Your Perfect Year(79)

It couldn’t be true; it mustn’t be true! But where was Simon? Where . . . was . . . he? The question chased itself in endless circles around Hannah’s head. It plagued her now, lying as she so often did on Simon’s bed, tightly wrapped in his duvet, breathing in the faint traces of his scent that still lingered on his sheets.

She sobbed; sobbed like a little child. She felt so empty and weak, lonely and helpless, that she believed she would never again be able to get up from this bed. She would lie here until the end of her days. Or until Simon was finally back with her.

“Please,” she whispered softly. “Please, dear God, let him be alive. Make him come back to me. Or at least let him be somewhere in the Caribbean sipping a cocktail. Anything would be better than this nightmare. Please, dear God, help me! Please, please, please!”





37

Jonathan

Sunday, January 14, 9:11 a.m.

Jonathan N. Grief was content. Like every morning for almost ten days, he was sitting in his bathrobe at his dining table with fresh coffee and a warm croissant, about to turn eagerly to the diary. What did his grab bag have in store for him today? By accepting the Filofax as his guide, he’d already had a variety of interesting experiences. Such as finding out he was not missing a thing by not looking at the paper over breakfast, disposing of it unread in the recycling. The world continued to turn whether or not Jonathan knew precisely how.

He was already weighing whether to cancel his subscription, so little was he missing his daily reading. And he could hardly say that his letters to the editor—or to Gundel Thingamajig in Reader Services—had ever drawn much of an enthusiastic response. It followed that to stop reading the paper wouldn’t be a great loss for either party.

Instead Jonathan had, as recommended, written down three things every morning and every evening for which he was grateful—and he was finding it ever easier to think of what to write.

There was his growing enthusiasm for playing tennis. He had met Markus Bode for a game on three evenings during the last week and a half. From one man’s suffering came another man’s joy—Jonathan considered it a minor stroke of luck that his CEO currently had nothing to do after work apart from sit alone in a hotel room. Or knock about a few balls with him.

Jonathan was delighted to have made rapid progress, especially with his forehand. He had secretly given himself the rather childish nickname “Jonathan Boom Boom,” and the day before yesterday he had bought himself a professional-quality racket and a stylish tennis outfit. The Rothenbaum Center Court better watch out—Jonathan N. Grief was on his way!

He and Bode had said nothing more about the future course of the publishing business; Jonathan managed to skillfully avoid the subject. He put off Markus Bode somewhat vaguely by saying he wanted to wait and see how the current fiscal year developed, while hoping that it would all somehow turn out well of its own accord. Perhaps Hubertus Krull would make a miraculous recovery and sit there at his computer typing out one stirring chapbook after another. Or maybe all the enthusiastic critics who had been sent copies of The Loneliness of the Milky Way would have an effect on the sales figures after all.

Jonathan had tried to help things along a little by rearranging his vision board with a small photomontage: he had printed out the ranking of the hundred most successful publishers from the Buchreport, boldly glued the Grief & Son Books logo in the number-one slot, scanned the page, and placed it prominently in the middle of his collage.

He opened up his wardrobe several times a day now—he had hidden the board in there, behind his shirts—and contemplated his visions for the future. If it really was true that by so doing he was programming his subconscious to fulfill his dreams, then his subconscious should soon show what it had in store for him!

Like a diligent schoolboy, Jonathan faithfully carried out all the tasks the diary had assigned him so far: He’d spent a whole day smiling cheerfully at everyone he met, getting generally happy reactions in return. (Okay, one elderly gentleman had wanted to know whether he was feeling ill and needed help, and a couple of giggling teenage girls had ignored him, but everyone else had returned his smile.) He’d begun to meditate for a few minutes every day and, after some initial difficulties, had realized how much good it was doing him. Every so often he would sit in his armchair, composing himself, thinking of nothing at all and simply being in the here and now.

Twice already, when the diary had recommended Today, do nothing but what you feel like doing, he had gone to the sea “just because” and walked for three hours along the beach in the icy wind. He was now singing with gusto, even if only in the shower or the car.

Jonathan had even hugged a tree in Innocentia Park, fervently hoping that no one was watching, but had ended up putting this little exercise down as nonsense. Apart from a large stain on his lambskin jacket, it had done nothing for him.

Much more to his liking had been his visit to the flea market prescribed for the previous Saturday. He had driven to the Flohschanze market with the task of buying himself “something special.” Jonathan had never done anything of the kind, because he had never seen the point of all those secondhand stalls. He had been all the more delighted when, between two bustling stalls offering all manner of junk, he had discovered a real gem: a volume of poetry by Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff dated 1837 (!) in excellent condition, which he had snapped up for 120 euros, although he knew the book was worth ten times the amount. It wasn’t Jonathan’s fault that people had no idea about the things they were selling. The little book was now displayed proudly on the shelves in his reading room, and he felt a surge of pleasure whenever he looked at it.