Your Perfect Year(121)
She shrugged.
“Inglese?” Maybe English was worth a try.
Another shrug.
He was about to suggest French or Spanish, when it occurred to him that he knew neither of those himself. What else could he try? Latin? After all, it was similar to Italian. But how far would he and his aunt get in conversation with “Veni, vidi, vici”?
“Nicolò,” Francesca began. “Sono molti anni che non ci vediamo.”
He nodded, although he hadn’t a clue what it meant.
“Come stai?”
Ha! He understood that: she was asking how he was!
“Sto abbastanza bene, grazie,” he replied. It wasn’t exactly true, but was the only reply his Italian app had given as a response to that question. A complex reply such as “Well, could be better—my company’s going down the drain, Papa has dementia and thinks his secretary’s your sister, my CEO’s left, and I just lost the woman I’ve fallen head over heels in love with” was something for more advanced learners.
Damn. They weren’t getting anywhere; it was pointless. But maybe there was no need for complicated words.
“Mamma?” he said, his voice a question.
His aunt raised her eyebrows and her hand flew to her mouth. She looked truly shocked. Did she think he took her for his mother?
“Dov’è Sofia?” He tried to be a bit more specific.
“Che Dio la protegga!” she cried. “Non ne ha idea?”
“Er, scusi?” What had she said?
“Sua madre è morta. Da molto.”
“Scusi?” he repeated.
“Aspetti un momento.” She stood and left the room. Jonathan stayed where he was, baffled. Where had she gone?
Francesca soon returned, a photo in her hand. She laid it on the table in front of him.
As he looked at it, tears sprang to his eyes.
It showed a white marble plaque by an urn grave, as was the Italian tradition.
Sofia Monticello, the inscription read. July 18, 1952–August 22, 1988.
67
Jonathan
Tuesday, October 2, 9:34 p.m.
When the plane touched down at Hamburg Airport at half past nine that evening, Jonathan was still so angry that he had to exercise extreme self-control to prevent himself from driving straight to the Sonnenhof, despite the late hour, and grabbing his old man as he sat in his armchair.
What a lie! What an incredible lie his father had deceived him with for most of his life! All those years that Wolfgang Grief had kept the truth from him! He only had to think about it and he was gripped with such fury that he was tempted to ignore the time, visit his father there and then, and take him to task. If it meant that the good Dr. Knesebeck had a heart attack or called the police, then so be it—he didn’t care.
No, it wasn’t because he was worried his father wouldn’t survive a frenzy of rage from his son, oh no. It was because Jonathan wanted to confront him when Wolfgang’s mind was as clear as possible, so that he understood at least part of what his son had to say to him. And the chances of that were far better by day than by night.
He paused for thought. The anger he was feeling at that moment threatened to tempt him into an act of violence, which could be exonerated with the defense of “crime of passion” if he drove to the old people’s home now. On the other hand, if he slept on it overnight, he would certainly be accused of premeditation.
Jonathan balled his fists and waited impatiently for the safety-belt lights to go out as the aircraft reached its “final parking position,” as they so beautifully put it. He had to get out of here; he needed fresh air! When he ran through the day’s events in his mind, he wanted to cry out loud.
After he and Francesca had agreed that any communication beyond “Would you like anything more to eat?” and “It’s a lovely day today” was bound to founder at the language barrier, Jonathan had unceremoniously led his aunt to his rented car and driven her through Florence to the German Institute, where they found a helpful employee. The young man had translated what Francesca had to say, his ears growing ever redder.
The story was as banal as it was sordid. So much for his mother being massively homesick for Italy. Ha! The truth was rather different. His father, that pillar of the community, Wolfgang Grief, had, it seemed, indulged in an affair. And when Sofia, a true-blooded Italian, got wind of it, she had demanded a divorce from her adulterous husband.
Of course, Jonathan’s aunt had assured him, she would have preferred to take her son with her to Fiesole, but at the time she believed that he would have a better life in Germany. She wanted to make sure he had all the best chances—school, university, and ultimately, his family legacy, to take over the publishing house. She could’ve had no idea how things would turn out. On the day she received Jonathan’s furious postcard, she had immediately booked a flight to Hamburg to tell him in person that she hadn’t left “just like that.” Until that moment, Sofia had believed that she shouldn’t burden her son with her marital problems, but when she realized that he felt abandoned by her, she saw no other way than to tell him the truth.
Sofia must have been agitated and driven too fast on the way to the airport—and had skidded off the road while taking a corner.
His mother had been killed instantly.
“I’m sure she didn’t feel a thing,” his aunt assured him through her tears. Even the friendly interpreter had swallowed hard at these words and rummaged in his pocket for a handkerchief.