Your Perfect Year(89)
“What does Markus Bode have to say?”
“That’s the whole point,” Jonathan replied. “Bode thinks we should have a few mass-market titles on our list. Yesterday, for example, we went to a reading by Sebastian Fitzek—”
“Fitzek? Did you just say Fitzek?”
“Yes, I did.” Jonathan squared his shoulders determinedly. He wasn’t going to be treated like a little child by his demented father a moment longer—he was a mature man, damn it! “And if you’d been there yourself, you’d have a different opinion of him. In any case, I find the idea of having a few such titles on our list to be quite—”
“Jonathan, please! You’re not seriously trying to suggest that Grief & Son Books should lower itself to the depths of popular fiction? That’s absurd!”
“I don’t think it’s all that absurd,” Jonathan replied. And it was true; he no longer did find it so absurd. Especially since his father, a businessman through and through, had begun by asking about the figures. Maybe he simply refused to see that the times had changed and there were ever fewer people who wanted to pay for high literature. Wasn’t it Jonathan’s task—no, his duty—to inform his father?
“No, my boy, there’s no point in discussing it any further. Bring me the latest figures, then we’ll see how best to proceed.”
“But I think that—”
“And I think not!”
“Papa, I—”
There was a knock at the door, and a second later Renate Krug came in.
“Oh, hello,” she said. “Am I interrupting you?”
A smile leapt to Wolfgang Grief’s lips. “Sofia!” he cried, approaching his former assistant nimbly and hugging her. “I’m so glad to see you! Of course you’re not interrupting us! I was just saying to Jonathan how much I’d like a little outing with the two of you.”
“But of course, darling,” Renate Krug said, and laughed as though it were the most normal thing in the world—first, that Wolfgang Grief took her for his long-lost wife, and second, that he wanted an outing with her and his son as a family.
“Um . . .” Jonathan looked at Renate Krug in some confusion. She responded with a conspiratorial nod as if to say, “Let your father believe it if he wants to.”
Jonathan sighed inwardly yet again. Okay, so he’d go for a little outing with his father and his “mother.”
46
Hannah
Monday, January 15, 1:19 p.m.
“What have you done? Are you crazy?” Lisa stared at Hannah, aghast. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she added quickly, looking even more aghast. “I didn’t mean that. You’re not crazy, of course not, it just slipped out, but—”
“No problem,” Hannah said casually. “Maybe it is crazy. But one thing’s for certain—it felt really good.”
“But you can’t simply leave Simon’s car, keys and all, standing around in the red-light district!”
“Don’t worry.” Hannah laughed and realized she sounded a little crazy even to her own ears. “I’m fairly certain the Mustang won’t be standing around there anymore. Someone’s sure to be off into the sunset with it by now.” She grabbed a caramel from the open packet on the counter of the little kitchen, popped it into her mouth, chewed with relish, and gave Lisa a carefree smile.
“Come on!” her friend cried, putting on her jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think? To the Reeperbahn. We’re going to get that car back! It might still be there.”
“No,” Hannah said resolutely. “We’re most certainly not. We’re going to take our time preparing for an afternoon with the children, and we’re going to carry on as usual.”
“But it’s completely crazy! You can’t just . . . Simon’s car must be . . . Well, I’ve no idea, but it must be worth a few thousand euros!”
“I’d guess about ten,” Hannah replied unperturbed. “It’s very well maintained and a real collector’s piece.” She nodded. “Yes, so I’d say at least ten thousand euros—that’s what Simon always used to say.”
“You really are insane.” Lisa shook her head. “How could you just park it up in the red-light district? Didn’t it occur to you what we could do with that kind of cash? Here—at Little Rascals? We could build the best monkey bars and buy whatever other equipment we need!”
Hannah shuddered; she felt a twinge of guilt for a fraction of a second. Then she shook her head slowly but determinedly.
“You could be right,” she admitted. “But I really wouldn’t want to use the money for Little Rascals. If we bought something with it, every time I looked at it I’d be reminded that the money came from Simon’s Mustang. And that would somehow . . . Oh, I don’t know, it’d feel a bit like grave robbing.”
“Grave robbing?” Lisa replied, bewildered. “Simon said to you in his letter that you should invest his money in our business, since—”
“Lisa, please! I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking to it.”
“You’re still in a state of shock. You’re bound to regret it in the morning.”