Your Perfect Year(108)

Jonathan also now had scruples about opening the envelope the jeweler gave him along with the rings. Since that morning he had prowled restlessly through the house, going into his study again and again, sitting down in his armchair and picking up the envelope—but he still hadn’t opened it. Which was a little strange, since he had now taken things so far that it really made no difference whether or not he looked inside. But privacy was privacy, and the flap of the envelope was sealed rather than just tucked in place. He remembered the trick of steaming a letter in order to open it without leaving a trace, which he had read about in his beloved boyhood comics—did it really work?

He shook his head. He had regressed to the age of twelve already; if this went much further, he’d be consulting a psychiatrist. A child psychiatrist, in fact—he allowed himself the little joke.

He was about to tear the envelope open with a loud “What difference does it make?” when the telephone rang. He pried himself from his armchair. He’d just steeled himself, and now this interruption!

“Jonathan Grief!” he barked into the receiver.

“Markus Bode here. Good evening.”

“What is it?”

His CEO hesitated for a couple of seconds before asking, “Sorry, am I disturbing you?”

“No,” Jonathan replied in a voice that probably suggested an emphatic yes. “What can I do for you?” he added by way of compensation.

“I just wanted to ask when you intended to come into the office again. The fiscal year is almost over, and I thought we intended—”

“Soon.”

“I’m sorry?”

“As you said yourself, it’s almost over. So not yet.”

“But, Jonathan, I—”

“I’m sorry, Markus, but I don’t have time right now.”

“All right,” Bode said uncertainly. “Then will you kindly get in touch when—”

“I will. Good evening!” Jonathan hung up.

He sniffed, his heart racing. He really should pick the phone right up again, call his CEO, and apologize for being so rude. It was completely insane. He, Jonathan N. Grief, was clearly completely insane. But he felt a huge, almost unbearable tension, so that he hardly knew himself anymore. What was the matter with him? What had happened, these last few weeks?

Before he could risk calling a psychiatrist instead of Bode and politely asking to be taken away—an urgent case—he grabbed the envelope and ripped it open.

The handwriting was the same as the entries in the Filofax.

So you bought the rings. I’m so pleased! If you want to know just how pleased, come to Da Riccardo this evening. I’ve reserved “our” table for 8 p.m.

I love you!

H.

H.! Just H. yet again! H., H., H. Haaaaaaaargh! But, more helpfully: Da Riccardo. A specific place. And a specific time. Aha! But . . . “today” wasn’t actually today—it wasn’t for another six weeks. May 11!

Jonathan would have to consult a psychiatrist after all; he couldn’t hold out for that long.

But before getting drawn in to taking drastic action, he had a better idea: he would phone Da Riccardo. A reserved table was a reserved table—and a reservation was usually made under a name, wasn’t it?

Five minutes later, Jonathan was very happy again. He had gone to his laptop, found the Italian restaurant with the help of a quick internet search, called it, and been informed by a very friendly and pleasingly indiscreet gentleman with an Italian accent (A sign? A sign!) that there was only one reservation so far for May 11. A table for two. In the name of Marks, which the friendly man had even spelled out for him. So, H. Marks.

Jonathan Googled again. H. Marks. In Hamburg. It couldn’t be so difficult. H. could stand for . . . Helga, maybe? No, that sounded too old for the woman he had seen in the café—if indeed she turned out to be the same one, but hopefully, hopefully she was. Who knew what names parents might give their offspring, especially here in the elegant Harvestehude neighborhood. But he nevertheless ruled out Helga. Hannelore too. And Hedwig. What other women’s names began with H?

He clicked on a names website. Hadburga? Hadelinde? Hadwine? Oh, for goodness’ sake!

A quarter of an hour later he was down to a short list. Hanna, or Hannah. Heike. Helena. Henrike. Hilke—now, that was a real north German name.

Back to Google, this time an images search.

Five hours later, Jonathan N. Grief was not only unsatisfied but despairing. He had clicked through what felt like ten thousand photos and eighty thousand websites. But he hadn’t found the woman he was looking for under Hanna(h), Heike, Helene, Henrike, Helga, Hedwig, Hannelore, Hadburga, Hadelinde, Hadwine—yes, he had even Googled that name from Absurdistan and even extended his parameters to include Helewidis, Heilgard, and other such car crashes—and the last name Marks. Maybe she simply wasn’t online at all. At least not for the likes of him to find.

Exhausted, Jonathan sank his head down onto his desk next to the computer. A few seconds later he was fast asleep.





58

Hannah

Monday, March 19, 11:07 p.m.

“Do you really think that was a good idea?” Hannah looked doubtfully at Lisa, who was sitting in the passenger seat of her Twingo.

“We-e-ell,” she said, laughing.

“What? Surely you’re not doubting the idea now!”