Your Perfect Year(105)
“So, what shall we do now?” Leopold asked.
“I’d say we should go home. And I’ll be back here, waiting on the doorstep, at ten o’clock on the dot.”
“Oh, rats!”
“Why rats?”
“I can’t come with you then; I’ve got an appointment at the employment office.”
“What a pity.”
“No need to be sarcastic!”
“I don’t do sarcasm.”
56
Hannah
Monday, March 19, 8:17 a.m.
Mondays are the best days on which to start something new. A diet, for example, or a fitness regimen. Clearing out the house and doing a really thorough declutter—that’s what Mondays are good for. Even separations are easier to take on Mondays, when a fresh start to a pristine week lifts the spirits. Hannah certainly believed so, anyway. In the best of all possible worlds, the Monday would coincide with the first of a month, but as she didn’t live in the best of all possible worlds, the nineteenth would have to do.
She unlocked the door to Simon’s apartment and took a deep breath before going in. Hannah hadn’t set foot in there since her outburst, and she was terrified of what she was going to see. If she had found it impossible to swallow a morsel of cake in the Lütt Café last Friday, it was hard to imagine how she would finish the task that now faced her. But she was at least going to try. She couldn’t give in just yet.
Lisa, Hannah’s parents, and S?ren had repeated their offers to come help her, but she had declined each of them. For one thing, both her mother and Lisa were needed at Little Rascals, to allow Hannah this final day’s absence. And even if they weren’t, she needed to do this on her own—her own private catharsis for her and her alone.
In the hallway of the apartment, Hannah busied herself putting together the four moving boxes she’d brought. She had allocated three hours in which to pack up everything of Simon’s she wanted to keep and store in her basement for the time being. She had booked a company to come at noon and remove all the furniture, clothes, books, CDs, and anything else that was still here, and to clean the apartment from top to bottom. The following day, Hannah would hand the keys back to the landlord, and the matter would be over and done with. Simon’s life tied up once and for all.
She took another deep breath. She was about to take a difficult step, but it was an essential one if she was to continue with her own life. Close her eyes and leap—there was nothing else for it.
Before examining the contents of the drawers and cupboards, she started by cleaning up the aftermath of her wanton destruction. The kitchen was the worst hit. She swept up pasta, cornflakes, oats, loose-leaf tea, sugar, salt, and flour; wiped up the preserves from the floor; and piled it all in a large garbage bag. The espresso machine hadn’t survived its ordeal; it went in the trash, together with the two broken tiles.
Hannah gathered up all the broken objects in the living room, noticing to her surprise that the TV was still unscathed. She took the photo of herself and Simon from its smashed frame and stowed it in her pocket. She wanted to keep that, if nothing else.
After thoroughly cleaning up, Hannah took the first packing box into the bedroom. She opened Simon’s wardrobe and looked at his pants, T-shirts, sweaters, shirts, and suits. The familiar smell was almost too much, and she briefly closed her eyes before closing the closet doors with a determined thump. She didn’t need any of it; she’d never wear a single T-shirt that would remind her of Simon. If she clutched it at night, weeping, like a child hugging her teddy bear, it would only open up the wounds again and again. And Simon’s scent would soon be gone—she couldn’t bear to think of that.
Hannah looked around the room. She didn’t pack a thing, not even her own nightgown, which was tucked away in the top drawer of the narrow chest on the left, nor the large canvas print of Simon and her that hung over the bed. What did she want with that? She had the little photo of the two of them; a larger-than-life portrait at home would be too like a shrine to his memory. Maybe the canvas would be useful if she wanted to paint over it sometime. Or maybe not. She really didn’t care.
Hannah found nothing she wanted in the bathroom, kitchen, or living room either. She had no need for a Bang & Olufsen stereo system, or Simon’s extensive collection of British singer-songwriter CDs, from which he had often enjoyed playing her selected gems. No, Simon’s music brought back such painful memories that a brief glance at the jewel cases was enough to reduce her to tears.
All that remained was the study. She took his laptop; maybe it contained files, photos, and emails she could use later. The recollection of Simon’s password, which he had revealed to her in a not entirely sober but extremely sentimental moment, made her laugh, then immediately cry: IlHMu2099. I love Hannah Marx until 2099. “At least,” he’d added with a wink. Well, that love hadn’t lasted quite so long; his life, or rather his death, had got in the way.
Hannah searched around the desk. Like everything else of Simon’s, it was neat as a new pin. The top was bare except for a hole punch, a small stapler, five pencils, and a pair of letter trays. Hannah gathered up the mail and put it in a box. She’d look through it later for anything important that needed dealing with. She opened the top drawer of the wheeled unit beneath the desk. It contained nothing but miscellaneous office supplies—staples, marker pens, Post-its, highlighters, a pair of scissors—nothing she wanted to keep.