Your Perfect Year(86)

But where to?

He turned and went back to his driveway.

Shortly before he reached it, he turned again.

Maybe he could compromise and take a taxi. He whipped out his cell phone to call one, but lowered it again.

No, he shouldn’t kid himself: a taxi would be a lazy compromise, a complete sham. After all, this was about new experiences, about expanding his horizons, and how did he expect to do that in a taxi? Unless Jonathan happened to get a driver who shared some new experiences with him. No, a taxi ride would be cheating.

“Good morning, Herr Grief!” The voice from behind caused him to spin around. Hertha Fahrenkrog walked up to him, as always with her poodle princess at her heels. “What are you doing, standing there like a lost soul?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “I’ve been watching you from the kitchen window and couldn’t help noticing that you look rather confused. The way you’re walking back and forth, it’s as if you don’t really know where you want to go.”

“Yes, I do,” Jonathan replied. “I’m going to visit my father. I just don’t know how I’m going to get there.”

“Has your car broken down?”

“No. But I thought I’d take public transportation.”

“Why?” She stared at him. “If you want my opinion, if your car’s not broken down, then you should go in that.”

“Yes, um . . .” How could he explain? A bus ride as a trip to self-discovery—he doubted that Hertha Fahrenkrog had the mental faculties to understand it. “I need to visit the optician afterward,” he lied, hoping he wasn’t turning bright red. Normally the slightest white lie couldn’t leave his lips without it being obvious to all the world. His father had found it hilarious, whereas his mother had seen it as a sign that his heart was in the right place. “I’m having my eyes examined,” the man with his heart in the right place continued, “and they’ll be giving me eye drops, after which I’m not allowed to drive.”

“Ah.” Hertha Fahrenkrog nodded. “Cataracts, is it? My Heinzi had that.” She sighed. “God rest his soul. He could hardly see a thing at the end.” She bent down to her poodle. “Isn’t that right, Daphne—Papa could hardly recognize us at the end.”

“Uh-huh,” Jonathan stammered.

“But that’s age for you,” his neighbor continued with a smile. “We all have to put up with a few ailments.”

“True.” Jonathan recalled that over breakfast he’d been reading that he should be friendly toward people who would normally irritate him. And so he was friendly toward Hertha Fahrenkrog. Very friendly. Friendly enough to hold back from pointing out that he was only forty-two and, unlike her dear, departed husband, didn’t go back to the days of the German Empire. For even though he had never had the opportunity to meet the beloved Heinzi, since his good neighbor Frau Fahrenkrog was not far from her centennial, it was safe to assume—

“Why don’t you just call a taxi?” she said, rescuing Jonathan from getting lost in an increasingly complex sentence.

“A very good question!”

“So why not?”

“Because . . . because . . . because I just want to go by bus today.” Why shouldn’t he simply tell the truth? It didn’t matter!

“By bus?” Daphne whined in sympathy. “You?”

“Why not me?”

“Well, you’ve got enough money for a taxi.”

“Just because I have enough money doesn’t mean I have to throw it to the wind!”

Hertha Fahrenkrog laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “I just can’t imagine you on a bus.”

“And why not?”

“Well,” she began. “It’s more something for ordinary people.”

“And you don’t think I’m ordinary?”

“Not at all.”

“The way you said it didn’t sound like a compliment.”

“That’s up to you.”

“What is?”

“How you interpret what I say.” She gave him a cheerful grin. Jonathan was rather shocked to find that this small, shriveled woman’s mind was as sharp as a honed blade. Amazing! Was she on medication for it? Or did Daphne keep her in good mental shape? Maybe he should consider getting a dog, in case his father’s dementia turned out to be hereditary.

“However you meant it,” Jonathan said, “I’ve decided to take the bus and train to the Elbchaussee.”

“Like Günter Wallraff,” his neighbor said, on the attack again.

Jonathan was able to parry that one. “Exactly! Jonathan N. Grief, Lowest of the Low,” he said, adapting the title of Wallraff’s book from the 1980s that had made his name as an undercover journalist. As far as Jonathan knew, that had been another bestseller the likes of which Grief & Son Books urgently needed. One way or another, he was constantly brought back to this subject; the vision board seemed to be doing its work. “Well, then!” He raised a hand in farewell, turned, and walked off.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hertha Fahrenkrog called after him.