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 Smolders

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2012 Jan Smolders
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-3339-0

Chapter 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...