Every Seventh Wave (18 page)

Hi Leo, by the way. I hope you didn't seriously believe that I'd let you reel off your melodramatic “Pam”-phase analyses for an entire week without putting my own gloss on it. I'm not going to have you run out of steam and then go silent again for months. Talking of hot air, right now I'm in a delightful, crypt-like, low-lit Internet café, about three meters square, with black walls. It must be the hangout of the pierced successors to Croatia's No Future movement, the kind of place where in five minutes you inhale more as a passive smoker than your average chain-smoker would in an hour. From where I'm sitting in this nihilistic fug, your reflections on “Pam” seem all the more bizarre. So come on, tell me, don't be shy! Why did you tell her about me? What happened then? And what will happen now? I'll be back in this fine Internet establishment sometime over the next few days to collect your notes on the subject, if my lungs aren't scorched in the meantime.

Kiss-kiss,

Emmi

P.S. (how original!) I look forward to seeing you again!

One day later

Subject: Point of contact

Dear Emmi,

How lovely to get you on such ravishing form! The Croatian sea and crypt air is clearly doing your sensitive arteries a world of good.

1) Why did I tell Pam, Pamela about you? I had to. I came to the point where I had no choice. It was YOUR point, Emmi! Once described and identified by me thus: “on the palm of my left hand, roughly in the middle, where the life line is crossed by deep creases and turns down toward the artery.” It's the place where you accidentally touched me on our second meeting. It has remained my ultimate Emmi point of contact, preserved for all eternity.

Months later, at our notorious five-minute meeting before Pamela got here, you gave me your “souvenir,” your “present.” Were you aware of the significance of this gesture? Did you have any idea what it would lead to? “Psst!” you whispered. “Don't say anything, Leo! Not a word!” You took my left hand, brought it up to your mouth, and kissed our point of contact. And you gently stroked your thumb over it too. Your parting words: “Bye, Leo. All the best. Don't forget me!” And then the door was closed. I've played this scene back hundreds of times, re-created your kiss on the point thousands of times. Given that I'm not exactly skilled in describing the various stages of sexual arousal, I'll leave it to you to imagine how I felt.

In any case, from then on I found it impossible to be intimate with Pamela without feeling your point and without thinking of you and feeling you, Emmi. And so that theory about cheating I'd so pompously elaborated was shot to pieces. Can you remember the words I wrote to you? “My feelings for you don't detract from those I have for her. The two have nothing to do with each other. They aren't in competition.” Rubbish! Inexcusable! Totally unrealistic. Disproved by a single, tiny point. For a long time I didn't want to admit that my left hand was beginning to avoid Pamela's body. I didn't want to acknowledge the defensive position it adopted, how intent it was on protecting its secret, hiding it in a clenched fist.

In the end Pamela must have noticed. That evening she made a forceful grab for my unwilling left hand, tried everything she could to prize open my clenched fist, turned it into a game, gave a strained laugh, increased the pressure, kneeled on my forearm. To start with I put up some serious resistance. But finally I realized I wasn't going to be able to hide our “everything” within my five fingers forever. I jerked my hand out of her grasp, opened my fist, held my hand up to her face and said in exasperation (I felt terrible, totally at her mercy, humiliated, resentful, condemned), “Here you are! Have it! Happy now?” She was distraught, asked me what was wrong all of a sudden, whether it was something she'd said or done. I just apologized. Pamela had no idea why. But afterward I had no choice: I told her about you.

Actually, all I wanted to do at first was to say your name and see how I got on. I used the story of the indomitable seventh wave as an opportunity to mention that I'd just recently been reminded of it—“by Emmi, a good friend.” Pamela immediately pricked up her ears and asked, “Emmi? Who's she? Where do you know her from?” The floodgates were now open, and I spent a good hour spouting forth about us until every last drop had trickled out. In fact it was the perfect example of those soaring, foaming, tumbling seventh waves you described. A wave that broke free, changing everything, re-creating the landscape, leaving nothing the same as before.

Enjoy a lovely morning in the sea!

Leo

Three hours later

Subject: Adieu

2) What happened after that? Not much. The tide ebbed. A lull. Silence. Embarrassment. A shaking of heads. Mistrust. Cold. Quivering. Shivering. Her first question: “Why are you telling me all this?” Me: “I thought it was about time you knew.” Her: “Why?” Me: “Because it was part of my life.” Her: “It?” Me: “Emmi.” Her: “Was?” Me: “We became friends, we send each other emails occasionally. She's happily back together with her husband.” Her: “And if she weren't?” Me: “She is.” Her: “Do you still love her?” Me: “Pamela, I love
you
! I'm moving to Boston with you. Isn't that proof enough?” She smiled and gave the back of my head a fleeting stroke. I could work out what she was thinking.

Then she stood up and went to the door. She turned again and said, “Just one more question: Am I here just because of her?” I hesitated, I thought about it, I said, “Pamela, there's a background to everything. Nothing exists in a vacuum.” At this she left the room. For her the subject was closed. I made several attempts to talk to her about it. I longed for a discussion, I would have put up with a violent hailstorm just so that another clear day could finally dawn. To no avail. Pamela thwarted any talk. There was no argument, no reproach, no nasty words, not even a nasty look. No, there were no looks at all, only glancing blows. Her voice sounded like a recording. The softer her touches, the more painful they seemed. We continued as if nothing had happened. We tortured each other like this for some weeks, together, side by side, in concert, in sync. Until finally I understood: I hadn't only told Pamela the history of you and me. I had also told her our whole story, hers and mine. And I had told it all the way to the end. There was nothing left but for us to say adieu.

The following morning

Subject: So, so, so sad!

Hi Leo,

I'd love to be able to distract us both from the contents of your email with some kind of daft joke. But this time I can't do it. I hate stories with unhappy endings, especially so early in the morning. Yours has brought tears to my eyes, and now I can't stop crying. The man sitting next to me, forsaken by the night and looking as if he has a dental brace embedded in his forehead, he even stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in sympathy. I find everything you've written so, so, so desperately sad, Leo, and the way in which you've written it is sad too! I feel so, so, so sorry for you! I would so, so, so much like to embrace you now and never let you go. You are so, so, so sweet! And so, so, so unbelievably lacking in any talent for affairs of the heart. You do everything at exactly the wrong moment, and if it were ever the right time to do something, you certainly wouldn't do it, or you'd do it wrong. You and “Pam”—it could never have come to anything. I knew that the moment I set eyes on her. Playing golf together, fine. Visiting relatives in Boston, eating turkey at Christmas, sex once in a while (if you must), all that I can understand. But I couldn't see you living together!

Right, now I've got to calm myself down. Fiona's waiting outside. She wants us to try and find a shopping mall in the local fishing village … Time for your next tragic chapter.

Until soon, my love.

Emmi

Two days later

Subject: Part three

3) So where does the story go from here?—I don't have a clue, Emmi dear. I'm still jotting down a few keywords to plan my next six months. If you have any useful tips, then please send them over. I might spend the remainder of the summer in Hamburg with my sister and wait by the North Sea for a groundbreaking seventh wave. Anyway, there's no reason for you to feel sad or worry about me. Even if I feel a little worn down, I really am happy. I can't see much, but what I
can
see, I see clearly. You, for example, in the Croatian crypt-café and on the beach, in a green bikini (please don't disappoint me by saying it's blue!).

If my math is right, you and your family have five days' vacation left. I hope you can enjoy them undisturbed. I'll do my bit to help by burying myself in my stacks of neglected seminar work, and won't write to you again until you're back. Thanks, anyway, for—your ears, your eyes, for your point of contact. For you! You're so terribly important to me. You really, really are!

Leo

Three hours later

Re:

As it happens I do have a useful tip for you, Leo. Would you add it to your list of keywords, please?—A week on Thursday, time: 7:30 p.m., place: Ristorante Impressione, a table for two booked in the name of Emmi Rothner. I look forward to it! Please make sure you're there, however worn away you're feeling! Please, please, please!

A kiss from the crypt,

Emmi

P.S. You were close: it was the brown-and-white bikini. I'm going to wear the green one today. And then when you see me, you'll see me
really
clearly!

Three days later

Re: Impressione

Hi Leo,

You haven't yet said whether you can come on Thursday. I don't want to force you, I just want to know why I'm plonking myself down in the sun for an hour every day, surrounded by people in loungers. Until a week ago I used to pity them for indulging in this dull nonactivity that turns your brain to mush.

Lots of love,

Emmi

P.S. Jonas “Spider-Man” Rothner sends his regards! He made a bet with me that you were a passionate hang glider and windsurfer. I put my money on you being a beachcomber, mussel picker, and stone collector.

One day later

Subject: Admission

Dear Emmi,

I didn't want to burdwwen you with this on your vacation, but I have to admit that I'm scared about our meeting.

Four hours later

Re:

Oh, Leo, you don't have to be scared. It'll be the sixth time we've met. The seventh is the one you'll have to watch out for.

By the way, I'm hereby modifying my personal chart of the most erotic men on Earth: racing-car enthusiasts, travel-show visitors, men in sandals, men in beer tents, sulky men, and—men who are scared.

Until soon,

Emmi

Three minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi,

What are you expecting from our “Italian evening”? I know you'll be familiar with the question, but I find it gets in the way of every meeting, particularly this one.

Two minutes later

Re:

1) Antipasti di pesce

2) Linguine al limone

3) Panna cotta

4) And to go with all that, before it, after it, during it, and accompanied by wine: Leo!

5) Sitting opposite me, there to talk to, to hear his voice, to look at him with my own eyes, close enough to touch, kneecap to kneecap almost: Leo!

(If you promise to write back straightaway without thinking too hard about it, however much that goes against your natural instincts, I'll hang about in this smoke-box for a few more minutes.)

One minute later

Re:

Are you going to behave differently from before?

Thirty seconds later

Re:

You can't ask questions like that, Leo. Who can tell? And anyway, every time we see each other it's different.

Forty seconds later

Re:

I mean because of Pamela.

Two minutes later

Re:

I know exactly what you mean. And I don't think I would behave differently toward you because of “Pam.” If I behave differently, it's because of you. Or me. Or put another way: if you behave differently toward me, then I'll behave differently toward you. And because up until now you've always behaved differently toward me, you'll behave differently this time too, and in turn I'll behave differently toward you. And besides, we've never been out for dinner together. The very fact of your eating will mean that you're behaving differently toward me. And my reaction to that will be to eat back, that's a promise! Do you mind if I climb back out of this crypt into the sunshine?

Three minutes later

Subject: May I?

Does that mean I'm allowed back into the sunshine? O.K., I'm off. Bye, Leo. I'll be in touch when I'm home.

Kiss-kiss,

Emmi

Simultaneously

Re:

Of course you are. See you soon. Please write when you're back. Much love.

Yours,

Leo

Three hours later

Subject: Nice bikini

I like the bikini. I like you in green!

One day later