Your Perfect Year(88)

As she drew level with McDonald’s, Hannah saw a vacant parking space that was big enough to maneuver the Mustang into without mishap. She indicated and turned the steering wheel. A sign announced that the parking spaces here were reserved for taxis from eight in the evening, but if things went according to Hannah’s plan, the Mustang would be long gone by then.

She switched the engine off and left the ignition key in place. Then she left the documents lying on the passenger seat in full view of anyone passing by on the sidewalk.

She got out. Shut the driver’s door. And walked away in the direction of the U-Bahn station, whistling.





45

Jonathan

Monday, January 15, 12:03 p.m.

Shortly after midday, following a brief odyssey—the woman and her Mustang had distracted him so much that he boarded the wrong bus, number 37, and didn’t notice until he reached the end of the line—Jonathan entered his father’s room in the Sonnenhof, where he found Wolfgang Grief standing by the window, staring out. A rare sight. And a hopeful one; Jonathan had clearly caught his father on one of his better days.

“Hello, Papa,” he said.

Wolfgang Grief turned to him with a smile. “Hello, son.” He nodded toward the outside. “Lovely weather today, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” The sky was cloudy and the light rather gloomy, but at least it wasn’t raining. Given Hamburg’s climate and the fact it was January, it wouldn’t take too much imagination to describe it as “lovely.”

“How’s your dear mother?” his father asked as he sat down in his wing chair.

Jonathan’s spirits sank. So it wasn’t such a good day. He had long since dismissed the possibility that Sofia might actually be in Hamburg and had given her son the diary—not least since his mother had never spoken German so well, or written it with such correct punctuation. No, there was no way that the Filofax could have been her work; that had merely been wishful thinking on Jonathan’s part.

“You mean Sofia?” he asked. Maybe his father had been talking about another lady, although he couldn’t think off the top of his head who it might be.

Wolfgang Grief laughed cheerfully. “Do you have another mother?”

“No,” he replied. “Of course not.”

“There you are. So, how is she? Will she be calling to see me later?”

“Papa . . .” He hesitated. How should he answer that one? He decided to play along, even though it wasn’t a game. “I think so.”

“How lovely!” his father said. “We can take a little outing together. I would love to have coffee and cake at the Witthüs in Hirsch Park.” He licked his lips in anticipation. “Yes, a nice piece of fresh cherry streusel cake is definitely on the menu for me today!”

“Good idea, Papa,” Jonathan said, suppressing a sigh. “We’ll do that.”

“Let’s hope your mother comes soon, then.”

“Hmm.” He sat down. Earlier, he’d been pleased to have reached the nursing home at all, but now he thought he could just as easily get up and leave. This time by taxi.

But he didn’t want to be unfair. Seeing his father in such a good mood was something to be pleased about, although it seriously disturbed Jonathan that his father’s moods were in direct proportion to his mental derangement. He clearly had two choices: a father capable of reasoning but grouchy, or one who radiated naive cheerfulness but whose thinking was at the level of a little child.

“So, what’s new?” Wolfgang Grief asked.

Jonathan paused briefly. Should he make an attempt? Although the venture was probably hopeless, he should at least try. “I’d like to talk to you about the business,” he began.

“Go ahead, boy! Is all well?”

“If I’m honest, not entirely.”

His father looked at him in incomprehension, as though Jonathan had spoken a foreign language. “What do you mean?”

“There are a few problems with the sales figures.”

Wolfgang Grief’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Define ‘a few problems.’”

“Well, the current list is going really badly.”

“What are the numbers?”

Amazing. It was truly amazing. Regardless of his dementia, it was as though someone had switched a light on in Wolfgang Grief’s mind. He suddenly seemed wide awake, the angry furrows on his brow standing out. His steely blue eyes fixed his son with the very look that had terrified Jonathan all his life.

“There’s been a drop of thirty percent that—”

“Thirty percent?” his father snapped. “Show me the latest accounts!”

“I don’t have them with me, but—”

“How can you come here bringing me news like that without the relevant documents?” His father thundered.

“Papa, it’s—”

“Do you actually have any idea what you’re doing? And you call yourself a businessman!”

“Well, I—”

“Oh, why am I getting so worked up?” He shook his head. “It’s always been obvious you’re not cut out to be an entrepreneur. I should never have retired from the operational side of the business!”

“No, really, it’s—”