CHAPTER 1

Quincy – Project Love

I was at my favorite spot in the woods that I had been going to regularly—to sit on the tree stump that was my seat and listen to the stillness, the wind in the treetops, and the droning of insects. As I slowly breathed in the pleasant smell of moist earth and the fragrance of the larches and scrub pines—rare at this altitude—I felt the lightness that comes when I am completely at one with nature. I could feel the center of my being, as if there were no more borders between time, space, and me. A lot had happened recently, and a lot of changes were in the wings. Life is like a stream—or like the little creek near my favorite spot that babbles on in the background like music.

Lisa died a few months ago. She knew exactly when she was going to die, and so did I. After our last conversation, I went to my room and waited for morning. I was very calm, because she had prepared herself well and went peacefully and happily into the next world. When I saw her lying in her bed, she had a small smile on her pretty face, as if she had just drifted off to sleep while listening to a bedtime story. I sat on her bed and looked at her for a long time. A deep peace was in the room.

I said a few words to those present at the memorial celebration, as Lisa had requested. We weren't mourners at all. We were happy and even laughing, because she would have liked it that way.

"Death isn't the end; it's just the beginning of something new," Lisa had said to me. "I don't want people to cry at the memorial. Make them laugh. Show them that life is beautiful and that death is part of life." And she had also said, "If you have really lived, then death is a beautiful closing, a time to rest and relax and then grow some more." She winked at me; in that moment she seemed more like a sly teenager than an eighty-four-year-old woman.

When the celebration was over, we all went to sit together on the roof terrace. Mia had prepared a place for Lisa. She smiled and said to me, "She liked being here so much. She should be our guest today as well."

* * *

Peter moved into Lisa's apartment a few weeks later. We didn't even notice that someone new had moved in at first, because Peter was very reserved and shy. I also noticed—when I happened to meet him for the first time in the elevator—that he barely looked up from the floor, as if he were afraid to look me in the eyes. Even though I tried to make polite conversation by asking him this or that (the way you do when you don't know someone), he only answered in monosyllables and never returned a question. The second the doors opened to our floor, he hurried out of the elevator as if he were fleeing something. When he got to his door, he quickly unlocked it and disappeared inside without even saying good-bye. What was he afraid of?

The next day, I went and rang his doorbell. Even though it was a Saturday and I thought he might be home because he doesn't work on the weekend, he didn't answer. Why wouldn't he open the door? Maybe he had headphones on and couldn't hear the doorbell.

But then I ran into him downstairs Sunday afternoon, just as he was about to enter the elevator. He had a bag of groceries in one arm and a six-pack of beer that he'd bought at the gas station in the other. "Hi, Peter," I said. "How's it going?"

"Everything's fine," he mumbled, barely glancing at me. He'd already shut down. But then fate came to my aid. His bag tore, and all of his groceries came crashing down, scattering everywhere. Just as he was trying to gather them together, the six-pack of beer slid out of his hand and fell as well. We heard the glass break and then saw foaming yellow-gold liquid spread across the floor. Red as a beet, he tried to rescue what could no longer be salvaged. He looked at me helplessly.

"That can happen," I said. "I'll help you."

Together we collected the groceries. I moved all the broken glass aside and cleaned the floor while he stood by, watching wordlessly. But he stayed there, not daring to leave until I had finished.

"You want to go back to the gas station?" I suggested lightly, "before you die of thirst?" He hesitated, but I had already started walking in that direction, and he followed me. As he trotted along beside me, he seemed like a clumsy bear. By the time we arrived at the gas station, he was out of breath, even though he had barely answered my questions with one word or responded to my comments.

Peter was tall and big. He wore black, horn-rimmed glasses, and his hair grew wildly in all directions. He had pimples on his forehead, even though he'd already turned twenty-four; that much I did get out of him from my questions.

When we arrived back at his apartment door, I decided to ask him if I could talk to him about a project. I could use his professional opinion regarding technical issues. (That's something else I was able to drag out of him: he was a computer specialist.)

"Uh, I don't know," he answered.

"It would really be a big help to me," I said.

"Well, okay," he said, actually looking at me for a brief moment. I suggested a date, and he accepted.

"Do you mind if I also bring Joe along?" I asked.

"Who's Joe?"

"He lives below you. The consultant."

Peter nodded and then disappeared into his apartment as he mumbled, "Later."

* * *

Joe had been living in this apartment building longer than my father and me, but we'd barely seen him. He worked for a consulting company and was constantly on the road, visiting clients worldwide and advising them on corporate mergers or consolidations—at least until recently. For the past three weeks—longer than he had ever been around the year before—he had been living here again. I met him on the street and said, "Hello" just as he was getting out of a taxi. He looked preoccupied and frazzled. As we rode up in the elevator, I asked him whether he was going to be staying longer this time.

"Just a few more days; then I'm leaving," he answered. It sounded pretty depressing.

"Where are you headed, Joe?" I asked.

"Far away," he murmured.

Something didn't seem right; I was sure of it. Why was he speaking so monosyllabically? Did he not want to talk about his next job? Or was he not supposed to?

At around noon, I went to Joe's door and rang the bell. He looked like he must have been sleeping off a hangover, so I suggested we meet in the afternoon.

"You're an experienced company consultant," I said, beginning the conversation. "Could you help me with a project that is very important to me? I just need your advice."

"I don't know if I'm the right person," he answered.

"May I briefly describe it to you?" I asked. I didn't want to be brushed off so easily, because I felt that there was something that needed to be said or that he would like to say in the right situation. I just didn't know what it was.

"Okay," he finally said.

His apartment was almost empty. It only had the most basic furniture, and there was nothing personal like pictures or photographs. It was a fairly sterile interior compared to other apartments, which all had something unique or original about them. As if he had read my thoughts, he said, "I'm hardly ever here." Then he added, "And I'm going to be gone soon."

So then I presented him with my project: Inspired by Love—One Month. At first he looked at me with his jaw hanging slack, as if I didn't have all my marbles or had come from another planet. "And how am I supposed to help you with this?" he asked.

"I need a strategy for making this project successful. I don't know anything about that. I know how I'd like to have it happen, but I need help in how I can actually realize it so that as many people as possible can participate and benefit from it. You're an expert, Joe. You know how to get a project going, the things you have to think about," I said.

He looked at me thoughtfully without saying anything, perhaps carefully reflecting on his answer. Finally, his dark countenance brightened for a fleeting second, as if he had discovered a way. I just didn't know where the way would lead or what it would be good for.

"Quincy," he said finally, "I'd like to tell you something, but it has to stay just between us. That means before I can help you, you have to help me."

"What can I do for you?" I asked, smiling with encouragement.

He said, "It's a matter of life and death."

* * *

Mirella was pregnant. She would become a mother for the first time in autumn, and—as she divulged—twice at the same time. "A boy and a girl," she said.

I put my arms around her and gently hugged her. Mirella was completely happy. She looked forward to her new role as mother, and when she finished her maternity leave she planned to return to teaching. "I just don't know how I'm going to be able to juggle everything: mother and job, wife and friend," she said. She gave me a friendly shove. After all, she is my best friend. And she will always be, even when I have a real girlfriend later on. But I still feel too young for that; after all, I'm only fifteen.

You would never know that Mirella was pregnant by looking at her. "That'll come," she said to me, laughing. "Pretty soon I'm going to look like a barrel on two legs." I can hardly believe that because there are women who barely show that they're gaining weight, and Mirella seems like one of these women to me.

* * *

Sometimes I think about Lisa. We had talked about the possibility of her and her deceased husband coming back as twins, so that they could both be near me.

Mirella once asked me if I believed in reincarnation. I'm not sure, but I don't completely rule it out either. The line between here and there is just the bat of an eyelash or a breath of air between this side and that side. Why should it not be possible to overcome it?

The birth is scheduled for the end of September. Mirella wants to work as long as possible and continue managing the project for the ideal school. Lisa created a foundation with her assets to realize the project, and she directed Mirella and Clara to manage it; I was allowed to help them. This kept Lisa still connected to us, separated only by a thin veil.

* * *

Clara and Mirella were successful in convincing enough parents of the advantages of the ideal school, and they were able to make two classes as pilot projects for the new school year starting in the fall. Mirella was up to her neck in the project because she was completely convinced of the concept. "You know that you're the father of this project," she had said to me the day before, smiling broadly.

"I sure am a young father," I had answered, and we both laughed. She placed her hands on her belly and said, "I think the two of them are laughing with us."

Mirella was excited to hear about my new project when I explained it to her. "Inspired by love? I think that's wonderful!" she exclaimed.

"I'd love to start the project in September, because that's when you are going to become a mother," I said. "What could be more beautiful than connecting Inspired by Love with a birth and new life?" She looked at me for a long time as her eyes slowly filled with tears. "That is a fabulous idea," she said. "Yes, new life is the embodiment of love. It is so beautiful that you think that way." We hugged each other, and I accompanied her home where Vincent was already waiting for her. They both divulged to me that they would be getting married at the beginning of September. "Don't tell anyone else yet. We want to surprise them," Mirella said.

* * *

My father, Thomas, founded a company with Leon after he left private banking. Now they are independent investment advisors and have built up a large customer base. I've hardly seen my father in the past weeks, because he works until late into the night. Lara, whom he's been dating for several months, stopped by our apartment a few times and waited for him. She finally left after writing him a note on a postcard; she didn't like text messaging or e-mailing. After the third postcard Lara left for him on the coffee table, I asked Thomas: "Why do you work so much?" Exhausted, he looked at me and replied, "It's going so well; I just can't stop now."

"Lara came by this evening and waited for you," I said.

Thomas looked at me, and I knew that his conscience was bothering him. Then he read her postcard and turned pale. I didn't ask what she had written because I could imagine.

"Did she say something?" he asked.

"No."

He took out his cell phone and wanted to call her, but he remembered that she wouldn't pick up. If he wanted to talk with her, it had to be face-to-face.

"Do you think you might have your priorities set a little one-sided?" I asked him.

Thomas looked like he'd been caught red-handed. "I work from early in the morning until late at night, and Lara sits here with you and waits for me. I really hadn't intended things to work out this way," he answered.

"You are excellent at your job. What more are you trying to prove?" I asked him.

"That I'm the best?" he said.

"And what are you going to achieve with that?" I asked back. "Money? Recognition? Gratification that you were able to prove something to your old coworkers at the private bank?"

"I'm too tired to think about all that now," he said weakly.

"And when do you want to? Tomorrow? Do you want to go to my favorite spot?" I asked.

"Quincy, what's wrong with me? Why can't I manage to create some kind of consistency in my life? A few months ago, I was completely frustrated in my job; I had no love relationship and no goals. Now I have my own company with customers beating at the door, and I have met a wonderful woman who means the world to me. Everything should be great. And yet I am still sitting here, overly tired and empty. Why? Why can't I get my life properly in order?" he asked.

"Let's meet tomorrow evening there, at my spot," I said. I could tell that there was no point in continuing the conversation right then. "Sleep well," I said.

"And what should I tell Lara?" he asked. He held her postcard up toward me. "She doesn't want to see me for the next three weeks, and then only if I know what I really want."

I read the card. Yep, she wanted a time-out. And she wanted clarity. She was a strong woman with both feet on the ground; her profession as a midwife alone gave her those qualities.

"Write her," I suggested, "tomorrow, when we get back."

"Three weeks without her!" he groaned. Self-pity had overcome him. He wouldn't be able to get a wink of sleep that way. Outside, the rain was just beginning, large warm drops falling from the sky. "Let's go for a walk in the rain," I suggested to him.

"Now?" he asked.

I grabbed my jacket and went toward the door. After an hour of silently walking beside each other through the rain in our neighborhood, we returned. We were wet from head to toe. But the movement had done him good. Now he would be able to sleep. When I went by his room a few minutes later, I saw that he was sleeping soundly and deeply. I turned out the light.

* * *

Clara is a role model for me. I admire her because she is a champion for young people with all of her energy. If there is ever a topic or an issue dealing with children or teens, she has an open ear. The things she achieved in the last years as the city councilwoman for education benefited all of us. It was also wonderful the way she got the ideal school pilot project up and running so very quickly. Normally, as she says sometimes when she's talking about politicians, it can take a very long time before words are followed by actions. Is she an exception to this? If she is, then I hope that a whole lot of exceptions exist.

When I told Clara about my new project, she smiled and said, "Quincy, where in the world do you get all of your ideas?" I answered, "They're just inside me. They fly to me. All I need to do is let them out and—voilà—there they are! Isn't it like that for everybody?"

She chuckled and said, "Well, I strongly doubt that that's the way it is for everybody. Some people live their whole lives quite well, thank you, without ever having an idea." I knew that she didn't really mean it, that she was trying to make a joke. Then her face changed expression and she looked at me thoughtfully. "You don't think you take on too much, Quincy? You're supposed to be having fun, hanging out with your friends, enjoying life more at your age."

I quickly reassured her when I answered, "Projects like these are the best entertainment there is. They relax me and make me feel good. And my friends also help me. They tease me sometimes when I present them with another one of my ideas, but then they come round and back me up. It's great!"

Bringing ideas to life is easier for me than for Clara, who has to deal with politicians who need to represent different positions. They "always need to be right," as Clara says now and then after a difficult and windy meeting that results in nothing concrete. I have it a lot easier because we discuss a suggestion, and then at some point we say, "Okay, should we do it?" And then we just do it.