Your Perfect Year(8)
He would still sometimes refer to it even now, in the more lucid moments during his son’s every-other-week visits to his luxury care home on the Elbe. Jonathan secretly thought it was rather strange that even in his present condition, his father had nothing better to do than get worked up about a harmless children’s book. He hoped that, if it came to it, things would be different in his case—in terms of both dementia and bemoaning missed opportunities.
During those moments of painful recall, Jonathan would soothe his father with the news that Grief & Son Books’ young adult titles were doing excellently, thank you, without Harry Potter—a barefaced lie, since Jonathan had shut down the Children’s-and-YA program three years ago on the advice of his CEO, Markus Bode, as it was diluting their brand too much, blurring the characteristics that made it unique. They would be better off, the CEO said, concentrating on their core specialty: ambitious literature and quality nonfiction, so popular with bookshops and the wealthier target readers.
Bode stressed again and again how much “concentrating on what really matters” had paid off, and Jonathan could only agree. The money rolled in and profits were good. And it had made them the darlings of the press critics.
“Are you all right?” The young man’s voice snapped Jonathan back to reality. A pretty cold reality now, since he’d been standing motionless on the windy bank of the Alster for some time.
“Yes, yes,” he hastened to assure the man. “I, uh, so . . . I’m just finding it strange that someone hung this bag on my bicycle.”
The man smiled again and shrugged indifferently. “You think it could be a New Year’s gift?”
“Could be,” Jonathan replied without great conviction. “Maybe. So, well . . .” He stood there indecisively for a moment longer before nodding to the young man. “Well, it was worth asking. Happy New Year to you.”
“You too!” Before the man finished speaking, he had turned back to the Alster and resumed his previous activity—looking out in silence over the smooth surface of the water.
Jonathan fidgeted before finally starting back toward his bike.
“It’s a pity.”
It was said so quietly that Jonathan wasn’t sure if he’d misheard. He stopped and turned. The man on the bank was now looking at him again.
“I’m sorry?” Jonathan asked.
“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” said Harry Potter’s double.
“What’s a pity?” Jonathan retraced his steps toward the man.
He nodded in the direction of the Alster. “That the swans have gone.”
“The swans?”
“They’ve all been taken to spend the winter on the Mühlenteich lake and won’t be brought back until spring.” He sighed. “A real shame.”
“Hmm.” Jonathan had no idea what to say. Because the young man was looking at him so expectantly, he added a dutiful “Yes, such a shame.”
“I love watching the swans.”
“Yes.” Jonathan nodded, though without real understanding. “They’re beautiful birds.”
“Spiritual creatures,” Harry Potter said, so quietly that once again Jonathan hardly caught his words. “They symbolize light, purity, and perfection; they represent transcendence.”
“Hmm,” Jonathan said again, “fascinating.” He was about to ask how the young man knew this, when he realized why he was standing around in the cold on this New Year’s morning in such light clothing.
Drugs!
Harry Potter must have rung in the New Year in rather a lively fashion and was now in a world of his own. Jonathan wondered if it was his duty as a good citizen to call an ambulance or the police, so that someone could take care of the fellow before he fell prey to hypothermia or did anything stupid. But he pushed the thought aside. The man seemed to be thinking clearly. Even if he said some strange things and looked a bit pale, he didn’t seem completely out of it.
“You could go walk on the banks of the Mühlenteich,” Jonathan suggested. “I mean, if you’re so eager to see the swans. It’s not far.”
The man nodded, his smile never fading. “Yes. Yes, that’s an excellent idea.” He turned and trudged away, without saying whether or not he was heading for the Mühlenteich.
Jonathan stood for a moment more and stared after the oddball. Whatever substance Harry Potter had taken, it seemed to be having quite an effect.
Jonathan walked back to his bike, deep in thought. Swans. Spiritual creatures. Transcendence. Crazy!
It wasn’t until he had reached his mountain bike that it occurred to him that he was still carrying the Filofax and the bag. What was he going to do with them?
Once more he looked around, but apart from the young man—who was already some distance away, climbing the embankment toward the road—there was still no one in sight.
Jonathan went over to one of the benches near the fitness area and sat down. He ran his hands over the leather cover of the diary. Hesitated a moment.
Then, finally, snapped open the tab and looked inside the little book.
Your Perfect Year
Those words, handwritten with a fountain pen, graced the first page in lavishly looped letters. Nothing else. No name or address, as were usually found in these personal organizers.
Jonathan leafed through a few pages and reached January 1 of this virginal year he was on the threshold of. The layout of the organizer was generous, with one day to a page, although these pages were filled with writing. The title was written in the same beautiful calligraphy: