Your Perfect Year(113)

They clarified the situation with her name, that it was “Marx” and not “Marks.” Had Jonathan searched the internet for “H. Marx,” he would soon have come across a photo of her as proprietor of Little Rascals. Hannah told him about Simon’s illness and his fear, on top of his existing despair at the loss of his job, to which Jonathan said that when he’d read the missing-person notice about Simon Klamm in the Hamburg News, the name had seemed somehow familiar, because he usually read the newspaper every morning. And that—another stroke of fate—the paper that day had been torn so that the photo of Hannah’s boyfriend had been missing. Otherwise he would have identified him immediately as the man he’d seen by the Alster, and of course he would have notified the police.

They talked for hours, and although Hannah had originally intended to give the evil ring-and-diary thief a serious dressing down at Da Riccardo that night, she realized early on in their conversation that she actually liked Jonathan Grief. His rather old-fashioned, awkward manner appealed to her. He had charm, as her mother would say, albeit an unusual kind of charm.

“Well, we’ve talked a lot,” Hannah said when she realized it was well past midnight. “And I still don’t know what you do. Well, apart from leading your life according to someone else’s diary. What’s your profession?”

“I’m a publisher,” Jonathan said.

“What do you publish?”

“Books.”

“No!” Hannah said in amazement.

“Yes,” he said slowly and uncertainly.

“Jonathan Grief?” she said. “You don’t have anything to do with Grief & Son Books, by any chance?”

He grinned. “I do. It’s my publishing house.”

“That can’t be true!” Hannah slapped her hand in a most unladylike manner on the table, making the glasses clink.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand . . .”

“Simon wrote a novel,” she explained. “I didn’t find the manuscript until after he died.” She cleared her throat and had to pause to compose herself at the memory. “The book was called Hannah’s Laugh, and a few weeks ago I left it in your company’s mailbox.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said. He began to stammer. “I . . . You know . . . I haven’t yet . . . Well, until recently I wasn’t responsible . . .” He started again. “Hannah’s Laugh, did you say?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“By Simon . . .”

“Klamm.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen it.” He looked at her apologetically.

“I put it in the company’s office mailbox. And marked it for the attention of the CEO.”

“Aha!” Now Jonathan looked relieved. “I’m afraid my CEO gave his notice recently, so . . . Yes, that must be it. The manuscript is probably languishing somewhere on the slush pile. I’ll look for it as soon as I’m back in the office.”

“Really?” She smiled. “It would be wonderful if you could take a look at it.”

“I’ll be glad to!”

“Thank you very much.”

There was a subtle cough and the curtain was drawn aside. Riccardo entered and politely asked whether they wanted to order anything else, since he would be closing soon; after all, it was nearly one o’clock . . .

“No, thank you,” Hannah said. “We’re just going.”

She looked at Jonathan to confirm, and thought she saw a hint of disappointment on his face. Or maybe she was imagining it.

Fifteen minutes later, they were outside on the street. They stood facing each other, each uncertain how to say goodbye.

“Could I drive you home?” Jonathan asked, indicating his Saab parked across the road. “It’s very late.”

“That would be lovely.”

They crossed the street to his car. He opened the passenger door gallantly for Hannah, and she got in. He took his place in the driver’s seat.

“Where shall I take you?”

Hannah hesitated a moment. “Could you perhaps take me to the place by the Alster where you saw Simon?”

Jonathan started the engine. “Of course I can.”





63

Jonathan

Saturday, May 12, 8:30 a.m.

The manuscript. Where was the damn manuscript? Panicked, Jonathan rummaged through the pile of papers on Markus Bode’s desk, which until now he hadn’t given a second glance to. He just hadn’t gotten around to it. In truth, he hadn’t felt like it.

But now, after yesterday evening with Hannah . . . after the evening he’d spent with this wonderful woman, he had to—he absolutely had to—find that damned manuscript! Because it was important to her, and so it was now important to him. He had therefore gone to the Grief & Son office first thing the following morning. He was anxious that none of his employees see him in such confusion.

Jonathan had hardly closed his eyes all night. He’d played through the evening with her again and again. It had been amazing, if dreadfully sad. She had lost the man in her life only recently. Not only was that horrible, but it also complicated the situation somewhat. He had wanted to tell Hannah Marx that ever since the moment he saw her in the café, he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her—yes, he had painted the scene with all its romantic details in glorious Technicolor. But he immediately took a mental step back when she began by explaining she’d slapped him because he had taken the diary intended for her now-dead boyfriend. Jonathan’s spontaneous declaration of love no longer seemed such a good idea.