Your Perfect Year(81)
But the crowd here? It seemed more appropriate for a Rolling Stones gig. Though the audience was too young for that; Jonathan was surrounded by teenagers. It wasn’t possible! Not only exuberant people, but young ones—even less fitting for a cultural event!
“Excuse me.” He turned to the two girls standing in front of him in line. “Who’s doing the reading here this evening?”
The two of them stared at him wide-eyed as if he’d just asked whether the world was in fact flat. “Sebastian Fitzek,” the one on the left squeaked excitedly.
“Fitzek?”
“Yes.” The one on the right nodded. “It’s his anniversary tour,” she added, giving Jonathan a look that suggested he wasn’t in his right mind.
“Thank you.” The girls turned back to the front and put their heads together, giggling, as Jonathan looked around once again at the crowd.
Someone like Fitzek appealed to so many readers? He knew that the author was hugely successful, but he could never have imagined such audiences in his wildest dreams.
Now he noticed that a not-inconsiderable number of those waiting had several of the author’s books clasped under their arms, and some of them were even holding large photos of him, which indicated to Jonathan that they were hoping to get his autograph. Every now and then, cell phones were whipped out by the girls so they could take selfies of themselves and their friends, in order to capture such a significant moment and share it on social media.
Astonishing. Truly astonishing. Jonathan would never have even considered coming to a Sebastian Fitzek event. But now he was interested to find out what this veritable fan cult—he couldn’t think of it in any other way—was all about. At the same time, he was amazed that the Filofax had suggested this. It had only been a few days ago that it had ordered a media diet, designed to prevent him coming into contact with any negative news or information. As far as Jonathan knew, Fitzek’s books were brutal thrillers, and he would dearly have liked to ask the author of the Filofax about this contradiction.
Jonathan had stood in line for a quarter of an hour before reaching the box office. He was glad he’d left himself plenty of time, as he always did, although he hadn’t anticipated such a commotion surrounding the event.
He was about to state his order number to the man behind the counter, when he was shoved so violently that he lurched to the side. The culprit, a woman yelling loudly into her cell phone, didn’t even notice, but elbowed her way through the waiting crowd toward the door, followed by a friend.
Goodness, that had almost been life threatening! It was doubtful that this crush was in accordance with the fire regulations; if anything happened to cause a panic, the masses in the foyer would be in all kinds of trouble.
Peeved, Jonathan watched the two women leave, but a rough shove from the girls behind him and a loud “Get on with it!” told him in no uncertain terms to stop holding things up.
“Good evening.” Jonathan turned back to the man at the ticket counter. “I understand two tickets have been reserved for me under order number 137. I only need one of them.”
“Just a moment,” he replied and leafed through a box full of white envelopes. “Here.” He took one out. “Number 137. Here you are!”
“As I said, I only need one of the tickets.”
The man shrugged. “They’re already paid for. Give one of them away. The reading’s in room K6.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan took the envelope.
At that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. Jonathan was about to spin around and bark at the disorderly girl when a voice said, “Hello. I’ll take the second ticket.”
Jonathan started. He hadn’t expected that. He turned, expecting to see the owner of the diary at last.
40
Hannah
Sunday, January 14, 6:48 p.m.
After a sandwich and a pint of orange juice, Hannah was feeling physically better, but mentally she was going through hell as she stood with Lisa next to the box office, staring eagle-eyed at everyone who had come to the reading. Her friend had been true to her word. They had reached the Kampnagel before the doors opened and were able to take up their positions as the first people were allowed in.
Lisa held Hannah’s hand and kept squeezing it as they watched people, mainly teenage girls, pick up their tickets. There were only a few boys and older men and women. Hannah held her breath with every man who came up to the counter—she knew from Sarasvati that it was a man who had found the diary.
But she had been disappointed every time; none of them mentioned number 137. Hannah felt as though she were waiting for the lottery numbers to be announced, or playing bingo—wringing her hands in anticipation of a life-changing number being drawn. But it simply didn’t happen.
“He’s not coming!” she complained as yet another male attendee presented the wrong number. “He’s just not coming!”
“Calm down,” Lisa said, squeezing her hand yet again. “There are still so many people out there; he could still show up.”
“I hope so,” Hannah said, and nervously chewed her lower lip. “I really hope so!”
The next moment, she heard a quiet ringtone and felt a vibration in her back pocket. For an instant she wondered whether to ignore it and concentrate instead on not missing a single moment of what happened at the box office. But she relented, took out her phone, and glanced at the display.