Your Perfect Year(46)
“In the paper-recycling container, where else?”
“But there’s no sign of it in the one outside the house!” he yelled.
“Why are you so mad about it?”
“I’m not mad!” He made an effort to sound a little calmer. “I’m afraid I threw away a couple of documents that I now need urgently.”
“Oh, silly me!” Henriette Jansen sounded taken aback. “I honestly thought you’d be pleased if I—”
“Where is it now?”
“Across the road in the recycling dumpster in the park. There was still some room in that one. I thought that would probably be emptied soon, so I—”
“Great, thanks!” He hung up and sprinted out of the house once again, this time to the paper-and-glass-recycling containers in Innocentia Park. He prayed he’d find the documents there.
He couldn’t bear to think what would happen if those figures got into the wrong hands! In his mind’s eye he could already see the headlines in the local section of the Hamburg News: “Longstanding Hamburg Publisher About to Go Under!”
He made himself stay calm. Running through disaster scenarios wouldn’t help one bit, and there were no grounds for his fears. For such a thing to happen, the documents would have to catch someone’s eye from among all the wastepaper. Then he or she would need to realize what the figures meant and also somehow come to the conclusion that the information might be of interest to the media. And that person must also be of the opinion that Jonathan’s business was exciting enough to be the subject of a newspaper article. All in all, more than improbable. Grief & Son Books might be encountering a few difficulties at the moment, but they were far from going to the dogs. At least, Jonathan hoped so, despite his poor head for finance.
Nevertheless, his pulse was racing as he reached the paper-recycling dumpster. He was lucky and unlucky. The container had narrow slits for pushing paper into, but it also had a large blue flap on one side for bigger boxes.
This was easy to open, and Jonathan peered inside the container. He was met by pitch blackness and could make nothing out. He leaned as far as he could into the container, feeling around in the hope of his fingers meeting something. But his hand kept sweeping through empty space; unlike his household bin, it looked like this container had actually been emptied recently.
Breathing heavily, he raised himself on tiptoe, grasped the edge of the opening with his free hand, and pulled himself so far into the container that he almost fell in headfirst. Now, at last, his fingers touched a piece of paper. He grasped it and pulled. It slipped away from him, so he tried to shift himself a little closer to his goal.
By the time he realized his body’s center of gravity had slipped a little too far forward, it was too late. Jonathan lost his grip, tipped head over heels into the container, and landed inelegantly with his face resting on a piece of cardboard that smelled suspiciously like pizza.
He groaned out loud.
“Ouch!”
Jonathan started. He hadn’t said anything. The voice belonged to someone else.
22
Hannah
Fifteen days before:
Tuesday, December 19, 11:17 p.m.
“I’m sorry, but you have to calm down—I can’t make out a word you’re saying. You sound like a three-year-old with a pacifier in her mouth.”
“I . . . I . . .” Try as she might, Hannah couldn’t get any other words out. All she could do was sob out those simple sounds between wails. No wonder Lisa had no idea what was going on.
Hannah’s call had torn her friend from her bed three minutes ago. Lisa had actually apologized for not picking up on the first ring, and if Hannah had not been preoccupied with more pressing issues, she would have reassured her that there was no need to apologize for failing to sleep with her phone beneath her pillow.
“Calm down, Hannah,” Lisa said again. “Take a deep breath. Slowly, calmly, in and out. And another . . . and out!” She guided her like a yoga teacher, breathing loudly into the receiver to demonstrate.
“O . . . okay.” Hannah made an attempt to follow her friend’s advice. She would never have thought that the mere act of breathing could be so difficult. But it was. Her ribcage felt like it was about to explode.
She had still been feeling fine—considering the circumstances—until half an hour ago. Simon had dropped her off at home and left her with a hug and a kiss. He had promised to contact her the next day and reassured her that he wasn’t about to jump off a bridge. And that if he did somehow find himself on the wrong side of a set of railings, he would call her from there. So far, so good.
Hannah had remained astonishingly calm. She had undressed, removed her makeup, moisturized her face, and brushed her teeth. Then she had slipped into her nightgown and gone straight to bed, exhausted by the evening’s events.
But no sooner had she switched out the light and closed her eyes than she was wide awake. There they were, all of a sudden: the dreadful thoughts and images.
The horrific fear that Simon’s guess was true and he would die during the next few months. That the cancer had already spread through his whole body, that no one and nothing could help her beloved. That she would soon be alone.
Hannah had tried to drive the dread from her mind by displacing it with lovely, happy memories. She had even begun to sing softly to herself in the hope of stopping the manically racing thoughts. She had failed utterly.