You’re thinking to yourself: Dear God, I wish these twelve nights were over! Am I right?
Forty minutes later
Re:
Dear Emmi,
Hard though it is for me to admit, I’m afraid every word you say is correct.
Three minutes later
Re:
That’s so grim!
One minute later
Re:
Not just for you!
Fifty seconds later
Re:
Shall we stop, then?
Thirty seconds later
Re:
Yes, it would be for the best.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
What, right now?
Forty seconds later
Re:
As far as I’m concerned, yes, right now!
Twenty seconds later
Re:
O.K.
Fifteen seconds later
Re:
O.K.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
You first, Leo!
Twenty seconds later
Re:
No, Emmi, you first!
Fifteen seconds later
Re:
Why me?
Twenty-five seconds later
Re:
It was your idea!
Three minutes later
Re:
But you’ve inspired me, Leo! You’ve been an inspiration for some days! You and your silence. You and your sobriety. You and your cluelessness. You and your: “It would be for the best.” You and your: “It would be better if we stopped …” You and your: “I think we should leave it now.” You and your: “Dear God, I wish these twelve nights were over!”
Four minutes later
Re:
You put that last sentence in my mouth, my dear.
One minute later
Re:
If I didn’t put sentences into your mouth, nothing would come out at all, dear Leo!
Three minutes later
Re:
The melodramatic way in which you’re conducting this farewell countdown makes me nervous, dear Emmi. Subject: Fourteen nights to go. Subject: Thirteen nights to go. Subject: Twelve nights to go. What painful subject fetishism, what extreme masochism! Why are you doing it? Why are you making it more difficult than it already is by the fact that it is what it is?
Three minutes later
Re:
If I didn’t make it more difficult, it wouldn’t be any easier. Please let me go on counting down our last nights together (sort of), Leo dear. It’s my way of coping. And anyway, there aren’t that many of them left. And tomorrow morning there’ll be one fewer. In other words: your persistently provocative diary bids you a good twelfth-last night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The following day
Subject: A suggestion!
Good morning, dear Emmi. Let me make a suggestion for our virtual schedule for the next ten days: each of us may ask the other one question per day and must answer the other’s question. Agreed?
Twenty minutes later
Re:
How did you hit upon that ludicrous idea, my love?
Three minutes later
Re:
Was that your question for today, dearest?
Five minutes later
Re:
Hang on, Leo, I never said I would agree to it. You know I like games—otherwise I wouldn’t have been sitting here for the past two years. But this game is totally half-baked. What would we do if, for example, your answer to my question prompted a follow-up question?
One minute later
Re:
You could ask that the following day.
Fifty seconds later
Re:
That’s not fair! All you want is for the period between myself and “Pam” to pass more quickly, so that you can be rid of the correspondence between you and your diary at last.
Forty seconds later
Re:
Sorry, Emmi, that’s the way the game works. I know because I invented it. Shall we start?
One minute later
Re:
Just a sec. Am I allowed not to answer questions?
Fifty seconds later
Re:
No, there’s to be no not answering of questions! Answers can be evasive, in a pinch.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
In that case you’ve got an unfair advantage: you’ve been in training for the past twenty-five months.
Forty seconds later
Re:
Shall we start now, Emmi love?
Thirty seconds later
Re:
What if I say no?
Two minutes later
Re:
Well, that would be your question and your answer for today. And we’d read each other again tomorrow.
One minute later
Re:
If you weren’t the same Leo Leike I had seen with my very own eyes (but also with entirely different eyes) languishing at a café table, trying his best to be so charming that he could rival even my fantasy of him, then I might say: You’re a sadist! Go on, then, ask me a question. (But please, not one about what I’m wearing!)
Emmi
Three hours later
Subject: Question number one
I’m still waiting for your first question, my love. Can’t you think of anything? That wasn’t my question, by the way! My question is: “Dear Leo, in one of your most recent boozesodden declarations about you and P … P … Pamela, you said that the two of you were well suited. How? I would be grateful for an explanation.”
Five minutes later
Re:
My question to you, Emmi, is: “Would you do it again?”
Fifteen minutes later
Re:
Very clever, Leo. So, I can choose my “it,” and God forbid that I should choose the wrong one, because I’d be stuck with “it” forever, even though you’re the one inquiring about “it.” If you were not Leo but just some other man, it would be quite obvious that “it” could only refer to sex. In our case, my “visit” to your flat, my disappointment, my desperation, my destructiveness, and the “it” that was a consequence of it. If you meant that “it,” then my answer would have to be no. No, I wouldn’t do it again. I wish I hadn’t done it in the first place.
But since you are Leo Leike, your “it” couldn’t have been referring to sex, but to something else, something bigger, something sublime, something of much higher value. If I’m not completely mistaken, your “it” must refer to our correspondence. You ask: “Would you do it again? Would you write back to me again? Would you get involved with me in the same way a second time, with the same intensity and emotional effort? Would you do “it” even if you knew how “it” would turn out?
Yes, Leo. More please. YES! Again and again.
And now it’s your turn!
Fifty minutes later
Re:
I know you don’t feel like answering my question, but you have to, Leo. You’re the one who invented this game!
One hour later
Re:
My answer, dear Emmi, is: “Pamela and I are well suited because I feel that we chime well together. The way we relate to each other is easy and uncomplicated. If both of us do exactly what we want, neither of us is doing anything that the other doesn’t want to do. We have similar personalities, both of us are fairly quiet and measured, we don’t wind each other up, don’t demand more from each other than we are prepared to give ourselves, don’t want to change each other, we take each other as we are. We never tire of each other. We like the same music, the same books, films, food, and art, have the same attitude to life, the same sense of humor, or lack of it. In short, we get on, and want to be together.” That’s what I meant by being “well suited.”
Good night, Emmi.
The following evening
Subject: ???
He
llo Emmi, my question for today is: “Why are you not emailing me?”
Ten minutes later
Re:
Hi Leo,
My (easy and uncomplicated) answer for today is: “If you reread the email you wrote yesterday evening about being well suited, you’ll understand why I’m not writing to you.”
Fifteen minutes later
Subject: Today’s question
O.K., let’s get this over with. My question is: “Am I right in thinking that you don’t actually want me to like ‘Pam,’ and that you’re not giving me the chance to be well disposed toward your partnership? If you were, you wouldn’t be presenting me with a picture of the two of you that leaves me no other option but to creep into my monitor and yell from the depths of my heart: yeeeeuuch, how revolting! They like the same music, the same books, films, food, and art, they have the same views, the same sense of humor, or rather, even worse, the same lack of a sense of humor. Eeeek! Maybe in a few weeks’ time they’ll be heading off to the golf course in matching blue-and-white-striped socks for a synchronized tee-off. But hey, the two of them will never ever, ever get bored of each other. Incredible! How on Earth do they do it? Listening to Leo describing his compatibility with “Pam” is enough to send me straight to sleep. (Did you get my question? It was somewhere near the beginning.)
Twenty minutes later
Re:
You can be as cynical and mocking as much as you like, Emmi. I never claimed to be exciting. If my descriptions send you to sleep, then at least you’re calming down a little; it can only be good for your blood pressure. A minor observation, Emmi—your therapist can corroborate this—it is incredibly unhelpful and even a bit cheap to let a man’s train pull out of the station (your words) and then have a go at the woman who’s sitting with him in a new carriage. You’ll never be able to put me off her like that. On the contrary, you’re giving her good publicity.
Which brings me to my answer to your question, which was almost drowned by your emotional monsoon. I have no influence over whether you’re “well disposed” toward my “partnership,” Emmi. I’d rather you were. But if it makes you feel better not to be, then don’t be. I can cope with that. If something should make my partnership with Pamela suffer or fail, it would definitely not be your being ill-disposed toward it.
Enjoy your evening,
Leo
Ten minutes later
Re:
That was unkind, Leo! When I’m being cynical, then at least that’s all I am. When you’re cynical you can be really nasty.
And by the way, it wasn’t me who let your train pull out of the station, my love. At the time I wrote “the train we were both on has left the station.” There’s a difference. You’re making out that I single-handedly dispatched your train, sending you off to damnation. (And by that I don’t mean “Pam”!) The fact is, you and I both allowed our train to speed away. It was a highly polished team effort, after months and months of practicing hard at how to miss our station. Please don’t forget that.
Good night.
Three minutes later
Re:
I take back the matching stripy socks. That was mean.
One minute later
Re:
But you enjoyed it.
Twenty seconds later
Re:
You’re right, I really did!
Thirty seconds later
Re:
It fulfilled its purpose then. Sleep well, my dear mockery maker!
Twenty seconds later
Re:
You too, my beloved mockery swallower! That’s what I really like about you: you appreciate a joke, even when it’s at your expense.
Forty seconds later
Re:
Because I like to see you laugh. And nothing seems to delight you more than a joke at my expense.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
Hey Leo, I love stripy socks, by the way! I’m sure you’d look cute in them. Even more innocent than usual.
Good night!
The following day
Subject: My question
Dear Emmi,
My question for today is: “Where do you and Bernhard go from here?”
Five minutes later
Re:
No, Leo! Do I have to?
Seven hours later
Subject: Bernhard
O.K., then. At Easter he’s flying with me to La Gomera in the Canaries for a week, without the children. I stress: he is flying with me, I am not flying with him. Although we’ll be on the same plane. I’m going to let it happen. I think it’s courageous of him. He can’t expect anything, and yet he expects everything. He believes he can reconquer my feelings, that our great love will be reawakened, embedded in sand, salt, sunscreen, and stones. Ah well. Maybe I’ll get my sailing license.
Five minutes later
Re:
Does that mean you’re giving your marriage another chance?
Three minutes later
Re:
Steady on, my dear Leo! Only one question per day!
Two minutes later
Re:
O.K., I’ll ask you again tomorrow. So what’s your question?
Four minutes later
Re:
I’m saving it for primetime. I’ve already seen the thriller that’s on tonight.
Five hours later
Subject: My question
This is my question: “Can you still feel it?”
Two hours later
Re:
You have to answer every question, Leo dear!
Two hours later
Re:
Coward! You could at least admit that you have no idea what “it” is, the thing you’re supposed to be able to feel. At least that would be a stylish way of skirting around the fact that you can’t feel it at all anymore. Because if you did, you’d know what “it” is. But take comfort, I didn’t expect you to. It’s late, I’m off to bed.
Good night. Seven more waking ups and then we’re done.
Emmi
Twenty minutes later
Subject: Of course I can!
Hi Emmi,
I’ve just got in. In answer to your question: “Yes, of course I can still feel it.”
Good night,
Leo
Three minutes later
Re:
Leo, wait! I’m (suddenly) wide-awake again and I’m afraid I’m not going to let you just slink off to bed like that, even at this late hour. I won’t allow it; it’s against all the rules! “Yes, of course I can still feel it” is a nothing statement. That’s no answer, not even an evasive one. You’ve given me no evidence to suggest that you know what “it” is, the thing you’re supposed to be able to feel. You’re probably just bluffing, to get a bit of peace and quiet. But I’m sorry, Leo dear, you still owe me a proper answer!
Fifteen minutes later
Re:
My answer was as cryptic as your question, dear Emmi. You didn’t call “it” by its name because you wanted to test me, to see whether I remembered what “it” was. I didn’t call “it” by its name because I wanted to test you to see whether you’d believe (you didn’t!) that I knew what I was talking and thinking about, and what I was feeling when I think of you. “It,” for instance. Yes, I still can. Sometimes the feeling’s stronger, sometimes weaker. Sometimes I have to expose it first with the tip of my middle finger. Sometimes I stroke it with the thumb on my other hand. For the most part it makes itself known. I can run as much water over it as I like, it won’t wash away, it keeps on coming back. Sometimes it tickles, which probably means you’re writing me a cynical email. And sometimes it really hurts, which means I’m missing you, Emmi, and wishing that everything were different. But I don’t want to be ungrateful. I have “it,” the point where you touched me in the center of my palm. All my memories and desires are crammed into it. This point houses the full Emmi catalogue, with every conceivable accessory for the demanding, gazing-out-wi
stfully-upon-an-expanse-of-fairy-tale-landscape Leo Leike.
Good night!
Seven minutes later
Re:
Thanks, Leo, I enjoyed that! I’d love to be with you right now!
One minute later
Re:
You are!
The following day
Subject: My question
Hello Emmi. As promised, I’m going to repeat my question from yesterday: “Are you giving your marriage another chance?”
Two hours later
Re:
How very exciting! After romantic, nighttime Leo, who can be so, so, so engaging when he talks about points of contact, here we have sober daytime Leo again, the email pastor who fights on behalf of the relationships of his confidantes as if he could earn a commission from them. Hmmm. I’m going to interpose a question. Here goes: “In some of the very first messages after the resumption of my Leo-mail relationship, I wrote that I had talked to Bernhard about you a great deal, about both of us, in fact. Why aren’t you asking me what was said? Why will you only see Bernhard in isolation? Why can you not grasp that my relationship with him is directly connected to my relationship with you?” (And please don’t now tell me that was three questions. There were three question marks, but it’s one and the same question!)
Three hours later
Re:
Dear Emmi,
I don’t want you to discuss me with Bernhard, or at least, I don’t want to know if you do. I’m neither a part of your family, nor of your group of friends. I categorically refuse to believe that your relationship with him has anything to do with your relationship with me. I just don’t believe it! I never wanted to fight him. I never wanted to push him out. I never wanted to squeeze myself into your marriage. I didn’t want to take a single piece of you away from your husband. And, conversely, I can’t bear the idea that for you I was and am no more than a supplement to him. Right from the start, it was only ever either “either” or “or” for me. Meaning that when you said you were “happily married,” all that was left for me was “or.”
Have a nice evening,
Leo
Twenty minutes later
Re:
A reply, for a change:
1) Are you telling me that these past two years you’ve been an “or”? I have to say your “or” is definitely capable of swinging over to the “either” side. And if you can be so “either” when you’re an “or,” how “either” would you be if you really were an “either”?
Every Seventh Wave Page 8
