Your Perfect Year(19)

His father turned his head away and looked through the window to the Elbe. He sat in silence for a long moment, lost in thought and chewing his lower lip. He turned back to Jonathan.

“Are you the new doctor?”

“No,” Jonathan said again. “I’m your son.”

“My son?” Wolfgang Grief sounded confused now. A few seconds later he smiled a little stupidly. “Yes, of course, my son!” He laid a hand on Jonathan’s and patted it.

“That’s right,” Jonathan agreed, relieved, and patted his father’s hand in return, though it felt strange. “And I’ve come to see you. It’s the second of January. The start of a new year. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

His father looked surprised. His expression turned a few seconds later to disappointment. “What?” he yelled, so angry that it made Jonathan jump. “A new year?” He moved to rise from his chair.

“Sit down,” Jonathan said, pressing him back by the shoulders.

“But I have to go!” he cried, pushing against his son with astonishing strength.

“Where do you want to go?” Jonathan struggled to keep his old man in the chair.

“To the office, of course! They’re all waiting for me.” He made another attempt to stand.

“No, Papa,” Jonathan said without slackening his grip on his shoulders. “Everything’s fine; don’t you worry about a thing.”

“Nonsense!” Wolfgang Grief shouted. “I’m not where I should be, so how can everything be fine?”

“I was just in the office,” Jonathan said as calmly as he could. “Renate Krug and Markus Bode have everything under control.”

“Ah, yes, Renate.” Wolfgang Grief’s agitation subsided as quickly as it had arisen, giving way to a satisfied smile. “Now there’s a good woman!”

Jonathan nodded. “She is indeed.”

“You must remind me to buy her flowers,” his father said, winking at his son. “I’ve sent Renate Krug a bouquet of flowers every New Year for years. White carnations. She’s particularly fond of those.”

“I know.” Jonathan realized with horror that he had completely forgotten the tradition he had inherited from his father. He made a mental note to take care of that as soon as he possibly could. “I’m on it.”

“Good, good.”

“So you see, it’s all going great, and there’s no reason at all for you to worry.” As he spoke, he recalled the problem Markus Bode had raised with him only a couple of hours ago and felt like a complete hypocrite. But what else should he have done? It simply wasn’t possible to discuss the matter with his father. Even when he wasn’t mistaking Jonathan for his new doctor or one of the nursing assistants bringing his lunch, Wolfgang Grief would never be able to help run Grief & Son Books again.

A small, evil thought entered Jonathan’s head, almost making him laugh out loud—why couldn’t he tell his father all about the problems facing Grief & Son Books, outlining them in the goriest detail? After all, his father would forget it all three seconds later. Dementia wasn’t all bad; sometimes it could even be a blessing.

But no, of course Jonathan wouldn’t do such a thing.

They sat for a while facing one another, for all the world like the perfect image of a father and son on almost–New Year’s Day, except that Jonathan was racking his brain to think of what he could say next.

He hadn’t been there much longer than ten minutes; to take his leave so soon seemed not only impolite but callous, even though he had no idea whether his father appreciated his presence or didn’t care one bit if he had company. Or whether he might actually prefer to be back in his own little world, immersed in his music.

He was like a coma patient whose friends and relations didn’t really know whether he was aware they were at his bedside. The comparison was a bit shaky, since Wolfgang Grief was fully conscious. But he was no longer really there and hadn’t been for a while. Jonathan had realized only recently that he’d begun to talk about his father in the past tense.

Jonathan had once been advised by the doctor who looked after his father—to Wolfgang Grief’s eternal dismay, he was under the care of a female doctor!—that he should simply talk to his father. “Tell him something exciting or cheerful, little things from your everyday life. Involve your father in the regular things you do—it’s especially important for him in his condition.”

Huh. Easier said than done. Jonathan had absolutely no idea what to talk to his father about—there was too little going on in his life; it meandered along predictably, without any particular highs or lows. Not that Jonathan was complaining; on the contrary, that was how he liked it. But his daily routines were hardly the stuff of amusing anecdotes.

Once again he tried to conjure up a suitable topic for a harmless filial chat. Which excluded both what Markus Bode had told him earlier and the fact that Tina had sent him a New Year’s greeting. Wolfgang Grief had never been his daughter-in-law’s biggest fan, a feeling that was entirely mutual. Apart from those two nuggets, Jonathan’s mind was blank.

“Oh, there’s something I have to tell you!” he exclaimed suddenly, slapping his thighs in relief at having at last thought of something to tell his father. “Something really strange happened yesterday morning.”