It is December of 2007 just outside Antwerp, Belgium, when Richard Van Pelt storms out of the dining room of his father's residence. Time is running out for their family's copper-tubing company. With the Chinese nipping at their heels and the Brazilian
The Bridge of Whispers
By Jan SmoldersiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2012 Jan Smolders
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4759-3339-0Chapter One
It's Saturday, December 1, 2007, seven thirty in the morning, at the Elsschot Nest residence, between Herselt and Averbode, about forty miles southeast of Antwerp, in Belgium.
Richard Van Pelt steps into his car, throws his necktie and blazer on the passenger seat, sits down, sighs, and swears. Shit! Another frigging weekend morning ruined by this silly breakfast.
Before he turns the ignition key, he checks his BlackBerry and sees a message from his father, Simon. He's still furious after our heated phone conversation last night, I bet. Sent at midnight. He reads:
Hanging up on your father like a spoiled brat isn't what your mother and I taught you. Shame on you. Tried to be polite and reasonable discussing your follies but should have talked to you in plain French. I have no use for Nippon. No use for Nippon! My father suffered too badly from their German allies during the war. They destroyed his factories. I rank the Japanese on par with Hitler and Mussolini, but I must say the latter was at least a good Catholic. I don't need the Japanese. I won't touch sushi. The Japanese now make good cars, they say, but I won't drive one. I have my Peugeot. Too bad European electronics went to hell. Yes, I must tolerate a Sony TV in my living room, but that's as far as it goes. And I'll replace it with a Samsung soon. Grow up and start living the life of a person your age. Get those damned Japanese fantasies out of your head.
Richard rereads the message as he drives to his father's residence in Westerlo, ten or fifteen minutes away. Father should have poured himself a good Scotch last night and gone to bed. That's what he had done.
He arrives early for the breakfast meeting to which he and his brother, Thomas, have been summoned by their father. It's the "worn out-ritual," Richard's words, of every Saturday except during vacations. It takes place in Simon's spacious dining room.
When he arrives and steps out of his car, Richard puts on the obligatory dark blazer and the conservative tie he detests. His father is allergic to khakis, loose clothing, beige blazers, and lively ties.
He greets Leona, the middle-aged housekeeper, as he enters the residence and proceeds to the dining room. There he waits. He's furious as hell. Why must I show up for this damn farce every week? On Saturday. Saturday! I'm a bachelor. We're at each other's throats every time we meet anyway, the two of them against me. They still think the world is flat. Our company's dying a slow death. Rome is burning, but we just argue. This is huge. I bring them a steal of a Japanese deal, one we sorely need to save our bloody company, and all they do is throw insults at me. Racism and ignorance—that's what I'm dealing with.
Thomas and Richard are supposed to run the company, but at eighty-three their father still pulls the invisible strings. And Richard knows that Thomas is constantly egged on by his scheming wife. Marie wants to take over the reins of the company. When she tries to put her transparent moves on me, I'd like to slowly strangle the bitch—slowly.
He paces the room, hands in pockets, impatiently looking at the giant French clock. It stands majestically behind the dining table, controlling and guarding the room.
Richard looks out through the wide window. Outside things look as peaceful as they are tense inside him. He gets angrier by the minute, waiting. Then he gazes again at the dreamy meadows lying in front of him, surrounding a quiet pond and covered by a still, wrinkle-free blanket of clouds, undecided as to whether they will stick around for the rest of the day or not. He calms down and whistles softly. Yokohama skies look almost the same this time of the year.
Leona offers apple juice. Richard studies her spotless, white apron. It's so heavily starched that he fantasizes it must make some quasi-inaudible cracking sound as she manages to bend low to put the coffeepot down on a small side table. She comments on the dreary skies.
Seattle weather. "Just like in London, Leona."
He continues lounging around, juice in hand, and looks out over the meadows again. Impressive actually, Father's domain. He loves how it runs into the nearby little sandhills his father created for privacy. It's not quite up to par with the property of the Prince de Mérode. But I believe Father speaks the truth when he says his property has sounder financial footing, he chuckles to himself.
Simon and Thomas enter the room just past eight. Father and sons take their seats at the end of the fifteen-foot-long walnut table that dominates the room. A boardroom table.
Richard observes his father, who rubs his throat. Is he checking his shave or just nervous? Maybe he's sorry about the e-mail. But I shouldn't have hung up.
Simon then sticks the tip of his napkin inside his shirt collar, covers his tie, and asks with a grin, "Well, Richard, you got in early. Drove too fast or didn't sleep well after our little boxing match over the phone yesterday? Don't see any black eyes."
Here we go again. We barely took our seats. "Didn't mean to be so rude, Father. My apologies, but I call things as I see them. Got a bit carried away. Optitube is still a healthy copper-tubing company, making good money, but, believe me, time's running out for us. I get around a lot. We have the Chinese nipping at our heels. The Brazilians won't be far behind. We can't keep sticking our heads in the sand. We're too small to do battle on our own."
"And you believe that getting in bed with Hondookan will make us a big, healthy baby that'll solve all the problems you predict? You want to get it on with a perfidious Japanese partner who could screw us and without our even realizing it?"
"I don't know where you get that peculiar adjective, Father, but I know some of their people, and I respectfully disagree with you. Perfidious is unfair. And damn it, your sexual metaphor is tawdry and demeaning."
Simon looks with a smirk at Thomas before he answers Richard. "Listen, son. Thomas probably remembers it all a bit better than you. I rebuilt Optitube after the war, in the late forties after I'd taken over from my father. When I stepped out of the day-to-day management eight years ago, I'd grown it into a powerhouse, with four copper-tubing plants. Don't you forget that."
"Father has put his confidence in us," Thomas adds. "He trusts us to run the business as a duo, and he keeps an eye on us from a distance."
Richard is slightly amused. Yes, but the duo is more like a trio. Devious Marie has her fingers in every move her husband—her lapdog—makes. And their father knows it.
"Sure, Thomas, I'm grateful. And I work my tail off, as do you, to make things click—you in the operations and sales, I in the strategic discussions, finance, institutional communications—"
"Wow, Richard," Simon interrupts, "where did you pick up that fancy language? All we do here is make sure we make money. Simple as that."
"Right. For now we're fine. But I'm talking about tomorrow. We're being offered an opportunity to explode our profits and secure our future by scaling up together with the Japanese. We get into new markets with them. We'll gain access to their technology, market intelligence, management techniques—"
"Son, stop it right there. I know you went to school and learned all the theory. Let me tell you; they'll start stealing our know-how from day one; they'll find all kinds of reasons to keep Optitube products out of their markets; they'll connive with their government to screw us."
Thomas nods solemnly as their father speaks.
Richard responds, "We act, or we'll be overrun by cheap Chinese imports. Optitube will be swallowed up, too weak to put up any kind of defense against giant groups. We need size and technology."
"We have technology! We have all we need—including a bunch of smart engineers," Simon retorts as he looks at Thomas.
Richard tires of the combined attack. One uses poisonous words, the other sheepish, subservient nods. He slams his fist on the table, and the sound of silver forks hitting plates is still around when he shouts, "Hell, I know what I'm talking about. We're doomed if we don't take action. We have a willing partner." His voice grows even louder as he squares off, meeting both his father's and his brother's eyes, "I'll fight," he booms. "I have a say and a damn share in this company—as much as my brother—with his wife! I bet she's the one who keeps Thomas from saying what he thinks about this."
He sees Simon press his lips and then burst into a surprising, loud laugh. "Okay, I see; she should run my company, Richard. Mrs. President."
Richard watches Thomas for a sign of bristling, but Thomas concentrates on his plate.
Richard answers in a serious tone, "Father, I'll fight to my last breath to save our company."
"Good, Richard, so will I. But never on a team with the Japanese. Over my dead body. I mean it. I still control this company. You guys are fighting each other tooth and nail to get the upper hand. That's not good. It spells trouble. It pains me. And the idea of working with the Japs makes me vomit. I'd kill one before I worked with one!"
Wow. He at least avoided his expletives, mostly; Leona isn't far away.
"Father has the best intentions and the deepest life experience to judge these situations, Richard," says Thomas. "Age has its privileges and strengths. Marie and I agree with him."
"I'm sure Marie hasn't had the slightest influence on your opinion, right, Thomas? Did she threaten—"
"Richard, you're repeating yourself! Cut the sarcasm," Simon intervenes. "And now let's have breakfast."
Thomas manages to slip a last word in to Richard. "And what does your sneaky Japanese doll whisper in your ears?"
"Enough!" Simon shouts and hits the table with the stem of the knife he holds vertically in his fist.
The arguing dies down.
The discussion degrades into gossiping, still spiced up by Simon's colorful, racist outbursts.
When it's nine fifteen, Richard pushes his chair back from the table and gets up. Thomas looks at Simon, who gets up too, followed by Thomas. Richard checks his watch. He holds his BlackBerry in his hand, half-hidden in his blazer sleeve, and doesn't look at it. Simon smiles. Richard notices. He can hear his father's words—slaves of your gadgets. He isn't allowed to use the phone as long as he's in Simon's sight. Have it on though, on vibrate. He smiles to himself.
Richard and Thomas wish Simon a good weekend and leave.
Richard walks to his car. This may have to get ugly. Our future is at stake. Thomas can't be allowed to run the company. I may have to get ruthless.
* * *
Alone now, Simon asks Leona to pour another cup of coffee, this one to be savored by just himself, with extra sugar, in silence except for the ticking of the clock behind him. The room looks huge and empty with just one person in it, and the table too long. The days of dinner parties are long gone. As he walks a few steps back and forth to the window, cup in hand, and then along the back wall featuring portraits of his wife, his and her parents, and two grandfathers, he hears the floor squeak slightly.
He decides to move to the smaller sitting room, keep the TV off, and enjoy the silence. Then he calls Leona. "It's the weekend, Leona. Let's have a good cup before you go home. Can you smell it? We must have cookies."
"Cookies after breakfast, Mr. Simon?"
"For you. But I may check whether they're okay."
Simon waits, and Leona brings the cookies on a small tray.
I bet she already tasted a piece. Simon reaches for the tray and asks, "How long have you been here at this house, Leona? More than ten years, I guess."
"Mr. Simon, I remember Mrs. Celine. She was good to me. Always a friendly word."
"Well, Leona, I've been a widower for ten years. And I'm eighty-three years old. Could you tell?"
"I knew that, Mr. Simon."
Simon thinks he deserves a more flattering answer, but he acknowledges the factual statement and proudly rubs his huge, bald skull.
He puts his reading glasses on and gets up to take the two framed pictures of his sons from a rack. "How different they look, right?"
"So much younger, yes."
"I mean different from each other."
"They sure do. And they are different, if I may say so."
"As if they've different fathers! I sometimes joke about the milkman. I can't blame the hospital for switching babies. Both were born at home."
"You raised two good men, Mr. Simon. Mrs. Marie's okay too. She buys me pralines for Christmas."
"Sweet, Leona. You're right. Sweet—"
Simon's phone rings. The abbey of Tongerlo.
Leona discretely cleans up and leaves the room.
After the call, Simon sits down in his favorite sofa to browse through La Libre Belgique, his favorite paper. He soon slides into quiet musings. He loves his boys equally. And he must play them with the skills required from a two-instrument musician. They know I do that. He loves it when creative, unconventional Richard seeks how far he can stretch the limits. Simon likes to teasingly go along, for a while. Then bam, with a two-by-four! Sometimes I'd like to kick Thomas in the ass, when he accepts direction without comment. Thomas is too respectful and fearful to speak up, and too keen to please his father. Marie made a lamb out of him. No, unfair, Thomas always was pliant Thomas.
The old man wonders about his anti-Japanese tirades during breakfast. Thomas is going to parrot my words all week long. Marie will love it. Richard's furious, of course. Smart boy, but I've got to watch his sick affair with Japan and that Hondookan woman he's chasing there. Trouble ahead. The stakes are high. Dark clouds are moving in. The storm may turn violent.
He gets back to the paper with a sigh. This battle of brothers could turn out badly. And an alliance with Hondookan? Over my dead body.
Chapter Two
After breakfast, Richard jumps in his Saab. He throws his tie in the passenger seat and unbuttons the top of his shirt before heading out for a breezy day at Knokke on the North Sea coast. Once he hits the highway, he gets Natsumi Honma on speed dial.
"Moshi moshi! Hello! Is this Natsumichan?"
"Richard, not so loud. My parents are old, but their hearing is still good."
"Sorry, darling. This traffic's bothering me." He passes an old, blue Mercedes convertible because its diesel fumes are strong, and he's distracted by the redhead at its wheel. She's wearing a light-blue halter top.
"Richard, are you still there?"
He waves when the woman passes him back and smiles at him. I better cut it. I have Natsumi now. The playboy bit's over.
"Sure. Sorry, honey. I need to concentrate. How's your day?"
"Nice. I had lunch with my parents and sister in the Grand Hotel. Then we walked in the park, Yamashita Koen. You know, I could see ships leaving the port and thought of you, so far away. I'm e-mailing you a picture my father took of me."
"That's great. I'll carry you with me all the time."
"Where will you carry me?"
"To cloud nine."
"Where's that?'
"Very high. Close to heaven, of course. Where else would I take you?"
"That will be so much fun to think about, Richard."
The drizzle turns to soft rain. Richard hates to break the spell but does it anyway. "Is your dad warming yet to the idea of a joint venture with our company?"
"My father spoke about it at noon. He now starts to think our company could be a useful partner for you, as you've been saying. He now almost believes it. I explained a lot about Optitube. He and my younger brother have been making calculations and simulations, and they've talked with lawyers and the Ministry of Trade and Industry. You do have very good technology, a good complement to ours, they say. Don't tell them I said that, but they know it's the case."
"Wow, you are becoming a devious businesswoman! I've been talking about the joint venture here. I still have work to do. My father simply loves the steady, organic growth we enjoy here, and my brother concurs, reflexively, without imagination, as always. I have to do a better job explaining all the pluses of an alliance. No worry; I'll get there."
"I hope you will. It would be so much fun to work together."
"And?"
"And? Hmm. Eat sushi and shabu-shabu together. Tempura?"
"That's all?" he teases.
"Richard, you're a naughty boy. I'll have to tell my father."
"Ha-ha! I bet you he already knows."
"Oh no. I don't think so. I'll have to powder my blush away
before I walk back into the main room after this call, Richard. When are you coming over here again?"
"It will take a while, but I hope you'll wait for me." He must switch gears, as a slower truck ahead of him swerves into his lane. Trucks on weekends. We never get a break on the freeway.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Bridge of Whispersby Jan Smolders Copyright © 2012 by Jan Smolders. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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