Every Seventh Wave (6 page)

Dear Emmi, in a certain café this afternoon—it must have been at around four o'clock—something happened on my left palm where this point is. My hand was reaching for a glass of water. The lissom fingers of another, softer hand came toward it; they tried to stop, tried to get out of the way, tried to avoid the collision. They almost succeeded. Almost. For a millisecond the soft tip of a finger breezing past rested on the palm of my hand as it reached for the glass. There was a delicate contact. I have stored it away. Nobody can take it from me. I can feel you. I recognize you. I recognize you again. You're the same person. You're one and the same. You are my point. Sleep well.

Ten minutes later

Re:

Leo!!! That was so lovely! Where do you learn stuff like that? Now I need a whisky. Don't let me bother you. Feel free to go to bed. And don't forget your point. I recommend you close your fist around it, to keep it safe.

Fifty minutes later

Subject: Three whiskies and me

Dear Leo,

We stayed up a while and talked about you, the physical you. (“We” being me and three small whiskies.) It occurred to the first whisky and myself that when you're in my presence you're at pains to keep your words, gestures, and expressions in check. The first whisky, who knew me quite well, said you didn't need to do this. (Unfortunately that one's long gone.) The second whisky, now also departed, suspected that you had decided ages ago to get no closer to me than you do in my in-box, or across a brightly lit café table under the protective gaze of a dozen witnesses. Given all this, today's conversation was pleasantly warm, affectionate, sincere, personal if not intimate, and it was even half an hour longer than we had planned. That's what the second whisky thought. There's a good chance that we could go on with this kind of Sunday-afternoon café meeting until we're retirees, and play doubles solitaire together, or maybe a round of hearts, if our partners played too. (I'm sure “Pam” is a natural.)

Now, the third whisky, which can be a little fruity, asked about your physical feelings. (The whisky called it “libido,” rather grandiloquently I thought. I told him that might be going a bit far.) He wanted to know whether I really believed that you only find me attractive with a blood-alcohol level of 3.8 parts per thousand. Because with coffee and water you seem to lack all interest in my physical appearance. I replied: “You're definitely wrong there, Whisky. Leo is a man who can concentrate all of his feelings, however strong, and whatever they are, into a single point in the middle of his palm. It wouldn't occur to a man like him to let a woman know if he found her attractive, and he certainly wouldn't say to her face: ‘I like you!' He'd find that far too crude.” And the third whisky said to me: “I bet he's said stuff like that to Pamela a thousand times.” Do you know what I did with the third whisky after that, Leo dear? I annihilated it. And now I'm going to bed. Good morning!

Later that morning

Subject: Honestly, Emmi!

What was it you wrote the day after our first meeting? Let me quote: “‘Thank you, Emmi' was feeble. Very feeble. Well below your potential.”

And what did you say last night about our second meeting? Let me quote: “Because with coffee and water you seem to lack all interest in my physical appearance.” That was feeble, Emmi. Very feeble. Well below your potential.

Three hours later

Re:

Leo, I'm sorry. You're right, that sentence sounded ridiculous. If you'd written it, I'd have laid into you. The whole email is embarrassing. Vain. Touchy. Smarmy. Bitchy. Yuck! But you've got to believe me: IT WASN'T ME, IT WAS THE THREE WHISKIES! I've got a headache. I'm going to go and lie down. Bye-bye!

The following evening

Subject: Bernhard

Emmi, I'm sorry. I need to try to reevaluate what you (and your whiskies) have said. So I'm going to ask you, in all seriousness and without a trace of humor, as befits my personality: why should I have any “interest in your physical appearance”? Why should I say to your face, “I like you”? Why should I get any closer to you than across the table of a well-lit café? Surely you don't want me to fall in love with you “physically” too (or libidinously, as the booze puts it)?! Where would that get you? I don't understand, you'll have to explain. In fact, there are a number of things that need an explanation, my dear. Over coffee you managed yet again to be elegantly evasive. You've been skirting around the issue for months—since Boston, in fact. But now I want to know. Yes, I really do want to know. Exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark.

Here's my first questionnaire: How's your relationship? How are things with you and Bernhard? What are the children up to? What goes on in your life? Questionnaire two: Why did you resume contact with me after Boston? What do you now think about the circumstances that led to the break in our correspondence? How could you forgive Bernhard? How could you forgive me? Questionnaire three: What is missing from your life? What can I do for you? What do you want to do with me? What should I be for you? How should we go on from here? Should we go on at all? And where to? Please tell me: WHERE TO? Give yourself a few days before you answer; time is the one thing we have in abundance.

Have a nice evening,

Leo

Five hours later

Subject: Impressions

Just want to add a few words to my nonexistent or indiscernible “interest in your physical appearance,” dear Emmi. Please tell your former and future whiskies that I like you. I can say that with 0.0 parts per thousand of alcohol in my blood. It's lovely to look at you. You're stunning to look at. And fortunately I can look at you anytime I choose. Not only have I got hundreds of impressions of you, I also have an impression
from
you. I have a point of contact on my palm. I can look at you there. I can even caress you. Good night.

Three minutes later

Re:

You've just answered the question “What can I do for you?” yourself. Caress the point of contact, my love.

One minute later

Re:

I will. But I'll do it for me, not for you. Because only I can feel this point, it belongs to me, my love!

Fifty seconds later

Re:

That is a misapprehension, my love! A point of contact always belongs to two people. 1) The contacter. 2) The contactee. Good night.

Three days later

Subject: Questionnaire one

Fiona is about to turn eighteen. She finishes school next year. At the moment I'm only speaking to her in English or French, so she can practice. Which means she's not speaking to me at all anymore. She wants to be an air hostess or a concert pianist. I'm trying to persuade her that she can do both: an in-flight pianist, a flying piano player. There'd be no competition. She's pretty, slim, medium height, blond, fair skin, freckles—just like her mother. She's been “going out” with Gregor for the past six months. “Going out with Gregor” seems to be code for staying up all night with anyone, male or female. Officially she spends every night with him. The poor guy doesn't seem to be aware of this, much less does he get anything out of it. “What do you two spend the whole time doing?” I ask. She smiles at me as wickedly as she can. Hinting at “sex” is still the best strategy for incommunicative teenagers. It's obvious. No need for Fiona to waste her breath. She'll just have to put up with a few lectures on contraception and safe sex.

Jonas is fourteen, and still a child. He's sensitive and quite clingy. He misses his mother, and he needs me very much. He keeps the family tightly together, and it's a major effort for him. He has no energy for school. Every few days he asks whether I still love his father, and Leo, you can't imagine how he looks at me. For him the nicest thing in the world is to see us both happy, and he's the main focus for both of us. Sometimes he even pushes me into his father's arms. He tries to force the two of us together, to make us more intimate. He can sense that little by little this intimacy is slipping away from us.

Bernhard, yes, Bernhard! What can I say, Leo? And why should I have to say it to you, of all people? I'm finding it hard enough to admit it to myself. Our relationship has cooled. It's no longer an affair of the heart, but merely a kind of mental exercise. I have nothing to reproach him for, unfortunately. He never displays any weaknesses. He's the kindest, most unselfish person I know. I like him. I respect his decency. I cherish his attentiveness. I marvel at his calm, and his intelligence.

But no, it's no longer the “great love” it once was. Perhaps it
never
was. But we so enjoyed our staging of it, and acting out our parts to each other, playing them to the children so that they could feel secure. But after twelve years of shifting the scenes we've tired of our roles as partners in a perfect marriage. Bernhard is a musician. He loves harmony. He needs harmony. He lives it. WE live it together. I decided to be a part of this whole. If I withdraw, I would bring about the collapse of everything we've built for ourselves. Bernhard and the children have already lived through one collapse. There cannot be another. I couldn't do that to them. I couldn't do it to myself. I would never forgive myself. Do you understand?

One day later

Subject: Leo?

Hello, my love, have you lost your tongue? Or are you waiting patiently for parts two and three of my family saga?

Five minutes later

Re:

Do you talk to him about it, Emmi?

Six minutes later

Re:

No, we make a point of not talking about it. It seems to work better that way. We both know only too well what it's all about. We try to make the best of it. You must not think that I'm desperately unhappy, Leo. This corset I wear is a good friend; it supports and protects me. I just have to be careful that one day it doesn't take my breath away altogether.

Three minutes later

Re:

Emmi, you're thirty-five!

Five minutes later

Re:

Thirty-five and a half. And Bernhard is forty-nine. Fiona is seventeen. Jonas is fourteen. Leo Leike is thirty-seven. Mrs. Kramer's bulldog Hector is nine. And what about Vasilyev, the Wiessenbachers' little terrapin? Remind me to ask them, Leo! But what are you trying to say? At thirty-five am I not old enough to be logical? At thirty-five am I not old enough to take responsibility? Am I not old enough to know what I owe to myself and to my life, and what I have to be resigned to in order to remain true to myself?

Four minutes later

Re:

Whatever, you're far too young to start worrying that your corset might take your breath away altogether, my love.

One minute later

Re:

As long as Leo Leike is around to worry about my air supply, via email or sometimes even in real life at a café table, I don't think I'll get into breathing difficulties.

Two minutes later

Re:

Nice try at changing the subject, Emmi dear. May I remind you that many of my questions remain unanswered? Are they saved, or should I send them again?

Three minutes later

Re:

I've saved everything you've ever written to me, my love. Enough for today. Have a nice evening. You're a good listener, Leo. Thank you.

The following day

Subject: Questionnaire number three

I'm saving your second questionnaire, the weird one, until last. I'd rather leap straight into the present.

What is missing from my life, Leo?—You. (Even before I knew that you existed.)

What can you do for me, Leo?—Just be there. Write to me. Read me. Think of me. Stroke your palm where I touched you.

What do I want to do with you, Leo?—Depends on the time of day. Mostly I want to have you in my head. Sometimes below it.

What should you be for me, Leo?—The question is superfluous. You already are.

How will this go on, Leo?—The same as before.

Should it go on?—Definitely

But where will it go?—Nowhere. Just on. You live your life, I live mine. And the rest we'll live together.

Ten minutes later

Re:

That won't leave very much for “us,” my love.

Three minutes later

Re:

That depends on you, my love. My reserves are deep.

Two minutes later

Re:

Un(ful)filled reserves. I won't be able to fill them, my love.

Fifty seconds later

Re:

You can have no idea what you can fill, my love, what you can fill and what you have already filled. Don't forget that you have vast closets of feelings at your disposal. You just need to give them an airing once in a while.

Fifteen minutes later

Re:

I just want to know one thing: have our two encounters changed anything for you?

Forty seconds later

Re:

Have they for you?

Thirty seconds later

Re:

Your turn first: for you?

Twenty seconds later

Re:

No, you first: has anything changed for you?

One minute later

Re:

O.K., I'll go first. But before that you have to answer my outstanding questions. That's only fair, my love.

Four hours later

Subject: Questionnaire number two

O.K., let's get this over with:

1) Why did I get in contact with you again after Boston?

Why indeed?—Because the nine months that were “Boston”were the worst nine months ever since years have been divided into months. Because the man of many words slipped wordlessly out of my life. Spinelessly through a back door in the out-box, which was bolted shut with one of the very worst messages in the history of modern communication.

That sentence is still the stuff of my nightmares (and if technology is feeling malicious, it's sometimes the stuff of my in-box too—Delivery Status Communication (Returned), blah blah blah.

Our “story” was never concluded, Leo. Flight is never an ending in itself, it merely postpones the end. You know that very well. If you didn't, you wouldn't have written back to me, nine and a half months later.