Your Perfect Year(106)

In the next drawer, she found a thick binder in which Simon had filed away all his articles, neatly stowed in plastic sleeves. There were so many that they overflowed into the second binder beneath it. His life’s work, neatly preserved. She hadn’t the heart to throw it away, so she put it in the box with Simon’s mail.

In the bottom drawer she discovered something that took her breath away. A white sheet of paper. On it was printed, in bold block letters:

HANNAH’S LAUGH

Her hand shook as she reached for it. Only when she started to pick it up did she realize that it was the first page of a thick sheaf of paper. It took both hands to free the pile from the drawer. She set it on the desk and sat down to read it.

Another sob caught in her throat as she read the text on the second page:

For my beloved Hannah, who has such belief in me.

Here it is, my first novel.

A novel? Simon had written a novel? Why had he never told her? Why had he only talked about writing it someday, as though he hadn’t even begun it—and now here was this thick manuscript?

A footnote, bottom right, caught her eye; next to the copyright note by Simon Klamm was a date. Four years ago! The book was almost four years old, so he must have written it shortly after they met, in a frenzy, since there were more than three hundred pages.

It made it all the more puzzling that he’d never said a word about it. Didn’t he think it was any good? Was he embarrassed by it? Had he wanted to find a publisher first and then surprise her with it?

Whatever the reason for this well-kept secret, Hannah turned over to the next page and began to read.

When couples are asked how they met, the stories are usually unspectacular. They sat next to one another on a bus. They reached for the last pepperoni pizza on the frozen-food shelf at the same time. They had shared an office for three whole years before they felt a spark, or they bumped into one another at a party, spilling a glass of red wine.

And if you go on to ask what attracted them to one another, you hear things like “He had such incredibly beautiful hands” or “She looked stunning in her summer dress” or “We kept discovering how much we had in common.”

It was no different between me and Hannah. We met for the first time when I went to pick up my godson from the daycare where she worked. Not particularly spectacular—not to an outside observer, in any case. But for me, the moment I saw her, a whole new universe opened up before me. It wasn’t her red hair, her wonderful green eyes, or her pretty face that changed my life so completely. No, it was none of those. It was her laugh.

A laugh I can hardly describe. If I were to try, the best I could do would be to ask you to imagine someone who radiates so much love, warmth, and happiness that they want to embrace the whole world—and are able to do so. There you have it. That is Hannah’s laugh.

Hannah read and read and read, flying through the pages. She couldn’t comprehend why Simon had kept his book from her. And as she kept laughing or crying out loud at the novel’s frequent surprising twists and turns (for although it started with their own story, Simon had soon departed from reality and written himself into a fantasy world), as her enjoyment occasionally turned to anger when he described Hannah as impertinent and egocentric, as she was once again moved at his thinly disguised portrayal of his mother’s death—as all these emotions bubbled up inside her, she felt one thing above all others: pride. She was proud of Simon, of what he had created. Of the fact that he had achieved his dream of becoming a writer, regardless of whether the book was published. And at the same time, Hannah was incredibly sad that she had only found out about it now, after his death.

It was a little after five o’clock by the time she read the last page. She was now sitting on the floor in Simon’s empty living room, because the movers had come and gone in the meantime.

Three young men had taken everything around her, throwing her one or two looks of irritation because Hannah didn’t move from the corner where she was huddled up with two large boxes, completely absorbed in the manuscript. She didn’t care what they thought of her; Simon’s novel had her completely under its spell.

She thought it was good. She thought it was really good. Not only because Simon had written it and it was partly about him and her. But because . . . because she simply thought it was really good.

She read the last sentence, indignant and laughing through her tears. It read: Yes, I will! That damned suicide had finished his book with him asking her to marry him! So much for fiction and reality.

Lost in thought, she put the manuscript aside and wondered what to do with it. Tuck it away with the rest into one of the boxes, store it in her basement, and recall with a sigh every so often that Simon had written this lovely story? Burn it in a ritual bonfire? Or maybe she should submit it to a publisher? Would she be legally or morally entitled to do that? It seemed that Simon hadn’t wanted to publish it, since he had simply shoved it into a drawer and not even mentioned it to Hannah.

She had no idea what to do.

But there was one thing she would do right away. She had now more or less been given her marriage proposal. It was only fair that she should release the rings she had reserved.

Hannah picked up her cell phone, Googled the number of the jeweler on Eppendorfer Landstrasse, and dialed. The jeweler answered promptly.

“Bernadette Carlsen.”

“Hello, Bernadette. Hannah Marx here.”