Wait for Me in Vienna

by May, Lana N.

  Crap, she thought. She deliberated for about a minute and then decided to take the strange social media plunge. Congratulations, she thought; Ms. Johanna Stern, you have a Facebook profile now, and you’ll need to get at least two hundred friends to prove you’re cool.

  She had always condemned Facebook, knowing that many people went overboard with self-promotion and others compulsively posted everything they did and thought. She definitely wasn’t interested in the minor ailments and other minutiae her potential friends might share: where they were going on vacation, what they ate, who they were hanging out with, where they shopped, how long they slept, and why they found themselves so unbelievably interesting. She hated these contrived, fictional realities. Plus, Johanna had always been too shy to have lots of Facebook friends.

  Johanna was tempted to upload a photo of herself. Should she? She thought about it. No. She uploaded a photo of a beautiful landscape instead. This suited her better. She tried again to look at Thomas’s profile, but she’d have to send a friend request and get him to accept it first. She searched for other people, too—her brother, for one, but only Facebook friends could view his profile. She’d have to “friend” him first. She had the same problem with Linda. Paolo didn’t have a Facebook profile because he was completely computer illiterate and didn’t even own a smartphone. According to him, it was time consuming, completely useless, and bad for your health.

  Facebook is pretty boring when you can’t see your friends’ profiles, she thought as she browsed public profiles to pass the time. Celebrities like Heidi Klum and Victoria Beckham had positioned themselves impressively on Facebook—great photos of them smiling (well, Victoria Beckham wasn’t smiling so much as scowling, of course), great figures, a ton of friends, beautiful travel pictures, and so on and so forth. Way too much perfection for Johanna’s taste. At least now she knew that high society traveled constantly, drank tons of green smoothies, and refused to indulge in virtually any high-calorie delicacies whatsoever. They always wrote things like, “Missing my family,” and showed off their new designer bags. This type of life was quite foreign to Johanna. She closed her laptop and set it aside. Less than ten minutes later, though, she opened it up again.

  One person she hadn’t looked for (yet) was Clarissa.

  Having just a little information gives a lot of leeway for your brain to jump to conclusions that may or may not have any basis in reality. As your head starts spinning, you begin to weave stories; confusion reigns as real or imagined plots and misdeeds swirl around your head. Logic goes out the window. Nothing seems to add up, and you immediately assume the worst, twisting innocent statements, images, quotes, smells, or gestures into the most heinous crimes; then your world suddenly crumbles.

  Johanna’s heart almost stopped; her stomach felt as though it had been flipped upside down; her chest tightened, making her breathing labored. She stared at the pictures on Clarissa’s Facebook profile, which had hundreds of likes, and what she saw there she didn’t like at all. It was Lehmann & Partners’ latest advertising campaign: Clarissa posing sweetly, Clarissa smiling, Clarissa and only Clarissa, styled to look like a totally normal woman. If the ad had depicted picture-perfect Clarissa as a vamp or a sexy housewife or whatever, then it wouldn’t have been nearly as bad, but to see her depicted as so sweet and normal and average—that in and of itself was upsetting. Johanna found herself hating Thomas’s ex-girlfriend for the first time.

  And it wasn’t just Clarissa she suddenly hated. A wave of disappointment, shock, and sorrow rolled over her; Thomas had deceived her. She began to cry and couldn’t calm down, especially when she scrolled down and saw all the old photos of Thomas and Clarissa as a beautiful young couple on the beach, or cuddling intimately on a terrace somewhere between Lanzarote and the Mediterranean. Thomas and Clarissa skiing on white powdery snow, hiking, rock climbing, and, and, and . . . So many beautiful, exciting, passionate moments in their perfect life together. In each picture, Clarissa had a perfect, beaming smile on her flawless face. That smile fucking hurt like hell and triggered some sort of nausea in Johanna.

  Johanna slammed her laptop shut, then threw it into the corner. It didn’t smash into a thousand pieces like she’d hoped it would, but it did shatter the framed photo of Thomas she’d just received in the mail into hundreds of irreparable little pieces. She closed her eyes and saw herself in a wonderful, wide-open meadow full of poppies and daisies, which she tiptoed through happily, almost floating over the flowers. On the far side of the field, Thomas was waiting. Suddenly, though, the sun gave way to rain, rain became snow, and bitter cold spread far and wide through the meadow. She couldn’t see Thomas anymore; the snowstorm buried all signs of the poppies and daisies, and a dangerous sheet of ice formed beneath her feet. When the ice cracked, she fell inexorably into its depths.

  Was it really true? Had Thomas set up this modeling gig for Clarissa? Had he been meeting her secretly in New York? Would he cheat on Johanna? Had they gotten back together again? Was he just too afraid to break up with Johanna? Or was it possible that he’d never actually broken up with Clarissa?

  I can’t breathe; I can’t breathe, she thought, her heart breaking. Tears rolled down her cheeks like a tidal wave.

  “What an asshole!” she yelled, fighting malicious thoughts that paralyzed her with grief, anger, and fear. She had trusted Thomas, even given him a second chance, but he’d evidently given Clarissa a second chance, too.

  Reluctantly, Johanna picked up her laptop and checked the time stamps of the beautiful vacation photos with so many likes. They all predated Johanna’s move to Vienna. Only the advertising campaign showed current photos of Ms. Perfect, with her long legs and sexy ass, with that a sickeningly sweet smile. Clarissa had commented on one Lehmann photo, “The shoot was so delightful. We had a ton of fun on the set. I love you.” Johanna could well imagine that doing a photo shoot with Thomas would be a ton of fun. She started to feel ill; an influx of jealousy, hatred, and uncertainty came over her. She would have loved to scream at Clarissa and drag her by her hair across the room, or even better, across Vienna. But she wasn’t there, so Johanna would have to fly to New York if she wanted to fulfill that fantasy. She took perverse pleasure at the thought of dragging Clarissa across Manhattan by her hair, even though she knew she wouldn’t have a chance to do that because of her damn cast. She was a prisoner in her own apartment.

  Johanna’s jealousy and aggressiveness reached a feverishly high pitch. Now she just had to wait until it ran its course. She wanted to call Thomas, but she probably wouldn’t have been able to spit out one word. She wanted to go for a walk to clear her head, think things over, but with the stupid cast on her leg, that wasn’t an option. It was all she could do to hobble a couple of feet on her crutches; walking downstairs would be impossible.

  After stewing for a few hours, she poured herself some red wine. Soon, she’d emptied an expensive bottle of Zweigelt she’d been saving for Thomas’s return. Somewhere between tipsy and dead drunk, she succumbed to self-pity and began to cry again. Her mood rapidly swung between bad and worse, like a dangerous ride down a steep alpine road. On top of her hate and self-pity, Johanna was filled with self-loathing: she’d brought this on herself by giving Thomas a second chance. If she’d just resisted, she would have been unhappy for a time, but then she would have found someone new who could make her happy, who was faithful, who wasn’t entertaining his ex-girlfriend on the other side of the globe.

  Emboldened by the wine, she began to type an e-mail.

  Vienna, 6:06 p.m.: Thomas, how could you? How could you betray me like this? I trusted you. I envisioned our future together, and then you go and cheat on me with Clarissa! Or did you cheat on Clarissa with me? I don’t know which one of us you respect less. I feel so terrible because my present and my future, which I’d thought were so certain, have suddenly gone up in smoke.

  Before she pressed “Send,” she called Paolo. He didn’t pick
up, so she reread her e-mail and decided to improve upon it somewhat. Because she was drunk, it didn’t get any better, but it did become decidedly more dramatic. She added the last line:

  I never want to see you again. You’ve deceived me twice, you’ve taken away everything that we so lovingly built together in the last few months.

  She wondered if she should spell-check her e-mail, but why make the effort? The best thing would probably be to just send a simple, short, and hostile “Fuck you,” but she was too upset and still loved Thomas too much to do that. She clicked “Send” moments before Paolo called her back.

  Thomas was stuck in meetings all day. At some point during a short lunch break, he pulled out his phone and saw Johanna’s e-mail. He almost choked on his double cheeseburger, coughing violently. What the hell is this supposed to mean? he asked himself. He read it again and again, then a fourth time. Oh, it’s a joke, he thought. It must be a joke. But the joke wasn’t funny at all.

  New York, 12:30 p.m.: What the hell, Johanna? Is this your idea of a joke? Because if it is, I don’t find it amusing at all.

  “He doesn’t think it’s amusing,” Johanna cried, her voice echoing throughout the living room as she read his reply and desperately kneaded her hands together. She didn’t answer.

  In the meantime, Thomas waited and waited. After a half hour, he dialed Johanna’s number to find out what was going on. Between the time he pressed “Call” and the first ring, the advertising campaign finally popped onto his mind. Damn it, he thought, I should have told her. But the campaign isn’t public yet, so how could she know? Thomas turned his chair and looked out the huge picture window onto the streets of New York. He tried again, but Johanna didn’t pick up. The fucking ad campaign, he thought as he put his cell phone aside.

  New York, 1:05 p.m.: Johanna, do you mean the ad campaign? I didn’t have anything to do with that, I swear! Please, we’ve got to talk.

  But she didn’t answer. In desperation, he wrote her another text insisting on his innocence. Then he had to go to an important meeting that just couldn’t wait.

  Johanna had finally reached Paolo. He got to her place with lightning speed and let the drunk and distraught women tell her story. She told him sincerely, honestly, and drunkenly that she didn’t want to see Thomas again. How he was an asshole, how she was deeply disappointed, depressed, and hurt, and how she couldn’t understand why he’d done what he’d done, although she kind of could because Clarissa was just so seductive and Johanna obviously couldn’t compete. She cried again, but thankfully she’d put away the wine; if she’d kept drinking, she might have gotten alcohol poisoning.

  After letting Johanna pour her heart out, Paolo scrolled through Clarissa’s Facebook profile. “What actual evidence do you have, Johanna?” Paolo asked. “Okay, I see ads for Lehmann & Partners, but no proof that anything’s going on. You’ve got to keep things in perspective; talk to Thomas.”

  “I’m never talking to him again,” she slurred as she fell back on the couch.

  “This is childish. You have to talk to him. Basically, he hasn’t done anything.”

  “Basically, hah . . . He certainly did. Look for yourself,” she slurred as she dramatically pointed at the photo of Clarissa and her shit-eating grin.

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” Paolo said. “Sure, the photos of those two are intimate, but that’s from when they were a couple. To be totally honest, if somebody should be pissed off, it’s Clarissa. After all, you were with him when he was still with her.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know! Oh, Paolo, you’re not helping one bit,” she sobbed drunkenly as she pulled her hair in despair.

  “Don’t be stubborn and stupid; talk to him! That’s the only advice that I can give you. After you talk to him, you can decide what to do, but please don’t jump to conclusions like this.”

  Johanna wrinkled her forehead, thinking very hard about his advice.

  “Okay, maybe . . . I’ll . . . ,” she slurred before she passed out.

  Paolo carried her to bed, covered her with a blanket, then decided to spend the night on her couch.

  As Paolo closed Johanna’s laptop, her cell phone rang and “Thomas” appeared on the screen. Paolo didn’t have to think long before he picked up.

  “Hello, Thomas. This is Paolo.”

  “She doesn’t want to speak to me?”

  “Not today—she’s already asleep.”

  “Asleep? It’s still early. Did she tell you to say that?”

  “No,” Paolo answered. “She drank too much wine and passed out.”

  “Oh God, is it that bad?” Thomas asked worriedly.

  “Yes, she’s totally beside herself,” Paolo admitted. “She’s angry, sad, scared, and convinced that you cheated on her with Clarissa.”

  “But I didn’t. There’s no way I would ever do that. I could never betray Johanna. She means everything to me.”

  “I believe you, but she doesn’t. You have to come back and explain it to her. I don’t think that you can clear this up over the phone.”

  “But I don’t understand what even happened. Is this because of the ad campaign?”

  “Yes, she saw Clarissa’s Facebook profile. That’s where she found out about the ad campaign and saw all the photos of you two together.”

  “Those are old! Still, I can only imagine how it looked to her . . .”

  “Yeah, she thinks that you’re in New York seeing Clarissa again on the side. You’re not doing that, are you, Thomas?” Paolo asked him once again.

  “No, as God is my witness, no,” Thomas swore.

  “Then you have to come back here to straighten things out.”

  Thomas looked up last-minute flights to Vienna. He was ready and willing to drop everything, terrified that his relationship with Johanna could end because of a silly misunderstanding. Not again, he thought as he booked the flight.

  58

  The periwinkle-blue sky was cloudless. Smiling people filled the cafés in Vienna’s city center. They were making plans for the future, booking hotels and flights for business trips, establishing new business relationships and deepening the ones they already had, networking, and shaking hands with great confidence in their mutual futures. However, on a side street, in a small apartment, somewhere between reason and insanity, future plans died; the past was endlessly reevaluated.

  Two days later, Thomas’s airplane broke through that beautiful sky and landed in Vienna. It was different this time. Johanna wasn’t expecting him. Thomas had exactly two days and one night to straighten everything out because he was expected in New York for an important presentation. Though he was completely exhausted, he drove straight to Johanna’s place and rang the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” she asked through the intercom, annoyance at being disturbed thick in her voice.

  She’d been in an impossible mood the last two days, had refused to see anybody, and was a complete mess. She stuffed herself with chocolate and drank wine all day. She even crossed out Thomas’s heart, the holiest of all the drawings on her cast—and growled out various angry songs as she did it.

  “It’s me, Thomas,” he said, and waited for her to buzz him in; she didn’t.

  He’d had a feeling that she would react like this. He rang the doorbell again. She didn’t answer. Thomas walked across to the church to see whether her living room window was open. It was closed; he went back to the intercom and buzzed again. No response.

  However, Thomas was in luck. An older lady arrived, struggling to carry her groceries. He helped her by holding open the outside entry door after she keyed it open, and then accompanied her and her purchases all the way to the top floor. The old lady was visibly impressed.

  “You’re not expecting a tip or a kiss from me, are you?” she joked nervously before disappearing into her apartment with a thank-you. After that, he fle
w down the steps to Johanna’s apartment and rang the doorbell.

  How did he get up here? Johanna wondered as she looked through the peephole.

  Only a few inches of wood lay between them. She wanted so badly to touch him. He put his palms against the door. She stretched her right hand across the white wood, on the other side of the door from where the palm of his hand rested. He’s staying outside, she said to herself. She hobbled back into the living room on her crutches and turned up the music. She was hurting so badly, but it wasn’t because of her leg. The pain came from knowing that Thomas stood at the front door and she couldn’t open it, wouldn’t open it, because a part of her wouldn’t let her—the strong, stubborn part of her ego that had experienced too much loss already and knew it had to protect her from more. So she stretched out on the couch, refusing to fling her arms around his neck, feeling hopeless and sorry for herself.