Three minutes later
Re:
That email wasn’t sweet at all, Leo! But I understand what you’re saying. And I’ll comply. Enough for today, bye-bye.
Now I feel like shutting up. Tomorrow is another day. Even if in some respect it will be our last.
The following morning
Subject: Final question
Dear Emmi,
How should I have behaved back then, what should I have done, what would have been better? Back then, when your husband begged me to disappear from your life, not to wreck your marriage, to “save” your family. “Boston” was the only sensible solution, wasn’t it? What other decision could I have taken, what would have been the right one? This question has been torturing me for eighteen months. Please tell me!
One hour later
Subject: Final answer
Perhaps you couldn’t have made a better decision on your own. But you shouldn’t have been making that decision on your own. You should have allowed me to help you make that decision. You should have let me in on the situation with Bernhard, since he was too cowardly to do so himself. It wasn’t YOUR responsibility at the time to “save” my marriage, or to end it. It was ours, mine and my husband’s! Your secret pact with him, and your mysterious flight to Boston robbed me of the opportunity to take the right steps at the right time. And yes, you should have fought harder for me, Leo. Not like a hero, not like a good guy, not like a “real man,” simply like someone who trusts his own feelings. Yes, you’re right: we didn’t know each other back then, we hadn’t even met. So what? I maintain that our relationship was already quite developed. It’s true that we hadn’t lived together in the traditional sense, but we’d experienced each other, and that counts for more. We were prepared to kiss each other blind, so sure were we of our mutual devotion. So close was our attachment. But you, you wouldn’t commit. You gave up on me out of some misplaced sense of chivalry. Without even putting up a fight. THAT’S what you could have done differently. THAT’S what you could have done better, Leo dear!
Ten minutes later
Re:
I wanted the best for you. Unfortunately it never occurred to me that I might be the best. Unfortunately. Pity. Missed opportunity. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry!
Five minutes later
Subject: My last question
Will you come and see me, Leo?
Fifteen minutes later
Subject: (no subject)
Don’t be shy to write back.
Five minutes later
Re:
What was that delightful answer you wrote in capital letters a couple of days ago, when faced with a similar situation?
WHAT FOR?
One minute later
Re:
I don’t call that an answer. That’s another question, but I’m afraid you don’t have any questions left, my dear. You’ve used them all up, on inanities. Now you’ve got to take a risk. Will you come over? Or more precisely: will you come over today? Yes or no.
Twenty minutes later
Re:
You’re putting up a good show, Leo dear. No “yes.” No “no.” And yet this really has to be YOUR decision. You can choose, you needn’t think about it even for a moment.
Three minutes later
Re:
Of course I’m thinking of you. Of you and what you wrote on Thursday. “Seeing you: fine. Seeing you ‘one more time,’ one last time: shit!” That’s pretty much the opposite of your position today. Why now, all of a sudden? Why should I come over? If you don’t give me an answer, I’ll provide one myself.
One minute later
Re:
Your thinking is all wrong, Leo! O.K., when you’ve made your mind up I’ll tell you. So are you coming over to my place, Feldgasse 14, third floor, flat 17? Yes or no?
Eight minutes later
Re:
Yes.
Fifty seconds later
Re:
Really? Are you sure?
Forty seconds later
Re:
Those were two unauthorized questions. But I’ll answer anyway: No, Emmi, I’m not sure. I’m absolutely not sure. I’ve rarely been this unsure in my life. But I’ll risk it.
Two minutes later
Re:
Thank you, Leo! You can put all your various horror scenarios and other visions out of your head. It’ll be a short meeting. Ten minutes, let’s say. I’d just like to have a whisky with you. Only the one, really! (You could have a glass of red wine instead, if you like.) And then—and that’s the real reason for my invitation—I’d like to give you something. The handover won’t take longer than five seconds. And then, my dear, you’ll be free to go.
One minute later
Re:
What do you want to give me?
Two minutes later
Re:
Something personal. A souvenir. I promise you, there won’t be any grief, no scene, no tears. Just a slug of whisky, a little handover. And then: good-bye. It won’t hurt. Relative to the situation, I mean. So, come on then!
Forty seconds later
Re:
When?
Thirty seconds later
Re:
At eight?
Forty seconds later
Re:
Eight. O.K. Eight o’clock.
Thirty seconds later
Re:
See you at eight, then!
Forty seconds later
Re:
See you at eight!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two weeks later
Subject: Signs of life
Hello Emmi, how are you? (It would be nice to be able to use a different phrase for once. But what?) It would do me a world of good to know that you’re all right. I think about you often. Whenever … I think you know what I mean. Thank you for that!
Leo.
Three days later
Re:
Hi Leo,
Good to hear from you. Did you feel like it, then?
Did you really feel like it? Or was it just the usual silence-breaking, separation-pitying, conscience-assuaging, distance-defying crap? Yes, Leo, I’m all right. (Why do you assume, by the way, that the best I can feel is “all right”?) Well, the truth is I don’t feel all right enough to ask in return how you are. I don’t want to know. Because it wouldn’t do me a world of good if I knew that things were going twice as well for you as “all right.” And I’m assuming that’s the case.
Long-distance greetings from,
Emmi
One week later
Subject: Now
Dear Emmi,
Yes, I did rather feel like it.
Night,
Leo
One day later
Re:
Glad to hear it!
Night,
Emmi
Two weeks later
Subject: What a coincidence!
Hi Leo,
Is “Pam” by any chance a tall, slim, long-legged blond beauty? A bit like your sister, Adrienne? About my age? Two or three years younger, maybe? My accountant’s office is around the corner from your house. (No, Leo, that’s not why I chose him!) And just as I was passing your front door, one of those lanky, I mean, one of those very tall, good-looking women with pale makeup shot out of it, like a mail-order model on a shoot for a winter collection. She was so American-looking, the long neck, the tan-colored shoes, the bulky, square handbag, the chiseled chin and tornado-like jaw movements, the way she chewed gum. I bet that’s how people learn how to chew gum in Boston. It must have been “Pam.” You can imagine how surprised I was! It’s such a small world, don’t you think?
BW,
Emmi
Three days later
Subject: Pissed off?
Are you pissed off with me, Leo? Don’t worry, my next meeting with the accountant isn’t for another six months.
One hour later
Dear Emmi,
Obviously I can’t demand th
at you do (or don’t do) anything. But I would ask you to refrain from making any more purely coincidental accountant-related reconnaissance trips to my area. What good does it do?
Best wishes,
Leo
P.S. Pamela never chews gum, neither in the North American style, South American style, nor in the style of anywhere else in the world, for that matter.
Three hours later
Re:
It must have been a mouthful of cheeseburger, then. Chill out a little, Leo. You really can’t take a joke, can you? So what if I recognize “Pam”? So what if I know her? We might like each other, we might become the best of friends, go on holiday together, compare our diary entries on Leo Leike. And then the three of us could live together in a house-share. Or the five of us, and I could look after the children in the evenings … O.K., I’ll stop now. I don’t think you’re finding any of this particularly amusing, are you? Nor am I, to tell the truth, when I get right down to it.
Wishing you pleasant, undisturbed days with plenty of nice terrace time at flat 15.
Your
Emmi
P.S. I’m going on vacation!
One week later
Subject: The seventh wave
Hello Leo,
I’m sitting on my balcony in Playa de Alojera on La Gomera, looking out over the pebbly cove with its black sand and salty tongues of surf, far out to sea and farther still, all the way to the horizon separating light blue from dark, sky from water. You can’t imagine how beautiful it is here. You two should definitely come sometime. It’s as if this place was created especially for people who have just fallen in love.
Why am I writing to you? Because I feel like it. And because I don’t want to wait for the seventh wave in silence. Yes, here people tell the story of the indomitable seventh wave. The first six are predictable and evenly spaced. Each determines the next, each is created on the back of the other; there are no surprises. They’re in rhythm. Six approaches, however different they appear when looked at from afar, six approaches—and always the same destination.
But beware the seventh wave! That’s the unpredictable one. For a long time it’s inconspicuous, it goes along with the monotonous sequence, blends in with its predecessors. But then sometimes it breaks free. It’s only ever that one, the seventh wave. Because it is reckless, artless, rebellious, clearing everything in its path, re-creating everything. It has no past, only a now. And afterward everything is different. Is it better or worse? Only those who have been swept up by this wave, those who have had the courage to face it, to be pulled along in its wake, can make that judgment.
I’ve been sitting here counting the waves for more than an hour, watching what happens to every seventh one. None of them has broken away yet. But I’m on vacation, I am patient, I can wait. I’m not going to give up hope! Here where I am on the west coast, a warm, strong southerly wind is blowing.
Emmi
Five days later
Subject: Back?
Hello Emmi,
Thanks for your sea-mail. So? Has it done its breaking-thepattern thing, the seventh wave? Have you let it sweep you up?
Love,
Leo
Three days later
Subject: Every seventh wave
There was something about your story that rang a bell, so I did some research into the seventh wave, Emmi dear. The one-time convict Henri Charrière described it in his autobiographical novel Papillon. After he was transported to Devil’s Island off the coast of French Guiana, he spent weeks observing the sea and noticed that every seventh wave was higher than the others. He used one of those seventh waves—he called it “Lisette”—to drift out to sea on his raft made of bags of coconuts, and thereby made his escape.
But what I wanted to say, in fact, was that I miss you, Emmi.
One day later
Subject: (no subject)
And, in fact, you must have got back some time ago. Are you?
Six days later
Subject: Dead calm
Dear Emmi,
I just want to know if everything’s all right. You don’t have to write back if you don’t feel like it. Just write to say that you don’t feel like writing to me, if you don’t feel like it. And on the off chance that you do feel like it, then write! It would make me happy, delighted even! There are no waves here, not the first six. And certainly not the seventh. The sea is calm. It sparkles like a mirror, the sun is dazzling. I’m not waiting for anything. Everything is here, everything is taking its course. No change in sight. Dead calm. Please, Emmi, just a few words from you, at the least.
Leo
Three days later
Re:
Everything’s fine, Leo! I’ll write more in a few days. I’ve been making plans.
Emmi
Eight days later
Subject: A fresh start
Dear Leo,
Bernhard and I are trying to make another go of it. We had a nice, even quite harmonious vacation together. Like they used to be. Well, similar. No, quite different in fact, whatever. We know what we mean to each other. We know what we have together. We know that it’s not everything. But now we also know that it doesn’t have to be everything. It seems that one person cannot give another everything. Of course you could spend your entire life waiting for someone to come along who could give you everything. You get that wonderful, bewitching, stirring “everything-illusion” that makes your heart pound, that makes it bearable to live with chronic deficiencies, until the illusion is spent. Then all you feel is the deficiency. I’ve had enough of that feeling. I don’t want it anymore. I’m no longer striving for an ideal. I just want to make the best of a good thing, that’s enough to make me happy.
I’m going to move back home, to Bernhard. He’s going to be away quite a lot over the next year or so, he’s got some big concert tours coming up. He’s very sought after now on an international level. The children are going to need me. (Or do I need the children? Can I still think of them as children? Well, whatever.) I’m going to keep my little flat as a retreat for my “me” time.
So what of the two of us, Leo? I’ve thought about it a lot. I’ve spoken to Bernhard about it too, whether you like it or not. He knows how important you are to me. He knows we’ve met briefly on a few occasions. He knows that I like you, yes, even on a normal level, physically, unvirtually, with real hands and feet. He knows that I could have imagined everything possible with you. And he knows that I did imagine everything possible with you. He also knows that I still rely on your words, and he knows that I have an insatiable need to write to you. Yes, he knows that we’re still writing to each other. He just doesn’t know WHAT we’re writing to each other. And I’m not going to tell him because it has nothing to do with him, only with us and no one else. But I’d like to think that even if he did know what we wrote to each other about and the kinds of exchanges we have, he’d find it all perfectly reasonable. I no longer want to deceive him with my unfulfilled longings, my “everything-illusions.” I want to end this isolation from you, Leo. I want what you’ve been wanting all along, if you’re honest with yourself: I want—and now I’m dying to know whether I’ll be able to get it out—I want, I want, I want … us to remain friends. (Did it!) Correspondents. Do you understand? No more pounding hearts. No more tummy aches. No more yearning. No trembling. No hoping. No wishing. No waiting. All I want are emails from my friend Leo. And if I don’t get them, my world won’t come to an end. That’s what I want! No more weekly Armageddons. Do you understand?
Lots of love,
Emmi
Ten minutes later
Re:
The seventh wave did get you after all!
Four minutes later
Re:
No, Leo, on the contrary. It failed to materialize. I waited for a week. It didn’t come. And shall I tell you why? Because it doesn’t exist. It was just an “everything-illusion.” I don’t believe in it. I don’t need waves; I don’t need the first six, and I definitel
y don’t need the seventh. I’d rather stick with Leo Leike: “The sea is calm. It sparkles like a mirror, the sun is dazzling. I’m not waiting for anything. Everything is here, everything is taking its course. No change in sight. Dead calm.” I could live with that. At least it would mean a better night’s sleep.
Three minutes later
Re:
I wouldn’t set your expectations too high, Emmi. You have to be the right type for calm waters. For some, dead calm is inner peace, for others it’s the doldrums.
Two minutes later
Re:
You write as though you’re the doldrums type, my friend.
One minute later
Re:
I was actually thinking of you, my friend.
Two minutes later
Re:
That’s most considerate of you, Leo. But maybe in the whole scheme of things you should be thinking of yourself instead. Of you and (“…”). And while we’re on the subject, you’ve been living a whole new life for the past ten weeks, a new life with someone else. But you haven’t told me a single thing about it. Not a peep about your relationship! BUT A LOYAL PEN PAL HAS THE RIGHT TO KNOW!
Have a nice evening,
Emmi
Five minutes later
Re:
You ask too much of me, Emmi. You probably don’t have a clue HOW MUCH YOU ASK OF ME!
Leo
Four days later
Re:
Too much, clearly!
Three days later
Re:
Come on, Leo, pull yourself together, make an effort. Tell me about you and Pamela. Please, please, please! How is she? How do you find living together? Has she settled in? Does she feel at home in flat 15? Does she have muesli for breakfast, or oily tuna sandwiches? Does she sleep on the right or the left, on her tummy or on her back? How’s her job going? Does she talk about her colleagues? What do you do on the weekend? How do you spend your evenings? Does she wear tanga briefs or big Boston bloomers? How often do you have sex? Who initiates it? Who stops first, and why? What’s her handicap? (I’m referring to her golf.) What else do you do? Does she like Wiener schnitzel and apple strudel? What are her hobbies? Pole-vaulting? What shoes does she wear? (Other than the tan-colored ones from Boston.) How long does it take her to blow-dry her blond hair? What language do you talk to each other in? Does she write you emails in English or German? Are you very much in love with her?
Every Seventh Wave Page 10
