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?
One hour later
Re:
Yes, thanks for the compliment, Leo dear. My green watch is extremely beautiful; I’ve been wearing it for many years. I picked it up in Leipzig, at an antiques shop run by a Serb. “Runs well, you look in the day, you look in the night, always it shows the right time,” that’s what he promised me. And it’s true: whenever I have looked at my watch, it has shown the right time. And it’s showing the right time again now.
Lots of love,
Emmi
Ten minutes later
Re:
Dear Emmi,
What a terribly elegant way of dodging the issue, coquettish even! But don’t you think it would be only fair if you told me why you’re so pissed off? It would make life easier for me at night, sleeping and all that, if you get my drift.
Twenty minutes later
Re:
O.K., Leo, to tell the truth I would have been more interested to hear what you thought of me, and what you were feeling, or had felt (assuming you felt anything at all). I’m guessing I must know my own emotions and thoughts just a tiny bit better than you know them. Believe me. But sweet of you to go to all that trouble. Good night.
The following evening
Subject: The man who wasn’t there
Dear Leo,
I can tell that there’s a slight tension in your communication at the moment. Perhaps you overdid it a bit, being so casual at the café. But I don’t want to be a spoilsport: why don’t I tell you how you felt when we met. Here goes:
1) You were so well prepared to be Leo Leike the perfect, Leo Leike the smart, gallant, confident, yet modest bestower of fitting conclusions to email relationships to any Emmi who happened to come your way, that it more or less didn’t matter which Emmi it was.
2) Congratulations, Leo, you barely let it show how dumbfounded you were that I looked so different from how you imagined.
3) Congratulations again, you barely let it show how surprised you were that I could be of average height, brunette, shy, and unsociable all at the same time. (For safety’s sake, I left my melancholy in the coat closet, and I’m glad I did.)
4) And congratulations, Leo, you barely let it show how hard you found it to keep your crystal-clear eyes, the color of a mountain stream, focused on mine, while maintaining your innocuous and reserved but friendly I’ll-take-these-Emmis-as-they-come smile.
5) In a top 100 of the most appealing blind dates which the average Emmi between the ages of 20 and 60 would opt to meet a second time—to go out stealing horses with, at least—you’d definitely rank in the top five. (You only get points deducted for that kiss on the cheek, which in its fleeting tilt at perfectionism was overhasty. You’re going to have to fine-tune that.)
6) But, alas, alas, alas! I’m not the average Emmi, I’m simply the one who thought she really knew you “personally,” who knew you in those days (and nights!) when your closets of feelings were open wide. (And by the way, your wine cabinet seemed to be open on most of those occasions too.)
7) No, Leo dear, you weren’t a stranger at all. You didn’t even give me the chance to consider you a stranger. Because apart from an outer shell you weren’t there; in public you concealed yourself from me.
8) Our meeting synthesized into eight words: I was shy and you were closed up. Was that a disappointment? Well, if I’m going to be honest, yes, it was a little. The past two years—including the nine months you were in Boston, let’s call it your inner Emmi-gration—certainly had a little more substance. Kiss on the cheek. I’m going to unpack my melancholy now, and take it with me into the shower.
Four hours later
Subject: One other thing
Nice jacket, by the way. Blue suits you. Oh, and have a good time in London! (No need to reply.)
Five minutes later
Re:
Do you mind if I ask you a “personal” question?
Fifty seconds later
Re:
This might be quite a question!
Forty seconds later
Re:
Are you and Bernhard still together?
Thirty seconds later
Re:
Of course. Yes, obviously. Definitely. Why do you ask?
Forty seconds later
Re:
Oh, you know, it’s just a “personal” interest.
Twenty seconds later
Re:
In me?
Thirty seconds later
Re:
In your circumstances.
Fifty seconds later
Re:
Aha, I see. Can I ask you something “personal” too, Leo?
Twenty seconds later
Re:
You may.
Twenty seconds later
Re:
Do you regret having seen me?
Thirty seconds later
Re:
May I ask you another, deeply “personal” question?
Twenty seconds later
Re:
You may.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
Is it possible to regret it?
Forty seconds later
Re:
Should I answer that honestly and “very personally”?
Twenty seconds later
Re:
Yes, you should.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
I kept thinking: No, you can’t regret it. But I could imagine you doing so.
Good night, my dear correspondent.
Twenty seconds later
Re:
Since I set eyes on you, my admiration for the confidence with which you’re able to poke fun at your lack of confidence has risen tenfold. Good night, my dear correspondent.
Forty seconds later
Re:
That’s nice, my virtual Leo is beginning to get the upper hand again. If you’re thinking of giving your closets of feelings a little airing at some point, think of Emmi, the woman who pokes fun so confidently at her lack of confidence.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
Is “Pam” going to London with you?
Forty seconds later
Re:
She’s already there.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
Oh, that’s neat. Well, happy landings, and good night!
Twenty seconds later
Re:
Good night, Emmi.
CHAPTER FOUR
Four weeks later
Subject: Hello Emmi!
Hello Emmi,
Wer
e you by any chance flying past flat 15 last night in your propeller plane, taking photos? Or was it just a storm? I was thinking of you in any case, and I couldn’t get to sleep.
How are you?
Love,
Leo
Five hours later
Re:
Hi Leo,
What a surprise! After the thorough postmortem of our “encounter” and a month of silence I never thought you’d steel yourself to write me another email. Who are you writing to, in fact? Who do you think of when you think of me (given that, charmingly, you were reminded of me by a thunderstorm)? Do you think of your faceless and bodiless “dream” of before, of your “highest expression of love,” of your “illusion of perfection”? Or do you rather think of the shy girl from Café Huber who avoided eye contact? (If I hear from you within four weeks, I’ll go one step further and ask you WHAT precisely you think of when you think of either of the above.)
Much love,
Emmi
Thirty minutes later
Re:
I’m thinking of the Emmi who, with fingertips so delicate they might vanish into the ether, brushes imaginary strands of hair from her face every thirty seconds and curls them behind her ears, as if she were trying to free her eyes from a veil, finally to see things as sharply and clearly as she has been describing them for ages. And I ask myself time and again whether this woman is truly happy in her life.
Ten minutes later
Re:
Dear Leo,
If I were to get an email like that each day, I’d be the happiest woman in the world.
Three minutes later
Re:
Thank you, Emmi. But I’m sorry to say that happiness is not made of emails.
One minute later
Re:
Then what? What is happiness made of? Please tell me, I’m bursting to know!!!
Five minutes later
Re:
Out of security, trust, things in common, care, experiences, inspiration, ideas, beliefs, challenges, goals. And I’m sure this list is incomplete.
Three minutes later
Re:
Yikes! That sounds like a nightmare, like some kind of modern-day decathlon, entire weeks of activities around the theme of happiness, with an exhibition of its underlying virtues and features. I’d rather get a daily email from Leo, with a small, imaginary lock of hair. Have a lovely evening! Glad you’ve not forgotten me.
Kiss on the cheek,
Emmi
The following day
Subject: A question
Dear Leo,
You know what I’m going to ask now!
Twenty minutes later
Re:
Your determined use of the exclamation mark gives me a pretty good idea.
One minute later
Re:
So, what am I going to ask you then?
Three minutes later
Re:
“How was London?”
One minute later
Re:
Oh, Leo, that might be how you would put it. But by now you must know that I like to call things by their names. So: what’s going on with “Pam”?
Fifty seconds later
Re:
First, “Pam” doesn’t need quotation marks. Second, Pam is called Pamela. And third, Pam is not a thing.
Two minutes later
Re:
Do you love her?
Three hours later
Re:
It’s taking you long enough to think about it.
Ten minutes later
Re:
It may be too soon to talk of that, Emmi, or even to discuss it.
Three minutes later
Re:
Nicely put, Leo. Now I have a choice. Either Leo means: it’s too soon to call it love. Or he means: it’s too soon to talk to Emmi about “Pam.” Sorry, Pamela.
Five minutes later
Re:
Definitely the latter, Emmi. The way you’ve reverted so quickly to “Pam” tells me that you’re not ready to talk about this. You don’t like her, do you? You think she’s taking your email partner away from you. Am I right?
Five hours later
Subject: (no subject)
Now it’s you who’s taking your time, my love, trying to find a way to deny it.
Fifteen minutes later
Re:
O.K., you’re right. I don’t like her, first of all because I don’t know her, so it’s easier for me; second, because I’m trying my best to imagine her in terms as unfavorable as possible; third, because I’m managing that quite successfully; and fourth, because, yes, she does take you away from me, the rest of you, the writing bit, the little bit of hope. Hope for … for … who knows what for? Just hope. But I promise you: if you do love her, then I’ll learn to like her. Until then, do you mind if I say “Pam” a few more times? It makes me feel good, don’t ask me why. And do you know what else makes me feel good, my love? When you write “my love.” Because I take it literally.
Yes, sometimes I manage that too. Sleep well.
Three minutes later
Re:
You too, my love.
Two days later
Subject: Me writing to you now
Emmmmmmmmmmmmmmi, I’m drunk. And I’m lonely. Big mistake. Never be both. Either lonely or drunk, but never both at the same time. Big mistake. You asked, “Do you love her?” Yes, I do love her when she’s with me. Or to put it another way: I would love her if she were with me. But she isn’t with me. And I can’t be with her when she isn’t with me. Do you understand, Emmi? I can’t keep on loving women who aren’t with me if I’m with them when I love them.
London? How was London? Five days satisfying accumulated longing, six days of worrying about the longing yet to come. That’s what London was like. Pamela wants to move over here to live with me. Call her “Pam;” you can call her “Pam” if you like. Only you are allowed to do that. She wants to live with me. She wants to, but will she actually do it? I can’t keep on living off the desires of a woman I love. Living and loving, both at the same time. Never one without the other. Drunk or lonely, never both at the same time. Always one without the other. Do you understand what I’m saying, Emmi?
Wait a second, I’m just going to pour myself another glass. Red wine, Bourdeaux, the second bottle, tastes of Emmi, as ever. Do you remember? Did you know, Emmi, you’re the only one? You’re the only one, the only one, the only one, “the … It’s hard to find the right words. I’m a bit drunk already. You’re the only one who’s close to me even when you’re not with me, because I’m still with you when you’re not with me. And there’s something else I’ve got to tell you, Emmi. No, I’m not going to, you have a family. You’ve got a husband who loves you. Back then you made a swift exit. You opted for him, you made the right decision. Maybe you’re thinking you’re missing something. But there’s nothing missing from your life. Loving and living—you’ve got them both. I’ve got a both too—I’m lonely and drunk. Big mistake.
But let me tell you something. I tried to force myself, tried so hard to force myself, I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want not to like you, and I didn’t want to like you. I didn’t want anything. I didn’t want to see you. What was the point? You’ve got Bernhard and the children. And I’ve got Pamela. And when she’s not with me, I’ve got wine. But let me tell you something else: you’ve got a gorgeous face, among other things. You look far more innocent than you write. No, you don’t write as though you’re guilty, but sometimes your words are so harsh, you take things to extremes. And yet your face is soft. And beautiful. And I don’t know if you’re happy. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. But you must be. You can live and love, both at the same time. I’m lonely and I don’t feel so great. And what do I get from Pamela if she’s so far away that I stop feeling she’s with me? Do you understand? I’m going to bed. But let me tell you something: I dreamed of you last night, and I saw yo
ur actual face. I don’t care about your breasts, large breasts, small breasts, medium breasts, I don’t care at all. But I do care about your eyes and your mouth. And your nose. The way you looked at me and talked to me, and your smell. I do care about all that. And now every word you write to me is your smell and your look, as well as your mouth. I’m going to bed now. I’ll send this email and then I’m going to bed. I hope I hit the right key. You’re so close to me, I’m kissing you. And now I’m going to bed. Where’s the key?
Five minutes later
Subject: I’ve written to you
Dear Emmi,
I’ve sent you an email. I hope you got it. No, I hope you didn’t get it. Or, actually, yes. It doesn’t matter, it is what it is, whether you read it or not. And now I’m going to bed. I’m a bit drunk.
The following evening
Subject: What a love!
Dear Leo,
I got an email from you yesterday evening. Do you remember? Did you reread it today? Do you have it saved somewhere? If not, I can send it to you. You’re such a love!!! You should get drunk more often. When you’re drunk, you’re so, so, so … “un-lonely.” It feels like you’re right here beside me.
One hour later
Re:
Thanks, Emmi. Early this morning, with a pounding head and an upset stomach, I discovered what I served up to you last night in my state of inebriation. And Emmi, “let me tell you something.” Strangely, I’m not embarrassed by it. In some ways I’m even relieved. I wrote things that have been on my mind for a long time. I’m happy that they’re now out in the open. And let me tell you something else—I’m happy that I’ve told you these things. I’m going to make myself a chamomile tea now. Good night, my love. And please forgive me if I’ve gone too far.
The following morning
Subject: Second attempt
I want to see you again, Leo. For another coffee. Just a coffee in a café, that’s all. Please say yes! We can make a better job of it than we did last time.
Have a nice day, my love.
Ten hours later
Subject: Café
Hi Leo,
Where are you? Not on your own again I hope, in some Bourdeaux-induced coma. I just wanted to remind you of this morning’s request: shall we meet again for coffee, yes or no? I’m going for “yes.” How about you? If the votes are even, we’ll go with the smaller shoe size. Would you be so kind as to share your vote with me today (even if you do happen to be sober)? I’d quite like to take the result to bed with me.
Every Seventh Wave Page 3
