Every Seventh Wave (9 page)

Emmi

Two days later

Subject: Just tell me …

… whether you

a) Delete my emails without reading them

b) Read my emails and then delete them

c) Read them and save them

d) Don't get any emails from me at all

Five hours later

Re:

c

The following morning

Subject: Good choice!

That was the best choice you could have made, Leo! And how elaborately you've described, justified, and formulated it! Erm, has the effort of replying given you carpal tunnel syndrome, or is there something else on the way?

Best wishes,

Emmi

Two days later

Subject: Analysis of “c”

Hi Leo,

You must have known the extent to which your first and only offering from the alphabet in sixteen weeks would lend wings to my fantasies. What could Leo the Language Psychologist possibly have wanted to say with an answer like that? What did he expect to achieve by it?

a) With that most minuscule written sign of life, was he hoping to gain a place in my personal book of Leo records?

b) Is he captivated by the notion that the recipient of the “c” will spend at least an hour with her therapist pondering the difference between “c” followed by full stop, “c” with a full stop and parenthesis, and “c” stripped bare,
au natur
, as Leike created it?

c) Was “dropping me a line” in this perfectionist, minimalist way an attempt to come across (yet again) as more interesting than the situation warranted?

d) Or was it purely content-driven? Was he trying to say: Yes, I am reading Emmi's emails, I'll even keep saving them, but I'm definitely not going to go on writing to her? And I'm being polite and telling her so. I'm sending her a signal, a feeble signal, but at least it's a signal, even if it's the smallest signal possible, still, it's a signal. I'm sending her a chicken's toe ring with a bite taken out of it. Was that it?

In joyful expectation of another “letter” from you,

Emmi

Three hours later

Re:

A question of my own, dear Emmi: When you say THE END so definitively (as you last did sixteen weeks ago, the day after … you might remember what it was the day after), what do you actually mean?

a) THE END?

b) THE END?

c) THE END?

d) THE END?

And why can't you stick with either a), b), c), or d)?

Thirty minutes later

Re:

1) Because I like writing.

2) O.K.: because I like writing to YOU.

3) Because my therapist says it does me good, and she should know, she studied it.

4) Because I was curious to know how long you would manage not to write to me.

5) Because I was even more curious what your answer would be. (I admit, I'd never have guessed it would be “c.”)

6) Because I was and still am even
more
curious to find out how you were.

7) Because these kinds of curiosities for external things improve the air around here, the atmosphere in my tiny, sterile, empty new flat with the silent piano and bare walls, which keep on flinging baffled question marks in my face. A flat that has set me back fifteen years in one fell swoop, but without making me fifteen years younger as a result. And now, at thirty-five, I'm at the bottom of a twenty-year-old's stairwell. Which means I've got to climb all those stairs again.

8) Where were we? Oh yes, at “The End,” and why I don't mean “The End” when I say it: because there are certain things I see quite differently from how I saw them sixteen weeks ago, if perhaps less conclusively.

9) Because the end doesn't quite mean the end, doesn't quite mean the end, doesn't quite mean the end, Leo. Because in the end, each end is also a beginning.

Have a nice evening. And thanks for writing!

Emmi

Ten minutes later

Re:

What? Have you moved out, Emmi? Have you and Bernhard separated?

Two hours later

Re:

I've moved out, I've stepped back a little. I've put some distance between myself and Bernhard. The physical space that separates us now reflects the kind of relationship he and I have had for the past two years. I'm trying to ensure that the children don't suffer as a result. I still want to be there for them whenever they need me. The new circumstances are awful for Jonas. You should see his face when he asks me why I never spend the night at home anymore. I say: “Papa and I aren't getting along very well at the moment.” Jonas says: “But at night that shouldn't make any difference.” And I say: “It does when all that separates you is a thin wall.” He says: “Then I'll swap bedrooms with you. I don't mind if there's only a thin wall between me and Papa.” What is one supposed to say to that?

Bernhard recognizes his failings and deficiencies. He's ashamed. He's contrite, defeated, completely wiped out. He's trying to salvage what he can, while I try to identify if there is anything that can be salvaged. We've talked so much over the past few months, but unfortunately it's come several years too late. We've peeped behind the facade of our relationship for the very first time, and it looks musty and desolate. It's never been worked on, never cleaned, never aired, everything in a state of decay. Can we ever make amends?

We also talked a lot about you, Leo. But I'll only tell you what we said if you really want to know. (The fact that you'll obviously want to know means that we'll stay in email contact. That's my cunning plan!) I don't want to put any pressure on you, but my therapist is convinced that you're very good for me. She says: “I really don't understand why you spend so much money on sessions with me. You get it all for nothing with your Leo Leike. So why don't you do yourself a favor and make more of an effort with him!” So I'm doing myself a favor and making more of an effort with you, Leo dear. And you're extremely welcome to make a bit more of an effort with me in return.

Good night.

The following evening

Subject: (no subject)

Dear Emmi,

I'm flattered your psychotherapist thinks I'm capable of replacing her. (“For nothing” would be too cheap, of course, but I'd make you an excellent offer.) And naturally I'm delighted that she, at least, is convinced I'm good for you. But would you be so kind as to ask her whether she can give me assurances that you're good for me too?

Lots of love,

Leo

One hour later

Re:

She's only thinking about my well-being, Leo, not yours. If you don't know what's good for you and want to find out, you'll have to get your own therapist. I highly recommend it, by the way, but you'd probably think it too extravagant.

Have a nice evening,

Emmi

P.S.: Oh, by the way, Leo, I'd love to hear how you are. Can't you tell me anything? Won't you drop a few hints, at least?

Please!!

Half an hour later

Re:

Hint 1: I've had a cold for three weeks.

Hint 2: I've only got three more weeks on my own.

Hint 3: Pamela (“Pam”) is coming. And staying.

Ten minutes later

Re:

Well, that's a surprise! Congratulations, Leo, and richly deserved! (I'm referring to “Pam,” of course, not the cold.)

Best regards,

Emmi

Five minutes later

Re:

I'm reminded of the question we asked each other some months back, but never answered. It was: Did anything change as a result of our meeting? For my part, yes! Ever since I've been able to picture your face when reading your messages, I can guess much more quickly the mood you're in when you write to me, and what your words actually mean when they quite definitely mean something different from what they say on the screen. I can see your lips as they release the words. I can picture your eyes avoiding mine, giving a commentary to what's happening. Just now you wrote, “Well, that's a surprise! Congratulations, Leo, and richly deserved!” What you actually meant was, “Well, that's a disappointment! But it's your own fault, Leo, you obviously don't deserve anything better.” Jokingly, you added in parentheses, “I'm referring to ‘Pam,' of course, not the cold.” A bitter and twisted comment that I read as, “Better to have a cold for three weeks than that ‘Pam' for the rest of your life!” Am I right?

Three minutes later

Re:

No, Leo—I may at times be bitter, but I'm not twisted. I'm sure “Pam” is an amazing woman, and I'm sure she's a good thing for you, better than hay fever any day. Could you send me a photograph of her?

One minute later

Re:

No, Emmi.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

Why not?

Two minutes later

Re:

Because I don't know what you could possibly want with it. Because it should make no difference to you what she looks like. Because I don't want you comparing your appearance to hers. Because I'm tired. Because I'm going to bed now.

Good night, Emmi.

One minute later

Re:

You sound sulky and irritable, Leo. Why? 1) Am I getting on your nerves? 2) Aren't you happy? 3) Or don't you have a photograph of her?

Twenty seconds later

Re:

No.

Yes I am.

Yes I do.

Good night!

CHAPTER TEN

The following evening

Subject: Apology

Sorry if I was surly. I'm not going through my best phase at the moment. I'll be in touch.

Love,

Leo

Two hours later

Re:

No problem. Get in touch again whenever you feel like it.

You don't have to be at your best. I'd be quite happy with second best.

Emmi

Three days later

Subject: My mood

Dear Emmi,

Why is it that for the last three days I've had this (sometimes really agonizing) feeling that you're waiting impatiently for me to explain just why I'm not at my best at the moment?

Four hours later

Re:

Probably because you're desperate to explain it. If you
are
desperate, just get on with it, stop beating around the bush.

Ten minutes later

Re:

No, Emmi. I'm not at all desperate to explain it! I can't explain it to you, you see, because I can't even explain it to myself. Paradoxically, however, I feel as if I owe you an explanation. Can you explain that?

Eight minutes later

Re:

No idea, Leo. Perhaps you've become paranoid, perhaps you feel you
have
to explain whatever phase you're going through. (A new trait, by the way.) If you like, I can ask my therapist if she's come across any decent phase-explanation-paranoia specialists.

A suggestion to help you relax: I'm not asking you to explain why you aren't “at your best at the moment.” I already know.

Three minutes later

Re:

Terrific, Emmi. Go on, explain it to me then, please!

Twenty minutes later

Re:

You're agitated about “… ,” O.K., about Pamela. You were her guest in Boston. She was your guest after Boston. Or you switched between roles of host and guest in London or wherever else you happened to be. But now the geographical and romantic parameters of the relationship have changed. She's coming to live with you. A long-distance relationship will become a close relationship. Meaning everyday life for two people in their own four walls rather than full board at some boutique hotel. Cleaning windows and rehanging washed curtains rather than gazing out wistfully upon an expanse of fairy-tale landscape. By the way, she's not just coming
to
you. She's coming
because
of you. She's coming
for
you. She's counting on you. You're taking all the responsibility. And the thought of that is stressing you out. You fear the uncertainty, the deflating feeling that all of a sudden everything could be different between you. Your anxiety is perfectly understandable, and justifiably so, Leo. You can't possibly be “at your best” at the moment. How could you then describe the phase of life you're now approaching, what would that say about your future?

You'll work it out between you somehow, I'm sure of it! Lots of love, and have a nice evening,

Emmi

Seven hours later

Subject: Dearest diary

Hello Emmi,

You'll be asleep by now. I'm guessing it's two or three in the morning. I've been off the drink for a while, so I can't take it. This is only my third glass and everything looks blurry. O.K., I admit it's a large glass. The wine is 13.5 percent, it says so on the label, it's in my head already, the remaining 86 or 87 percent is still in the bottle. I'm going to drink it now, there's no alcohol left in it. It's all in my head. But it is the second bottle, if I'm going to be honest.

Emmi, I've got something I need to tell you, you're the only woman I write to, you're the only woman I write to, who I write to about how I write, how I am, how I feel. In fact you're my diary, but you don't keep still like a diary. You're not as patient. You're always interfering, you retaliate, you contradict me, you confuse me. You're a diary with a face, body, and shape. You think I can't see you, you think I can't feel you. Wrong. Wrong. How wrong. When I write to you I bring you very close to me. It's always been like that. And ever since I've known you “personally,” you know, since we sat opposite each other, since then—thank God nobody has taken my pulse—since then … I've never told you, I never wanted to, what's the point? You're married, he loves you. He made a big mistake, he kept quiet. The biggest mistake, in fact. But you have to forgive him. You belong to your family, and I'm not saying that because I've got conservative values, because I haven't got conservative values … well, maybe my values are a bit conservative, but I'm not conservative, not at all. Where were we? That's right, Emmi, you belong to your family, because that's precisely where you belong, in your family. And I belong to Pamela, or she to me, doesn't matter. No, no, I'm not going to send you a photograph of her. I won't do it, I'd find it too … I'd be subjecting her to too much scrutiny, do you understand me, Emmi, why would I do that? She's different from you, Emmi. But she loves me and we've made a decision, we'll be happy, we suit each other well, we have a future, take my word for it. Can I write that to you? Are you cross with me?