Your Perfect Year(92)
Yes, Simon had drowned; there was no doubt about that. And the pathologist was certain about something else: he really hadn’t had much longer to live—a few months at most. His cancer had been far too advanced for any chance of successful treatment.
Hannah’s reaction had shocked the police officer. She had burst out in hysterical laughter, and the poor woman had been unable to calm her for several minutes. Hannah hadn’t understood it herself. The others probably thought that this information would help reconcile her to Simon’s suicide, since she now had proof that he’d been right, that he didn’t have much longer to live—and in that respect it had made some sense to cut off a long, agonizing illness with a quick death. After all, everyone had the right in such a case to determine the way they died—at least, that was what Hannah had always believed.
And yet. And yet this news had pulled the rug from beneath Hannah’s feet, since it made her gift for Simon, which in hindsight had to be viewed as her farewell gift, look merely cynical and repulsive.
Who was she, Hannah Marx, to have had the hubris to have known better? Oh, the arrogance with which she had brushed aside Simon’s fears and worries, actually believing she could help him close his eyes to the facts with her stupid life-is-what-you-make-it diary.
She was ashamed. There was no other way of describing the feeling that had raged inside her since the policewoman’s visit except deep, hideous shame.
And even now, as Hannah shook the hands of all those people expressing their sympathy, she couldn’t rid herself of it. She felt like a total hypocrite. As though she didn’t have the right to be here at all, in mourning as Simon’s “widow.” She had even falsely identified herself as his fiancée to ensure that the police gave her every bit of information, to make sure she had the right to be kept informed of the progress of the investigation.
Simon’s fiancée. Hannah closed her eyes and forced down another sob. She had intended the engagement to happen on May 11, the anniversary of the day they’d met. She had thought it all out so beautifully! Had chosen a pair of engagement rings of beaten silver from a small jeweler on the Eppendorfer Landstrasse and set them aside, telling the manager that someone would come to fetch them.
She had hoped Simon would buy the rings, and had tucked an envelope containing five hundred euros into the pocket of the diary. The jeweler had been quite taken with her romantic plan, and had almost whooped for joy when Hannah had told her to give the purchaser—assuming he collected the rings—an envelope that contained all the further instructions: that Simon should come at eight that evening to Da Riccardo, where Hannah had reserved “their” table for the two of them. And where she had intended to propose to him when he arrived.
But “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” John Lennon had nailed it. There would be no more proposals, at least not from her to Simon. The rings would eventually be bought by someone else; another couple would use them to declare their undying love and fidelity.
Hannah knew she ought to tell the jeweler that no one would be coming to pick up the rings, that they should be put back in the display window and that her engagement to Simon had fallen apart before it had begun. But Hannah simply couldn’t bring herself to phone the shop and break off her engagement with such finality. It felt like yet another betrayal, like she’d be trampling on Simon’s memory. She consoled herself with the thought that May 11 would come and go, and when no one appeared to collect the rings, the jeweler would simply put them back on sale. What did a few weeks matter? Nothing, compared with the eternity Simon had now entered without Hannah.
“I still can’t believe it.” S?ren, one of Simon’s best friends, was standing in front of Hannah offering his hand. He looked like she felt: his eyes red and swollen, dark shadows beneath them.
“Me neither,” Hannah said softly. “Me neither.”
“Are you managing?” S?ren asked.
She shrugged. “What’s managing? I have to go on somehow.”
“If you need anything, you know where I am, okay?”
“Yes, of course, thanks.”
“What are you doing with Simon’s apartment? Do you need me to help clear it out?”
“No,” she replied. “It’ll get done. There’s enough money in his account for the rent. There’s no hurry.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for you to get it over with as soon as possible?”
“I . . .” Hannah swallowed with difficulty. She thought of the scene of devastation she had left behind in Simon’s apartment. Of course she’d tidy it up, would clear out her boyfriend’s things and hand the keys back to the landlord. She’d do it eventually, but the way she felt at the moment, it was enough simply to be able to breathe. “I just can’t right now.”
“I can understand that,” S?ren said. “Feel free to give me a call whenever you’re ready.”
“I will.” They hugged, then Hannah turned to the next mourner.
Just under an hour later, Lisa dropped Hannah off outside her apartment in Lokstedt. There had been no reception after the funeral—the very idea of marking Simon’s death with even coffee and cake turned Hannah’s stomach. After shaking the hands of the last mourners, she had simply wanted to go home, crawl into her bed, pull the covers over her head, and wait as long as it took for the pain to finally subside. Although she couldn’t imagine that it ever would.