The Book Publisher's Son

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

I had flown to Germany to bury my father – and to fulfil his dying wish. Even if in so doing I could be about to make a big, big mistake.

But my unsettling thoughts were forgotten as soon as I saw my sister, Liz, waiting at the barrier to pick me up. Smiling her brilliant smile. She was already dressed in mourning clothes although the hat and veil were missing. I guessed they were in the car. She was most particular in that respect. And, like me, a born perfectionist.

After clearing passport control and grabbing my bags, I joined her outside the exit doors. We went down to collect her car, exchanging small talk along the way.

I stashed my two cases and suit bag in the boot of her dark-blue, Mercedes SUV. Our first stop was at my hotel, the Steigenberger, which was a mere stone's throw from the airport. It was convenient and reasonably priced. In the city, I would have paid three times the price of a room.

Liz waited outside, listening to some classical music on the radio, while I registered, showered and changed clothes, donning a dark-grey business suit, white shirt and a dark tie.

As impatient as she was, I could imagine her drumming her fingers on the armrest, but we had time to spare. The funeral was at noon.

Our family lived on the outskirts of the old Roman spa city of Wiesbaden, about a thirty-minute drive from the city of Frankfurt. As she drove, she began to list people who would be coming. Most of the names meant nothing to me. I had been away too long.

Liz was a few years younger than my forty summers, but her looks hadn't changed over the years. Her fine-featured face, though, was beginning to show a touch of time. She used only a minimum of make-up and was more handsome than attractive. But her sparkling, intelligent eyes which missed nothing added an attraction of their own. Her clothes were, as usual, hand-made to display her figure to full advantage. She was always on one diet or another.

She turned off the autobahn and took a suburban road to the family home, the Villa Frieda, a rambling place built at the end of the nineteenth century in the Neo-Renaissance style. It had some acres of farmland and a stable for horses.

For me, it was a pile of dismalness. In more ways than one. I hated the bloody place. And was glad to leave to go to boarding school, college and finally to take a job in South Africa. And now I was returning!

My daydreaming was abruptly ended when Liz came to a stop on the gravel of the forecourt. Two elderly people came out to meet us. She said they were relatives from Father's line of the clan and were to ride with us. She jumped out, opened the rear door and helped them in.

She then turned the car into the hills to the west of town and through the never-ending vineyards overlooking the sweeping grandeur of the Rhine.

After slowing down to enter a narrow lane which led into a wooded area, she drove through the gate which stood open. Just around a bend in the roadway, we arrived at a small car park which was crammed full and surrounded by a sea of other cars parked willy-nilly wherever space could be found.

One side of the road leading up to the chapel was also clogged with vehicles. All expensive limousines, their number plates showing their owners had come from all over the country. I noticed that the cemetery administration was running some kind of shuttle service from the parking area at the foot of the hill. But that didn't concern Liz. She zigzagged through the parked vehicles and stopped behind the church.

It was far too small for the number of mourners and people were standing in the aisles. Provision had been made for the overspill in a large tent on the lawns running behind. Through the open awnings, I glimpsed a giant TV screen set up for them to follow the burial service.

I recognised only the occasional person. But, by the looks I got, many remembered me.

At that moment Mother stood up and gave a signal to start the funeral proceedings.

The service was short. First, some words from a dignitary from his church, then a laudatory from someone in the publishing business and finally, standing at the side of his coffin, my mother gave a little speech, struggling to hold back the tears.

Following her, a top German soprano sang Schubert's Ava Maria, my father's favourite piece of music. Ultimately, six bearers carried the heavy oak casket at a processional pace to his final resting place in the family vault.

Until that point, I didn't know we had one.

The mourners amassed themselves around the face of the burial chamber which was now open to receive the draped coffin. A light drizzle fell, but only a few opened umbrellas.

I joined the line of people moving to the coffin to pay their last respects and took my place beside my mother at the head and my two sisters, Liz and Meg. My younger brother, Lukas, without a word, pushed himself between us.

My mother wore a dark veil to cover her face, but I could see the swollen eyes though it. And something else. A strange look – not that of mourning, but drawn as if in worry. Fear even. Of something which went beyond her husband's death, something deeper, more existential.

Not once had she looked me in the eye.