Your Perfect Year(94)

“Yes, please do.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, never better!” He had cleared his throat. “We’re just . . . trying out some new ideas. A kind of . . . literary experiment.”

“Ah.” The agent had paused, somewhat at a loss. “All right, I’ll send you and Markus Bode some projects in the next few days.”

The “projects” were still lying untouched on Jonathan’s desk: five thick manuscripts with such suggestive titles as In the Golden Glow of the Steppe and The Prima Donna Conspiracy. Even if these works had come from the pen of Hubertus Krull himself, there’d be no taking such titles seriously!

And as if it weren’t bad enough, Markus Bode had in a rush of blood bought copies of all the novels jostling for position in the top twenty of hardcover and paperback bestseller lists. Two copies of each, no less.

“So we can both gain a good overview,” he had proudly told Jonathan when he called at the villa three weeks ago with two large boxes of books. Jonathan’s ineffectual protests—that he still firmly believed they should wait until the end of the fiscal year so they could make a more informed decision about how things stood with the press—had fallen on deaf ears. “It won’t do us any harm to read all these—then at least we’ll be up to date with the publishing world.”

He had taken out one of the books with a grin and passed it to Jonathan. “I can particularly recommend this one to you. It’s a wonderfully warmhearted story about a paraplegic man who wants to commit suicide until a young, rather gawky caregiver gives him a new lease on life.”

“Um, yes, that does sound wonderfully warmhearted,” Jonathan had replied with more than a hint of irony, wondering what had got into Bode. They had always seen eye to eye on literary quality; maybe his separation from his wife had shaken him more than was immediately apparent. While he seemed outwardly the same as always, descriptions like “wonderfully warmhearted” gave more than a little cause for concern.

Jonathan dismissed his thoughts about his CEO’s private life and concentrated on the Italian phrases coming from his earphones. It was his ambitious aim to complete the first module by the end of the month, despite a recommended study period of six months, so that he could move on to the advanced lessons. He wasn’t too sure what he was going to do with his mother’s language, as he had no intention of traveling to Italy—since his parents’ divorce, the country had been . . . there was no other way to describe it . . . emotionally contaminated. But it had been his first impulse when the diary urged him to learn a new skill, and he had followed his instincts.

The voice in his ear, telling him to find the right preposition without prompting, was interrupted by a melodic ringing. Jonathan looked at his cell phone; it was two forty-five p.m., and he had set the alarm to remind himself that he had an appointment. At three he had to be at the Lütt Café on Haynstrasse, where he would eat cake until he felt ill. Or a slice of cake, at least.

He switched the alarm off, rose from his armchair, went downstairs, and grabbed his jacket. It was about a ten-minute walk to the café, which meant he’d be there promptly at three—even though it wasn’t really a matter of promptness, since the diary only mentioned in the afternoon. But in Jonathan’s opinion—and, so he believed, that of most people—the afternoon began at three o’clock these days, so he had decided to allow himself a short break from his Italian course to go for a coffee. Jonathan had long since given up hope of finding the diary’s owner (if he was honest, he no longer even wanted to), but following the instructions in the Filofax to the letter had become a habit. And why not? There was no harm, and he enjoyed it.

He cheerfully swung the front door open. Although he rarely went for coffee and cake in the afternoon, if for no other reason than to preserve his ideal body-mass index, he was actually looking forward to a little walk in the spring sunshine with a slice of something sweet to round things off. They might even have gooseberry meringue tart at the Lütt Café. That had been a favorite of Jonathan’s since his childhood. His grandmother Emilie had not only a talent for spotting literary genius but also for making an excellent gooseberry tart with heavenly sweet meringue topping.

After his habitual checks that his door was properly locked, and setting the burglar alarm, Jonathan turned with a smile that immediately turned to astonishment.

“Hello, Jonathan.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here!”





50

Hannah

Friday, March 16, 2:17 p.m.

“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to yooou! Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!”

“What’s going on?” Dazed and confused, Hannah fought her way out from under her quilt, her eyes watering as she blinked in the daylight. “What’s all this noise?”

“Out!” Lisa said. She was standing at the foot of Hannah’s bed, grinning mischievously.

“Lisa, please! Go away,” Hannah grumbled. She grabbed her duvet and pulled it back over her head.

“Sorry,” came the muffled voice of her friend, “but there’s no way I’m going to do that!”

“Go away!” Hannah muttered into the sheets, thrashing her legs in annoyance. “And you’d better leave your key here!”

“Noooo,” Lisa sang out cheerfully. A second later, Hannah felt a hefty tug that left her exposed, without her protective cocoon.