Every Seventh Wave (3 page)

Fifteen minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi One, it soooooo happens that I've also got our emails from back then, when we were practicing telediagnosis on each other. For “Emmi Two,” you glossed over my sister's observations about her being “self-confident, cool,” the way she “looked at men very casually,” and how she had “long, slim legs” and a “beautiful face.” All that mattered to you was that she had slow movements and large breasts (something you've been shooting off about ever since we've known each other). It's obvious that you don't particularly like her. So you're not her. Same with “Emmi Three.” She doesn't interest you. You dismiss her shyness immediately, this being in any case a trait that I suspect is alien to you. And you say nothing about her “exotic complexion,” her “almond eyes,” the way she avoided eye contact, all those things that might make her sound interesting. It's only with “Emmi One” that you're generous in your observations. You like to point out that her short, dark hair may have grown, you mention her “dignified arrogance masking a slight insecurity,” and that she's a bit “lofty.” You do say “buzzing,” but you leave out “hectic” and “nervous.” These are traits that you're not so happy about. So, my dear Emmi One, I'm looking forward to meeting you in the café on Saturday afternoon—dark hair, lofty, and buzzing. See you soon, Leo.

Ten minutes later

Re:

If I'd known how euphoric you can be (can write) when you think you've seen through something, I'd have tried a little harder to be transparent, my love. I warn you, though, you should expect any one of those Emmis. Who knows what goes on in the outside world, and how strongly—or feebly—this is reflected here, where words make sense of themselves. Besides, of the two of us, you're the one who's been shooting off about large breasts. The very mention of them evidently triggers some kind of stressful oedipal situation. I don't know how else to describe it, but you always seem to be up on your “large breasts” high horse, if you'll forgive the metaphor.

Until soon,

Emmi

Five minutes later

Re:

That's something we can chat about in the café, if you like. It's looking as if we might not get beyond the subject of “breasts, yes, no, large, small,” my dearest, my love, my dearest love.

Ten minutes later

Re:

Let's avoid the following discussion topics when we meet:

1) Breasts and all other body parts. (I'd rather not talk about outward appearances—they'll be obvious enough.)

2) “Pam” (and how she imagines her future in “Old Europe” with Leo Leike and his closets full of feelings).

3) Plus all Leo Leike's other private matters that have nothing to do with Emmi.

4) And all Emmi Rothner's private matters that have nothing to do with Leo Leike.

This hour should please, please, be about nothing other and no one other than the two of us. Do you think we can manage that?

Eight minutes later

Re:

What are we going to talk about then? You haven't really left us with much.

Fifteen minutes later

Re:

You appear to be taking fright again, Leo—your chronic, dormant, contact-with-Emmi fear. You'd probably prefer to stick to “large breasts,” am I right? I really don't mind what we talk about. Let's tell each other tales from our childhood. I won't pay any attention to the form and content of what you say, only to how you say it. I want to SEE you talk, Leo. I want to SEE you listen. I want to SEE you breathe. After all this time of close, intimate, auspicious, measured, endless and yet curtailed, fulfilled and unfulfilled virtual reality, I'd just like to actually, finally set eyes on you. That's all.

Seven minutes later

Re:

I hope you're not going to be disappointed. Because I don't LOOK particularly exciting, neither when I'm talking, nor when I'm listening, and certainly not when I'm breathing. (I've got a cold.) But that's what you wanted; you were the one who wanted us to meet.

Three hours later

Subject: ??

Have I said something wrong (again)? Have a nice evening.

Leo

The following day

Subject: Scared

Good morning, Emmi. Yes, I'm scared. I'm scared that what I've meant to you (and maybe what I still mean to you) will evaporate the moment you set eyes on me. You see, I think that my on-screen words read better than my face looks when it utters them. You might be shocked when you discover who it is you've spent two years wasting all those words and feelings on, and what kind of feelings they were. That's what I meant when I wrote yesterday, “But that's what you wanted; you were the one who wanted to meet up.” I hope you understand me now. If I don't get another reply from you, then see you tomorrow.

Leo

Five hours later

Re:

Yes, I do understand you now; you've made yourself beautifully clear. When it's been about “us,” you've always talked exclusively about what
you
might mean to
me
, and in fact you still do. Because that's how you measure how much
I
might mean to
you
. In other words, if you mean a lot to me, I mean something to you. If you mean little to me, I mean nothing to you. My physical being is superfluous as far as you're concerned, and so you don't especially feel the need to meet me in person, which is why you're not exactly enthusiastic about being forced into it either. Because whoever and whatever I really am meant nothing and still means nothing to you. But back to your fear, perhaps I can put your mind at rest: what you mean to me is well on the way to evaporating, even before we meet (that's a poorly constructed sentence!). What you look like won't matter in the slightest, my dearest.

Ten minutes later

Re:

I think we'd best forget our meeting, my dearest.

Twenty seconds later

Re:

Yup, let's forget it. You might as well re-activate your out-of-office message, my dearest.

Ten minutes later

Re:

All my fault. I should never have replied to you after Boston.

One minute later

Re:

All my fault. I should never have written to say that lights were on in flat 15 at three in the morning. What has it got to do with me? Oh, by the way, in case you were getting what you mean to me out of all proportion, I just happened to be passing in a taxi.

Two minutes later

Re:

You're right, my lights have nothing to do with you, but I admit it was very kind of you to want to help me keep my electricity bill down. For the record—even if this is a meaningless comment now—you can't tell whether the lights are on in flat 15 from a taxi.

One minute later

Re:

O.K., so maybe it was a double-decker bus, or a propeller plane. From where we now stand it's irrelevant. Night-night!

Seven hours later

Re:

In case you haven't just flown past, tonight the lights are on again in flat 15. I can't sleep.

Ten minutes later

Subject: Meaningful stuff

Let me get this clear, Emmi.

1) What you mean to me means at least as much to me as what I mean to you.

2) It's precisely because you
do
mean so much to me that it means a lot to me that I might also mean a lot to you.

3) If you hadn't meant so much to me, it wouldn't have mattered to me how much I mean to you.

4) But as it
does
really matter, this means that you mean so much to me that it has to matter how much I mean to you.

5) If you knew how much you meant to me, you would understand why I don't want to stop meaning something to you.

6) Conclusion one: You obviously had no idea how much you meant to me.

7) Conclusion two: Maybe you do now.

8) I'm tired. Good night.

Four hours later

Re:

Good morning, Leo. Nobody's ever said that to me. And I don't believe it's been said by anyone to anyone else before. Not only because no one could ever formulate such a thing in such a (circuitous) way twice. But also because very few people can think with such intense feeling. I'm so very grateful for that. You have no idea what it means to me!!! See you later, 2 p.m. at Café Huber?

One hour later

Re:

2 p.m. at Café Huber.

One minute later

Re:

So that's four hours and twenty-six minutes.

One minute later

Re:

Twenty-five.

One minute later

Re:

Twenty-four.

Forty seconds later

Re:

And this time you're really going to be there!

Fifty seconds later

Re:

I certainly am. What about you?

Two minutes later

Re:

Of course. I'm not going to do us out of our “fitting conclusion.”

Twenty minutes later

Re:

Was that your last email, then?

Twenty seconds later

Re:

No. Was that yours?

Thirty seconds later

Re:

No, mine neither. Are you excited?

Twenty seconds later

Re:

Yes, I am. Are you?

Twenty-five seconds later

Re:

Very.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

You needn't be. I'm a pretty average person, nothing to get excited about when you first set eyes on me.

Twenty minutes later

Re:

It's far too late for damage limitation, Leo! So was
that
your last email?

Thirty seconds later

Re:

My second last, dearest Emmi.

Forty seconds later

Re:

This one's my last! See you soon, Leo. Welcome to the World of Real-Life Encounters.

CHAPTER THREE

That same evening

Subject: (no subject)

Thank you, Emmi.

Leo

The following morning

Subject: (no subject)

My pleasure, Leo.

Emmi

Twelve hours later

Subject: Was it …

… so awful?

Two hours later

Re:

Why do you ask? You know what it was like. You were there. You sat opposite your “illusion of perfection” in person for 67 minutes and smiled at her for at least 54 of them. I can't even begin to itemize everything you managed to pack into your smile, your range was that comprehensive. There was certainly a fair portion of embarrassment in among it all. But no, it wasn't awful. It wasn't awful at all. I hope your throat is feeling better. As I said: Isla-Mint lozenges, preferably red currant flavor. And gargle with sage tea before you go to bed!

Have a nice evening,

Emmi

Ten minutes later

Re:

“It wasn't awful at all.” What was it then, dear Emmi? What was it
at all
?

Five minutes later

Re:

Hey Leo,

Since when have you been the one to ask all the exciting questions? Aren't you the one who's supposed to be providing the exciting answers? So if it wasn't awful, then what was it, Leo dear? Take your time.

Night-night,

Emmi

Three minutes later

Re:

How can two identical Emmis write and speak in such different voices?

Fifty seconds later

Re:

With a lot of training, Mr. Language Psychologist! Now sleep well, dream nice dreams, and breathe freely.

By the way, dear Leo, your “Thank you, Emmi” was feeble. Very feeble. Well below your potential.

The following evening

Subject: A stranger

Dear Emmi,

For an hour I've been deleting chunks of an email in which I'm trying to describe what I thought of you at our meeting. I can't seem to collect my impressions. No matter what I write about you, it sounds banal, clichéd, “well below my potential.” So now I'm going to try it the other way round. I'll tell you what
you
thought of
me
when we met. I hope you don't mind if I use one of your handy lists, just for a change. O.K., here we go:

1) You didn't like the fact that I got there before you.

2) You were amazed that I recognized you straightaway, because you knew that I hadn't counted on finding “this” Emmi.

3) You were disconcerted when I kissed you on the cheek as if that had been something we'd been doing for years. (You didn't offer me the second cheek—I understood why.)

4) Right from the word
go
you felt as though you were sitting with a stranger who claimed to be Leo Leike, but didn't offer any proof that he was the real Leo Leike.

5) You didn't find this stranger at all disagreeable. He looked you in the eye. He made all the right noises at the right times. He didn't tell any rambling stories. He didn't panic when there were long gaps in the conversation. He didn't have bad breath, nor did his eyebrows twitch. He was entertaining and easy to be with, if a little hoarse. In spite of all this, you couldn't help inquiring of that beautiful, emerald-green watch, which had paired itself with the most delicate of wrists, how much longer you had to act out an intimacy—or have it acted out before you—which was wholly absent in that public arena. There was nothing about me you recognized. Nothing was familiar. Nothing touched you. Nothing reminded you of Leo the letter writer. Nothing from your in-box found its way to that table in the café. None of your expectations were fulfilled, dear Emmi. And that's why, as far as Leo Leike is concerned, you're somewhat … no, “disappointed” would be going too far. Disenchanted. Disenchanted is closer: “So that's really him; that's Leo Leike. O.K. I see.” That's what you're probably thinking at the moment. Am I right?