Your Perfect Year(80)
Taking a bite of his croissant, Jonathan opened the diary for that Sunday, eager to see what it had in store for him next.
Your favorite author is reading at the Kampnagel today—and you’re going! Two tickets are waiting for you and a companion of your choice at the box office under order number 137. Doors open at 7 p.m. Enjoy!
P.S. If you don’t know who to take, I can think of someone
Jonathan was electrified. A reading!
Not that he was a particular fan of them—most events of that kind involved a pasty-faced character in a turtleneck sweater mumbling into his glass of water, boring Jonathan horribly and confirming his belief that a writer should write and not give readings. However, several times now he’d sensed some mysterious personal connection with the diary, and this entry reinforced his suspicion once again. After all, it was a curious coincidence that he, a publisher, was being invited to a reading.
It would be an even more curious coincidence, however, if his favorite author really did show up at the Kampnagel that evening. For that was Thomas Mann, and he’d been dead for quite a while.
38
Hannah
Sunday, January 14, 5:14 p.m.
“When did you last have anything to eat?”
Lisa looked thoroughly shocked as she arrived at Simon’s apartment to pick up Hannah for the Sebastian Fitzek reading at the Kampnagel.
“What?” Hannah asked distractedly as she fumbled to fasten her coat. Her fingers were trembling so much that she was hardly able to push the buttons through the narrow slits. She felt weak and drained, as though she might keel over at any moment. But she wouldn’t do that; she would go with Lisa to this reading, because it was the last glimmer of hope she had.
“Everything’s fine,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”
“Hannah!” Lisa laid her hands on her friend’s shoulders, her face a picture of concern. “You look awful. Like a ghost of yourself.”
“I’m fine,” Hannah insisted. “Really.”
“I don’t believe you.” Lisa sighed. “If I’d known you were on a hunger strike, I’d have dragged you back to my place ages ago and fed you.”
“I have eaten.”
“A week ago?”
“Forget it! Let’s go, or we’ll miss the reading.”
“We’ve still got plenty of time,” Lisa said firmly, taking hold of Hannah and gently steering her back into the apartment. “I’m going to make sure you eat at least a slice of bread and butter before we go.”
“Fat chance,” Hannah said. “The fridge is empty.”
“Okay, then we’ll pick up a snack on the way.”
“That’ll take too long. Please, Lisa! I have to be at the box office as soon as it opens. If someone comes to pick up the tickets, there’s no way I’m going to miss them!”
Her friend took her hand and led her out of the door. “Don’t worry, we’ll be there on time. But you’re going to eat something, even if it’s only a pretzel stick from the gas station. I won’t take no for an answer!”
“Okay,” Hannah replied in a small voice and shuffled obediently after Lisa. She was feeling so lousy that it was actually nice to be bossed around in such a caring way.
She knew she couldn’t manage by herself for long. She knew that the last week and a half (when, apart from the occasional trip to the riverbank to check her posters, she’d done nothing but lie on Simon’s bed, crying and checking to see if her cell phone was still working) had pushed her to her limits. That she couldn’t continue like this without falling apart, that nothing she did for the rest of her life would bring Simon back.
As she stumbled down the steps after Lisa, her thoughts were already at the Kampnagel. Would her prayers finally be answered? Even if not Simon himself, would the person who had his diary turn up? And would they be able to tell her what had become of her boyfriend?
She doubted very much that any of it would happen, but concentrated with all her might on imagining someone standing before her and telling her he knew where Simon was. And telling her that the talk of suicide had simply been a massive misunderstanding, that of course her boyfriend was in the best of health.
But however much she tried to imagine this misunderstanding, and however much she tried to conjure up a tangible image of her unknown redeemer, Hannah lacked the strength. It would take more than a pretzel stick to revive her unshakable belief that everything would somehow turn out right in the end.
39
Jonathan
Sunday, January 14, 6:23 p.m.
Jonathan had never been to a rock concert in his life, but this was how he imagined it to be: an incredibly long line of waiting people snaked from the entrance of the Kampnagel theater all the way to the multistory parking garage—a line consisting mainly of giggling, chattering girls.
He was confused. Had he come to the right place? At the right time? He took the diary from his briefcase and opened it to the appropriate page. Yes, here it was: Sunday, January 14, seven p.m. at the Kampnagel.
But why were so many people here? Surely they hadn’t all come for a literary reading! In his experience, these events attracted a limited but, well, reverential audience. So reverential that the readings put on by Grief & Son Books authors generally reached the volume and exuberance levels of a dignified funeral. The similarity was reinforced by the soft rustling of handkerchiefs and the average age of those who had come to listen, which, regardless of the age of the author, was always somewhere over seventy.