Your Perfect Year(70)

Ha! Hamburg’s answer to The Odd Couple—the stuff novels were born of! Popular fiction, of course, so not something that Grief & Son Books would ever entertain, but novels nevertheless.

Jonathan stretched out his legs and stared into space. Played though the previous evening and night once again in his head. The things Leopold had said to him—that open, confiding conversation between buddies. And the two entries he had drunkenly scribbled in the diary after going to bed. Yes, damn it, he felt guilty and bad. But what was he to do about it? Should he get out there and search for Leopold, in the hope of tracking him down and marching him back to the house? By force if necessary?

But he was neither a social worker nor a therapist; maybe such a move would be overreaching. Not to mention that Hamburg was a big city, and the probability of finding the guy was pretty close to zero. So should he simply forget his new “friend,” put on his Nikes, and slip back into his daily routine?

No, that didn’t feel right either.

Jonathan N. Grief kicked his sneakers aside decisively and went upstairs in his stocking feet to his study. The Alster would still be there tomorrow. Today, at least, he would take Leopold’s advice and delve into the diary.

He settled into his favorite reading chair and opened the Filofax at January 4. Read the entry and laughed out loud. Leopold may have vanished, but his views had clearly remained.

Life is too short to concern yourself with things you don’t enjoy.

Write out two lists today: One of everything that makes you happy. And one of everything that you do but don’t enjoy at all.

Then delete everything on the second list and live according to the first! Only that! Also, write out what would make you happy—and do it! TODAY! However crazy. Do at least one thing from the first list RIGHT NOW!

Well, there was an order! Rather an unrealistic one, when Jonathan thought about it. For who could run their life purely for pleasure, following their moods and doing only what they enjoyed? No one—apart from some very privileged members of society. Or maybe those who were so close to dying that it didn’t matter at all how they frittered away their remaining time. Everyone else had to bow to social conventions and perform at least some activities that secured them a living. And if that meant standing on an assembly line screwing together ballpoint pens, then you just had to stand on that assembly line and screw together ballpoint pens. Whether you enjoyed it or not.

On the other hand, why was Jonathan lapsing back into brooding about other people? After all, he was in the privileged position of being able to do or arrange for what he wanted, as Leo had so rightly pointed out. Who if not Jonathan could allow himself the luxury of this little game of make-believe?

He whipped out a pen. So, what did he want to do? What did he enjoy?

He hadn’t completed the J of Jogging when he stopped.

He went running every day, but as he was writing it down, he wondered if he actually enjoyed it.

It had never occurred to him to wonder about it. Why should it? Everyone knew exercise was healthy. The daily run was as much a part of his life as brushing his teeth, there was no doubt about it. Or was there?

He chewed pensively on the end of his pen, trying to imagine he was out on a run. Did he enjoy it?

Not really. It was more a case of fulfilling a duty. The moment after a run came closer to enjoyment. Once the grind was over, when he was doing his stretching and reveling in the achievement of conquering the bugbear of getting up early and pushing himself to run, and appreciating the result.

He picked up the pen again and wrote:

I enjoy having been jogging and having done sports activities.

He looked at his entry and felt at a loss. What did it mean? Was jogging one of those things that belonged on the enjoyment list and should be continued? Or not? The very thought of ceasing his daily run just like that was out of the question.

If he knew anything, it was that all psychologists, sports doctors, and even the Bild tabloid recommended physical fitness as a wonder cure for almost everything. Whether it was physical health or mental troubles, nothing helped so much as making sure the “human machine” was running properly.

So exercise was and remained a duty. Except—did it have to be a jog down by the Alster? If Jonathan were honest, he could think of more enjoyable pastimes than jogging through the empty city in the gray morning mist, in all weathers, alone and distracted from the boring monotony of his steps only by the occasional irritation of dog excrement or kamikaze cyclists.

Personally, he had never experienced that oft-mentioned “runner’s high,” the addictive state described by many that drove you to do nothing but pound the miles—it had always been down to his own perseverance.

Could it be . . . that running wasn’t the right sport for him?

Tennis. The thought came from out of the blue. He had enjoyed playing tennis as a boy. Not too well, and not as a member of a club, but every so often he and his mother had hit a few balls over a washing line strung at an appropriate height in the garden of their villa by the Elbe. Yes, he had enjoyed it—very much, even, despite the fact that he hadn’t continued with the game. Golf was the Grief family’s game. His father had taught him from a tender age that the golf course was where the best business deals were made.

Which was idiocy; Jonathan had never bagged a major deal wearing checked pants and spiked shoes. Maybe because, ever since his father’s illness had propelled Jonathan to the forefront of the publishing business, he’d been relieved to put away his clubs. He’d always found golf to be dreadfully boring. Besides, he wasn’t the one responsible for major business deals—that was why he had Markus Bode.