin itch. Suddenly she felt as if all the strength had been sucked out of her.

‘Great. Then let’s see if the trigger shot was successful.’ Jansen rolled across to the examination chair on his leather stool. ‘The ovaries of a female foetus already contain over 400,000 eggs when they are in their mother’s womb. Fascinating, isn’t it?’ He pressed a button and the room darkened with a hum. ‘But by puberty, most of them die off. Only about 500 make it to ovulation in a lifetime.’

Like the times before, Rosa disappeared behind the screen and took off her pants. Then she got on to the examination chair that spread her legs wide. The doctor inserted the ultrasonic probe inside her. A structure lit up on the screen. It looked like a bulb of garlic cut in half crosswise.

‘There they are.’ He pressed a little harder and pointed, not without pride, to the toe-shaped chambers. ‘Seven magnificent specimens in one round.’

Shortly afterwards, Rosa was lying on a sterile examination table in the operating theatre while the assistant slipped a paper napkin under her chin.

When she regained consciousness, saliva encrusted her mouth. Her throat felt sore, as if she hadn’t drunk anything for days. She didn’t know where she was. With the sound of the waves in her ears that came through the tilted window, she sank back into a deliciously gentle ocean. The next time she woke up, she felt better. The IV for the propofol was still stuck in her arm. Rosa pulled her free hand from under the blanket and put it on her stomach. As she did so, she thought of the missing eggs, which were now shock-frozen at minus 196 degrees, and she wondered whether a child came into being only when one of the eggs was fertilized. Or before, when someone longed for it.

‘I can’t possibly let you drive in this condition.’ The assistant looked reproachfully at the bicycle helmet that Rosa was about to put on.

She did actually feel unsteady on her feet. She would simply push her bike, then. But the woman just didn’t let up. Half an hour later, the van in which Stella drove to the local markets when she peddled her ceramics rumbled on to the forecourt. Rosa got in the passenger seat while Stella loaded her bicycle into the back. A small, scented tree dangled from the rear-view mirror next to a small dreamcatcher. Rosa felt sick.

‘Let’s go, I can’t leave Suki alone for too long,’ Stella said as she pushed the empty dog basket alongside the bicycle. ‘You are quite pale.’ She walked around the van and handed Rosa a bag of ginger sweets.

‘Alba hasn’t lost any weight,’ Rosa mumbled as she popped one of the sweets in her mouth. The paper crackled as she crumpled it between her sweaty palms and formed it into a ball. Her friend was only a year older than her, but she had always known that she didn’t want children because above all they meant one thing: dependency. On the way back into the city, Rosa told her what she could no longer keep a secret. And hoped that it would not cause too much trouble.

3

One week later

He would have wished for a different ending. A final version with a love that glowed as bright as Perseid meteor showers in the August sky. A love like a summer’s night in which life exploded—and everything is stronger, heavier and warmer. But he didn’t manage it. Although he was still working on it on his deathbed, Giacomo Puccini, creator of the most famous operas of his time, left behind nothing but a stack of scenes that did not make up a whole: Turandot was to stay fragmented.

Now one of the arias thundered out of the speakers, as tall as a man, hidden under panels of fabric to the left and right of the huge screen. Nessun dorma! Night of decision. ‘No one sleeps,’ ordered the murderous Princess Turandot. She set a challenge for each of her suitors. And executed those who didn’t pass.

Moritz Jansen breathed in with the swelling voice of the tenor, as if it were possible for him to take all of this in forever. The heat from the sun that was stored in the stone parquet of ancient quartzite. And the joy that tickled his legs in the form of Alina’s toes, with their crimson nails. They were sitting in the middle of the spacious square that spans the edge of the old town between Bellevue, the lake and Theaterstrasse. On their blanket were the remains of their picnic, which had consisted of stuffed vine leaves, goat’s cheese and a baguette.

The opera house rose up in front of them in the light of the spotlights that shone for everyone to see. Angels with outstretched wings watched over them from the roof, along with deities in flowing robes, with swords and swans. Around them on the square were lots of people sitting on camping chairs they had brought along, on damp towels or simply on the ground. Alina poured the rest of the sparkling rosé champagne into the two crystal goblets. She had bought these at the flea market, together with the lilac silk dress, which looked a bit like the sort of dress you would imagine wearing to the opera if you had never been before. It touched him. And she looked ravishing in it. Usually when they met she wore sneakers, loose-fitting jeans tucked into striped socks, and some sort of top that didn’t get in the way beneath her lab coat. With pointed nails she opened her handbag, which had no handles. Her flatmate had explained to her that a clutch was a must with off-the-shoulder dresses and had lent Alina her own. Alina’s face lit up in the glow of the screen as she sprinkled the MDMA crystals—finely ground for this purpose—into the champagne, which was now no longer cold.

‘It probably tastes disgusting.’ She raised her glass. ‘Good times guaranteed though.’ Then she swirled her glass, slowly and carefully, until the liquid was also spinning in circles. She took a sip. Jansen downed the bitter sediment on the bottom in one go. It was not the first time they had taken something together. But it was the first time they had done it when they weren’t alone. He wanted nothing more right now than to lay her down between cool sheets. He leant over towards Alina, so close that he could touch the sensitive spot on her neck, and asked if she wanted to leave. He loved her smell. Citrus peel with a hint of green wood, mixed with clean sweat. He would be happy to miss the rest of the third act; written by a former pupil who had put together, with sugary pomp, the scenes left behind by his maestro. Too much Alfano. Not enough Puccini.

He placed Alina’s high heels neatly in front of her. The shoes had been lying some distance away; she had removed them with relief two hours earlier. Then he shook the breadcrumbs out of the blanket and laid it round Alina’s bare shoulders. Hand in hand, they crossed the busy Seestrasse and walked along the promenade towards Utoquai, out of town. Alongside the barriers that were already set up for the half-Ironman the next day. It felt good to walk through the night with his secret girlfriend, who would now no longer be secret. And the following Monday they would be heading for the mountains for a few days.

From further and further away they could hear the final applause for the public opera, the sopranos, tenors and chorus now bowing on the radiant balustrade above the crowd. A film of sweat had formed on Jansen’s top lip. Everything was soft and fluffy, blending with the music that filled him, together with the intoxicating feeling that comes over you when you pass from one world to another and realize that your inner state and your outer environment finally match. How is it possible that you can find yourself in exactly the right place at exactly the right time—and in the right company? Laughter wafted through the air, light and round. His own or that of others, all was one. Waves swelled back and forth, not only on the nearby shore, but also in Jansen’s ears. It wasn’t possible, a thought flashed through his mind.

‘Puccini could never have come up with the ending,’ he said. His jaw clicked as he released his impending lockjaw with a deliberate jerk. ‘It would not have been possible to finish the opera. Not as long as he himself—like the prince in his story—desired the wrong woman,’ he added. He touched the spot where until recently his wedding ring had been.

Alina looked out across the lake. ‘Have you spoken to your lawyer again?’

Ships with lighted lanterns swayed like fireflies further out. For a moment, Jansen thought he had spotted a motorboat he knew only too well. He had wasted two hours of his life on it that very afternoon. He was annoyed, but only for a moment. He no longer depended on it. On her power games. And certainly not on her. Then the Panta Rhei slipped behind a shadow and was simply obscured by the railing of the largest excursion ship on the lake, encircled by cold blue lines of light. Jansen squeezed Alina’s hand even more tightly. It felt strangely hot and cold at the same time. At least he would hopefully be able to settle things with the woman who was still his wife. Even if Alina doubted that twenty years of marriage could be squeezed into an amicable contract. At the beginning of the relationship, she had been convinced that he would disappear again one day and go back to his wife. Ever since he had been trying hard to convince her of the opposite.

‘Moritz? Did you hear me?’

‘The lawyer… of course, I will call him,’ he replied, and the pressure in his jaw immediately built up again. ‘But not until we’re back from the mountains.’

People were sitting on the edge of the quay wall, under trees and on benches. Gathered in groups around portable loudspeakers from which music blared. Many different styles, and yet: all the same and all commercial. But that didn’t bother Jansen, not today. Someone jumped off the jetty with a low cry, there was a splash. They lay on their backs on the grass. Alongside them plastic cups of iced tea, fogged up by cold. When their mouths felt too dry, they rolled to the side over the damp dew, drank in long gulps and enjoyed the goosebumps that spread over their whole bodies: cutis anserina, one of the most exciting examples of the connection between the central nervous system and the skin that was already forming during embryonic development. He heard Alina crack the melting ice cubes between her teeth. The screen on his phone was still black. No message. When Alina placed her head in the hollow of his shoulder, he felt her nipples through the fabric and felt himself getting an erection.

Everything was spinning when Jansen got up a moment later. He pushed his hair out of his face; he hadn’t had it cut since they had been together. Then he patted down his jacket, feeling for the memory card hidden deep inside the inside pocket. Ready for the public. Ready for the journalists that he would contact as soon as they got back from the mountains. Until then he could hide the card in Alina’s room, where it would be safe. Shortly afterwards, the outline of a villa emerged from the shadow of a tall beech tree. Bow-fronted, a façade of hewn sandstone squares and tower-like soaring chimneys lent the building something mysterious. Even more so in the gathering clouds. Treetops brushed restlessly over the scene. Shutters slammed. Glasses clinked somewhere. Further back, lightning flashed, where the Alps unfolded above the lake and the Vrenelisgärtli glowed on fine evenings.

‘I think they are all asleep already.’ Alina, wrapped in the picnic blanket, was trying to unlock the entrance gate—not succeeding at first. She pressed an index finger to her lips. Giggling, they entered the imposing hall that opened on to the garden, darkened by cedars and yews. The heat of the day still hovered indoors. It smelt of the cut flowers that stood in a tall vase on a small table in the entrance. Dahlias, hydrangeas. Asters. The ballet studio with its polished floor lay silent. At first, Alina had only taken dance lessons here to improve her posture, which had been affected by all the standing in the lab. Then the opportunity had arisen to rent a temporary room in the large flat-share. It was at the top of a winding staircase, which they now crept up. A bushy-haired cat lay on the sofa and raised its head indifferently when they quietly opened the door. Light from the street shone through the stained-glass window, transmitting floral patterns on the light-coloured cushions. ‘Shoo!’ Aline didn’t like pets. Maybe the cat knew that. Maybe it just wanted to show her that it had been here longer than Alina. The cat strolled in a leisurely way across the shaggy carpet towards the door and rubbed itself provocatively against Jansen’s calf.

‘Scotch?’ Alina lit some candles. Jansen wrapped his arms round her waist from behind. Biting her earlobe, he felt desire rise up in him again. She gently disengaged herself and went over to the drinks trolley, which stood in front of a wall full of pictures. Petersburg style of hanging, she had explained to him when he first came round. A variety of frames close together, round and square, from tiny to mirror-sized. There were scientific sketches of animals, a giant auk, butterflies, the skull of a rhinoceros. In between there were snapshots: mother, father, daughter and son—in changing constellations and chronology. Landmarks of memory as found in all family albums, with which one assures oneself of one’s own existence. But most important to Alina seemed to be the picture that was placed in the middle. It showed the Earth floating in space. A green-blue hemisphere, veiled by clouds, rising behind the moon. Taken by an Apollo 8 astronaut whose mission was to search for the moon—and who found the Earth in the process.

Ice cubes clinked as Alina placed the heavy-bottomed glasses on the travel trunk that served as a coffee table. ‘Earthrise,’ she said, following his gaze. ‘It may sound overly dramatic, but I want the picture to remind me every morning when I get up and every evening when I go to sleep that we are only guests on a tiny cosmic oasis. In the middle of infinity.’

‘I rather wonder why we didn’t meet each other much sooner?’ Jansen said, and pulled her in close again.

Alina placed her naked thigh on his lap and replied: ‘Maybe because I would still have been almost a child?’

He groaned theatrically. Then he allowed his hand to slide up the inside of her thigh.

‘Seriously…’ Alina said. ‘Just a hundred years before this picture was taken, Jules Verne wrote about three adventurers who had themselves shot to the moon by cannons—and who came back down to Earth with parachutes. Pure science fiction, back then.’

Jansen leant back further into the sofa; he enjoyed the taste of smoky peat burning down his throat.

‘That is as if we were to imagine travelling to another solar system today,’ Alina continued.

He guessed what she was getting at: ‘Or as if our species would begin evolving according to its own rules. In its current form, Homo sapiens would be nothing more than a stopover on a never-ending journey to a complete existence.’

‘Then sex would be purely for relaxation…’ Alina said. She put his glass down and took off his shirt. He could see himself reflected in her wide-open eyes. His lips only brushed hers at first, but soon became more insistent. They moved across her armpits and navel, down to the soles of her feet. Jansen suddenly realized that he could never have expressed this kind of sexuality the way he had been before. But now everything fitted together in an almost perfect way. Alina spread her legs as he laid her on the pillows. Without taking his eyes off hers, he sank down on to the carpet. When his tongue found her clitoris, she slowly began to move her pelvis. He inserted two fingers inside her, just the way she liked it, and she took over his rhythm…

When she came, he was flooded with a love and vitality that dissolved body and soul and perhaps even time.

4

The revolving brushes of the municipal cleaning truck droned much too loudly for a vehicle that was barely longer than a bicycle. The noise grew ever louder. Ever more unpleasant. Eventually deafening. Rosa swerved and rode across the street to the riverbank. By Bellevue Square, the view opened up to the lake, in which a glowing morning was reflected, heralding another blisteringly hot day. Rosa actually loved this time of day in summer when it was already bright but the city’s inhabitants were still in a deep sleep. But the stench that rose to her nostrils didn’t quite fit the image: a pungent smell of urine mixed with that of spilt beer. On the Riviera, a long flight of steps that lined the bank of the Limmat in front of the Quai Bridge, lay crushed beer cans and half-empty liquor bottles with contents that were yellow like nicotine stain. A half-eaten kebab was drying in a pool of cocktail sauce. Normally, at this time of day, the city was so clean that you could have walked barefoot, but the thermometer hadn’t dropped below 20 degrees for the last few nights. There had been some trouble around the lake basin. Stabbings, robberies and altercations between groups of drunks. Hence the surveillance cameras in sensitive areas, with signs pointing them out. The previous evening, an Opera for Everyone performance had attracted thousands of people. The event was part of a wider campaign to raise public awareness of the Zurich Opera House.

When Rosa had heard that Turandot was to be performed, she really wanted to go. Perhaps because the World Cup, which had made the opera world-famous, was one of her best childhood memories. They had set off in the middle of the night for the South of France to visit her maternal grandmother. Rosa lay wrapped in blankets in the back of the car, her younger sister’s soft breathing drowned out by the steady hum of the engine. That summer was the first time she had eaten artichokes. She had dipped the hard leaves in mayonnaise and pulled them between her upper and lower teeth. Afterwards she bathed her fingers in a bowl of lukewarm water with lemon slices floating in it. In the evening, the streets, bars and gardens were buzzing and cheering as the matches were broadcast on flickering television sets. And like thick vanilla ice cream dripping from a cone, Nessun dorma