Your Perfect Year(78)

Elated, Jonathan sprang from his chair, driven by the impulse to act. He was halfway out of the door on his way upstairs when he turned again and picked up the Hamburg News. He’d throw it straight into the recycling—after all, wasn’t he on a media diet? In any case, he had more exciting things to do today than to get worked up by those unqualified pen pushers and send in corrections that probably went unheeded.

Four hours later, Jonathan N. Grief sat back and looked at his handiwork. He was delighted and amazed at himself. And a little embarrassed. He had no intention of hanging up this collage, which he’d made using photos from the internet and then printed out. At least, not in a place where anyone else could catch sight of it, not even Frau Jansen. His cleaner might be totally beyond reproach, but could she be trusted in such matters?

During the course of his work, Jonathan had been like a man possessed; there was no other way of explaining what was now set out in black and white—or, rather, four-color printing. For the rackets and the tennis-club logo had been joined by pictures even Jonathan found it hard to explain to himself. As though he had somehow chosen them under a spell.

Well, he could explain the singer with the microphone; hadn’t he only recently acknowledged that singing was a deeply buried passion of his? Same for the photo of the old Ford Mustang. For years he had driven only Saabs, because along with Volvos, he believed there was nothing more reliable—but whenever Jonathan saw a Mustang, he couldn’t help thinking how great it would be to be barreling along Route 66 with the top down and cool music playing. Staying the night in run-down motels and spending the evenings sitting out on the porch, a cold Budweiser in his hand, watching the other guests come and go.

Years ago, when he had suggested to Tina that they go on such a trip, she’d reminded him that he always called beer a “proles’ brew,” and that, given the cockroaches that were surely infesting the establishments along Route 66, he would never be done composing letters of complaint to the motel managers. This remark (maybe a small act of revenge for his “reliving your teenage years” comment about the patchwork room), had wounded him but had hit the nail firmly on the head. So it had remained a purely theoretical “Should we, maybe, one day?” idea.

Next, Jonathan looked at the house by the sea, tucked away in a secluded location behind dunes and wild marram grass. That did not belong to the “under a spell” images, either, since if he weren’t tied to the business and his life in Hamburg, he could see himself living in just such a place: in seclusion, surrounded by untamed nature, not a single person in sight to disturb him. Off the beaten track on the North Sea coast somewhere, or even on a small island, in the best of all possible worlds, without internet or cell-phone signal. Not that Jonathan’s phone was always ringing or he was constantly receiving email, but something deep inside him occasionally longed for monastic seclusion.

Which made the photo of the two little children, which Jonathan had downloaded on an impulse, all the more inexplicable. It simply didn’t compute! As unlikely as the couple holding hands as they walked along a beach in the sunset.

Sure, like the house, they were by the sea, and the children were also playing in sand, but that was all the pictures had in common. Add to these the picture of the people sitting cheerfully around a large table in a garden enjoying a meal together, and there was only one possible conclusion: split personality. His collage indicated a certain degree of split personality.

But it had always been so. Jonathan enjoyed peace and quiet—solitude, even—because he was comfortable in his own company, but on the other hand he had really enjoyed the evening with Leopold and the tennis match with Markus Bode. And the fact that he didn’t have children did not necessarily mean he didn’t want any.

When he had still been married, he had thought a lot about children, if only because it went with the package. The idea had been negated by Tina’s departure, but it seemed the subject still concerned him, deep down, although the “outer” Jonathan had already dismissed it.

He ran both hands over the vision board, as though he could feel which of the pictures meant the most to him. He would have to get rid of one or two of them, since you couldn’t have everything you wanted in life.

According to . . . ?

Who had ever actually said that you couldn’t have everything you wanted in life? Was it an immutable law? Sure, it was in line with a healthy way of thinking, but was it actually true?

Jonathan N. Grief stood to go downstairs and make himself another coffee. He would have to think about that one for a while longer.





36

Hannah

Wednesday, January 10, 11:51 p.m.

Nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing at all for five days. The article had not had the slightest effect; it was as though it had not been read by a single soul.

Hannah’s posters by the Alster, which she had renewed twice, had brought nothing more than one call to her cell phone, and that was only someone wanting to tell her that he’d recognized the photo and thought he’d gone to primary school with Simon.

Hannah had been tempted to yell at the man, asking him if he was out of his mind contacting her with such nonsense and risking giving her a heart attack. But she had simply thanked him meekly and hung up.

The police had found nothing new, either, although the officer who was Hannah’s contact no longer sounded as optimistic as she had when the case was opened. She didn’t say directly that she now assumed Simon would not be found, but her gentle, comforting tone of voice made it clear—that cautious manner with which they attempted to help friends and relatives come to terms with the fact that there was no longer any hope.