Your Perfect Year(114)

Hannah would never have accepted that. Not if she had anything like a heart. And she did have one; that much was clear. After that evening, Jonathan was smitten not only by Hannah’s appearance but by her whole being—her warmheartedness and her irresistible laugh. She had an incredibly positive disposition, which shone through even despite the fact that she’d recently suffered such a blow. He could only tip his hat to her courage.

He thought of how he’d taken her to that spot by the Alster in the middle of the night and shown her the place where he and Simon had briefly talked about the swans as a symbol of transcendence. Hannah had burst into tears once again; Jonathan had taken her in his arms and held her tight—he couldn’t have done anything else at that moment. She had clung to him, sobbing, like a little child, so close that he could feel her heart beating. He had closed his eyes and imagined that she was there in his arms not because she was grieving for another but because she wanted to be close to him, Jonathan N. Grief. It was almost too good to be possible, but maybe, one day . . . After all, so many incredible things had happened because of Hannah that he would otherwise never have believed possible.

So, now, where was the stupid manuscript? Addressed to the CEO in person and delivered by hand to the company’s mailbox? Was it on Bode’s desk at all? He had told Jonathan there were a few “excellent” manuscripts there. What if it wasn’t excellent, wasn’t even good? Had Markus Bode simply consigned it to the recycling bin?

But they didn’t usually do that at Grief & Son Books; they usually archived all unsolicited manuscripts, even if they weren’t interested in them. Although archived just meant they were packed into a box by an assistant reader and stored somewhere in the basement. He imagined himself sorting through endless piles of yellow mail cartons beneath a flickering fluorescent light . . .

There! There it was! Jonathan excitedly reached for a stack of papers, the top page marked in bold letters, Hannah’s Laugh: A Novel by Simon Klamm.

He sat down impatiently at Markus Bode’s desk, pushed the cover page aside, and began to read. He didn’t get far. He stopped after the first paragraph.

He felt slightly queasy. Simon Klamm. Yes, the name was familiar. Unfortunately, not only as a journalist with the Hamburg News. No, Jonathan remembered something else that had come to him as he began reading Hannah’s Laugh. A deeply unpleasant memory.

He jumped up from Bode’s desk, so suddenly that the old swivel chair creaked and fell to the floor behind him. Jonathan took no notice but hurried across to his own office.

As his computer booted up, he drummed impatiently on his desk with his fingers. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped with all his might. Hoped beyond hope.

He wasn’t wrong. His search for a document with “Klamm” in the file name produced a result. A rejection letter, which he had written himself four years ago, packed into an envelope himself, together with Hannah’s Laugh, and returned to the sender.

Now Jonathan felt truly queasy. He felt dreadful as he once again read the letter he had typed with his own hands:

Dear Herr Klamm,

Yesterday, with increasing enthusiasm, I began to read the manuscript of your debut novel. I have to tell you that my enjoyment increased with every page I read—in fact I even took a printout home with me that evening, because I didn’t want to stop. Your writing is sparkling, witty, and so entertaining that time simply flies by—and you have a talent for describing characters in such a way that one feels one is in the room with them.

I can only say Keep it up! I have discovered a major talent and I’m delighted! I can hardly wait to read the rest of the manuscript and look forward to meeting you in person before long.

Authors like you don’t grow on trees.

So.

Period.

New paragraph.

New line.

My little joke. My dear Herr Klamm, I’ll keep this mercifully short: I have never had such a poor manuscript (although I use the word manuscript loosely; let’s call it a succession of superfluous words) land on my desk in all the years of my working life. To suggest that you even begin to write anything more would be a crime. In such situations, my advice is always to stick to what you know. I don’t know what your profession is, but one thing is for certain, it’s not that of author. I therefore recommend (I would like to say beg) you to move the manuscript to the Trash on your computer and beg (now I have said it) you to remember to empty it afterward.

I don’t expect a reply to this letter (I would hate to have to read anything else by you).

Yours sincerely,

Jonathan N. Grief

Hot and cold. Jonathan turned hot and cold. Then hot again. Then cold again. Ice cold. Had he really written that? And then actually sent it?

Yes, he had. He couldn’t really say what kind of mood he had been in to have composed such a hurtful letter—but now, with the rejection letter in front of him, he remembered it very well.

He hadn’t read much of Hannah’s Laugh then either. After only two or three sentences he had put it down as “dreadful kitsch.” Something the world didn’t need, let alone the literary world. And so he had composed and sent this very letter.

Why? Why had he? He asked himself honestly and candidly, as the diary’s “internal inventory” instructed him to. Why had he done it?

He no longer knew. Jonathan N. Grief had absolutely no idea what his driving force had been. He knew only one thing: if he wanted the tiniest chance of spending any more time with Hannah, and maybe even winning her over, she must never, never, never find out about it.