Your Perfect Year(18)
Tuesday, January 2, 3:10 p.m.
Jonathan hadn’t intended to make the first visit of the year to his father until Thursday, but after his meeting with Markus Bode, he decided on the spur of the moment to stop by the Sonnenhof Nursing Home that very day.
He knew only too well that he wouldn’t be able to discuss the latest developments at the publishing house with his father—for one thing, his father’s mental state made such conversations out of the question, and even if it were possible, it would excite Wolfgang far too much. But after half an hour spent lingering in silent communion before his father’s portrait in the hope of inspiration, Jonathan had felt a sudden desire to see the old man.
Jonathan drove his dark-gray Saab up the broad white gravel drive that led to Sonnenhof. The modern building was bathed in the most magnificent sunshine that could be hoped for on a January day in Hamburg. The glass palace stood proudly on a slope high above the Elbe, the light reflecting from its numerous picture windows and fracturing here and there into glittering sparks. When the weather was like this, there were long-distance views far beyond the river, with the Airbus site to the left and the flat Altes Land, with its extensive fruit orchards, to the right.
Jonathan had wondered more than once whether his father had an inkling of the beauty of his surroundings. Mostly he sat in a wing chair in his room, headphones on, listening with eyes closed to compositions by Beethoven, Wagner, and Bach.
He was surrounded by relics from the past. A moving company had brought every item of his furniture and effects from the publishing house and villa to the nursing home. Craftsmen had been brought in to piece his Biedermeier furniture back together and to position the antique desk, at which Wolfgang Grief no longer sat, in the light from the window. They had installed the tall shelves and arranged according to a prescribed cataloguing system the extensive library—hundreds of books he would not or could not read anymore. They had even lined up the framed photos he no longer looked at on the mantelpiece of the false fireplace.
Only the bed and the chair were still used by Wolfgang Grief, today as all other days. After knocking and entering, Jonathan had to attract his father’s attention. Every time he saw Wolfgang sitting there, immersed in his music, Jonathan paused and wondered whether he should disturb him. He looked so peaceful, so relaxed, enraptured. There was no trace of the man whom the employees at the publishing house used to describe in whispers as the “despot” and “crazy patriarch.”
No, this man slouching in his armchair with closed eyes was merely a harmless grandpa, unwrapping the crackling gold paper from a toffee for his (nonexistent) grandson. His thick white hair stood out against the dark-red cushion; he wore a turtleneck and a checked cardigan with beige cords, and dark-gray felt slippers on his feet.
Wolfgang Grief had once measured a full six foot two, and even though he had shrunk considerably, he still towered over most men his age—although slumped in his seat as he was, no one would have guessed it—and he was still as slim as he had been in his younger days. But at seventy-three he was beginning to look distinctly doddering.
Jonathan felt sadness welling inside him. How would his own life be when he was in his seventies? Would he also succumb to dementia and end up in an old-people’s home? Would he live like his father, who had no one to visit him but his son and Renate Krug, who had remained loyal to her former employer?
No, the truth was much more depressing, as to date there wasn’t even the prospect of Jonathan receiving visits from a son. Or a daughter. Or even Renate Krug. He suddenly had more sympathy for Hertha Fahrenkrog with her little dog, Daphne.
“Hello, Papa,” he said in a low voice, cautiously tapping Wolfgang Grief on the shoulder to prevent himself from sinking ever deeper into murky brooding that would do him no good.
His father opened his eyes. They were a clear, steely blue like Jonathan’s, only rarely betraying the confusion that lay behind them.
For a fraction of a second, Jonathan felt himself back in his childhood. As a boy, he had been terrified of the severity of his father’s gaze, imagining those merciless eyes penetrating the deepest corners of his soul.
“Who are you?” Wolfgang Grief asked in confusion as he removed the headphones, the sounds of Bach’s “Air” whispering tinnily from them in his liver-spotted hands. The image he had just conjured of the strict father with the unforgiving expression collapsed abruptly, bursting like a bubble.
“It’s me, Jonathan,” he replied, drawing up a chair and sitting. “Your son.”
“I know that!” his father snapped grumpily as though he’d never asked.
“Good.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you.”
“Am I getting any lunch today?” He frowned. “I hope it won’t be the same mush as yesterday! You can force that down yourself. I tell you, I won’t touch it!”
“No, Papa.” Jonathan shook his head. “I’m not here to bring your food. It’s long past lunchtime. I’m your son and I’ve simply come to visit you.”
“Are you the new doctor?” Wolfgang Grief was now looking at him suspiciously.
Jonathan shook his head again. “No, I’m your son. Jonathan.”
“My son?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have a son.”
“Yes, you do, Papa.”