Your Perfect Year(120)

Nevertheless, it was right that he was here now. Regardless of the fact that Hannah would never forgive him, and his heart would remain broken until his very last breath—yes, yes, pathos was also something new to him, to go with the split personality—he nevertheless had to go through with this one to the very end. Because if he didn’t, all that remained to him would be a return to his old life. And however things turned out here, that was something Jonathan N. Grief had no desire to countenance.

He started the engine and followed the instructions of the navigation device. He was far too agitated to appreciate the beauty of the landscape that passed on either side—the rolling hills, the cypresses and pines that certainly weren’t old and withered, the olives and vineyards.

In order to get a grip on his nerves, he ran through the greetings he had planned for his reunion with his mother. If it happened as he hoped. Ciao, Mamma! It’s me, your son, Jonathan. Where have you been all this time? He still hadn’t quite decided whether to confront her right away with the question of her many years’ absence. But what would be the point of beating about the bush? For one thing, his flight home was that evening, and in any case, after thirty years there was really no point in social niceties.

Ciao, Mamma, he repeated in his head like a mantra. Ciao. Ciao, Mamma! And once again: Mamma! With a swift gesture he switched on the roaring air-conditioning, as his eyes were streaming and his hands were wet with sweat on the steering wheel.

Twenty minutes later, he reached the outskirts of Fiesole and made his way through the narrow, winding streets. He knew he had been here a few times as a little boy, but his memories of this pretty little place were as deeply buried as his singing and tennis-playing ambitions had been. The street was lined with bright-yellow houses sporting green shutters and red pantiled roofs, and he passed a succession of evocative street names—Via Giuseppe Verdi, Via Santa Chiara, Piazza Mino da Fiesole—that suggested just why his mother had missed the joie de vivre of her hometown when she was stuck in the north. Hamburg street names, like Peperm?lenbek and Brandstwiete, sounded dry as a crispbread in comparison.

And those views! When Jonathan reached Via di Montececeri, he stopped at the side of the road by a stone wall to allow himself a brief reprieve before the moment of truth, gazing out over the valley below. In the eyes of north German real-estate agents, his house right by Innocentia Park was the ultimate in location, location, location! But here and now, he realized that the view from his windows at home was only a few trees and three recycling containers. Swan Hill, on the other hand, lived up to the promise of its name; just looking at it filled him with elation. No wonder Leonardo da Vinci had been convinced that, if it were at all possible for people to fly, this would be the best place to do it.

Jonathan drove the Lancia a little farther, following the wall, then pulled over at his destination, turned off the ignition, and unclipped his seat belt. He took a few deep breaths before opening the driver’s door to go look for number 20 on foot.

It was easy to find, and the yellow-painted building looked neither derelict nor neglected. Window boxes beneath the green wooden shutters were bright with . . . some kind of pretty flowers. One of the windows behind a wrought-metal grille was ajar, and the sounds of an Italian pop song reached his ears.

Jonathan N. Grief’s heart leapt to his throat as he stopped by the front door. As he took another deep breath. And as he finally pressed the doorbell.

A few seconds later, the music was silenced. Jonathan heard footsteps. He saw the doorknob turn. And a moment later a stout woman of around sixty was standing before him, wearing a colorful apron. “Sì?” she said.

His heartbeat slowed.

This was not his mother; he saw that right away.

“Nicolò!” With a single step the woman was upon him, her arms thrown around him, covering his face with kisses.

No, she wasn’t his mother. But Jonathan had a vague memory of her.





66

Jonathan

Tuesday, October 2, 12:23 p.m.

Francesca. His aunt’s name was Francesca. Jonathan had no idea why his memory had thrown up Nina or Gina, since they were not even close to Francesca. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was sitting with his aunt in her rustic Tuscan kitchen, a plate of pasta steaming before him. If one of his authors had described a visit to Italian relatives in this way, he would have called it “cliché ridden” and directed the editor to strike it out mercilessly, but in real life, that was exactly how it was.

He was just getting over the euphoric greeting, with all the kisses and the stream of incomprehensible words, when Francesca dragged him into the house and served him food. So they were now sitting at the table, looking at one another, as Jonathan dutifully tucked into a mountain of pasta. He had no appetite whatsoever, but since his rudimentary knowledge of Italian had suddenly deserted him, it was a practical move to keep his mouth full.

After he emptied his plate, Francesca jumped up to refill it, but with the help of a barrage of gestures and a stuttering “No, basta, grazie!” he managed to prevent a second helping.

“Allora,” he finally added. And fell silent.

His aunt looked at him in anticipation.

“Hmm,” he said. Damn it! There was so much he wanted to ask. Whether his mother still lived here. And whether she was at home, which he doubted, since his aunt would surely have fetched her. But it was hopeless; a few hours of learning Italian had hardly turned him into Umberto Eco. “Parli tedesco?” he asked, desperately hoping that Francesca knew a little German.