Your Perfect Year(26)
13
Jonathan
Tuesday, January 2, 6:56 p.m.
There was nothing to it, nothing at all. Jonathan would simply ring the bell at that address, introduce himself politely, and tell them why he was there. And a few minutes later it would all be dealt with. Whoever had an appointment at seven p.m. at Dorotheenstrasse 20, he or she would be delighted to get their diary back, and Jonathan would be convinced once and for all that the Filofax had nothing to do with his mother. As simple as that. Nothing to make a fuss about.
And yet, as he walked up and down in front of the late nineteenth-century white house, ready to press the second button from the bottom at seven p.m. precisely, he realized that his hands were damp with sweat. Unpleasant, and completely uncalled for. There’s no reason at all to be nervous.
Jonathan muttered this over and over to himself like a mantra, swinging the bag with its diary in time at the height of his right knee. But he found it hard to convince his sweat glands and heartbeat. It was just as he’d felt before the oral exam at the end of his philosophy-and-literature degree. Even then it hadn’t been so bad, as he’d prepared thoroughly and sailed effortlessly through his exams.
When the big hand of his watch showed one minute to seven, Jonathan N. Grief ascended the three steps to number 20 and looked for the right bell. There—second from the bottom. “Schulz.”
Before he could have second thoughts, he pressed it. The intercom buzzed three seconds later. No “Hello?” or “Who is it?” Someone was obviously expected at seven o’clock. Either that or the occupant was a trusting soul; Jonathan could have been anyone. This was the time of year, for example, when the garbage collectors often went from door to door hoping for tips. Not that there was anything wrong with that—if they’d done their job well during the past year, why not?
Jonathan couldn’t help recalling his email to the Department of Public Works. He hadn’t received a reply yet, and he wondered if anyone was going to take notice. The bins outside his house still hadn’t been emptied. But he told himself not to be impatient—and not to distract himself now, of all times, by thinking about garbage collection!
Slowly, with measured steps, Jonathan climbed the stairs to the third floor, where he imagined Herr or Frau Schulz to be waiting for him. He took his time. He didn’t want to arrive out of breath or sweating, any more than he already was.
The stairwell was spacious, bright, and welcoming, the walls still decorated with their original colorful art nouveau tiles, finished at the top with an ornamental band. A well-kept house, it had to be said. His mother would have liked a place like this; as far as he could recall, she was typically Italian in her infallible good taste.
Moreover, the old building was at the heart of the central Hamburg district of Winterhude, with numerous cafés and shops at its doorstep. Sofia had always felt a little cut off at their family home on the Elbe, and she tended to suffer from boredom. She had often talked gushingly about the bustling streets of Florence—or, more precisely, the marketplace of the little town of Fiesole, where she came from.
Jonathan could still vaguely remember his father responding to her complaints with a reference to the disastrous parking situation in the city center. Jonathan himself had just had to trail around the block in his Saab for a full quarter of an hour before bagging a legal parking space big enough for his car. Even then, he had to draw on all his parallel-parking skills, since the driver of the Golf in front had clearly deemed it perfectly acceptable to leave a two-foot gap between it and the tree at the end of the row.
When, after much meticulous back-and-forth, Jonathan had finally managed to squeeze into the space behind the Golf, he had taken out the notepad he always carried, scribbled a note to the parking lout, and tucked it behind the windshield wiper.
Dear Driver,
You have parked very inconsiderately. Your car is taking up the space of two! It has taken me great effort to fit into the space behind you. If you had only moved forward a few inches, you would have made the life of a fellow citizen much more pleasant.
Yours sincerely,
Jonathan N. Grief
As if that wasn’t annoying enough, Jonathan had been faced with having to pay an exorbitant price to park. Four euros per hour! It felt like he wasn’t paying to use the parking space, but to buy it! Another topic for the Hamburg News. Maybe he’d have to send another email to the editor drawing attention to the modern gangsters in charge of the city’s parking. He was already composing it in his mind.
Dear Editorial Team,
As a citizen who drives a car in our beautiful city, I am writing to ask you to cover the subject of the highway robbery of parking prices . . .
He told himself now was not the time or place to get worked up. He needed to concentrate fully on the matter of the diary; after all, that was why he was here.
When he reached the third-floor landing, he saw a lady standing outside the door of her apartment, waiting for him with a smile. Jonathan was reminded of the singer Cher; this woman was equally beautiful, although without as much cosmetic surgery. He guessed she was in her midfifties, but she could have been a good ten years younger. Or older—it was hard to say.
Her long black hair fell in a shiny wave over her shoulders, and her striking features had something Indian about them. She was wearing a close-fitting anthracite-colored pantsuit that coordinated perfectly with her dark-gray eyes. All in all, she was a vision of loveliness. “Timeless elegance” would be the literary expression for it.