Text for You
Page 1
PENGUIN BOOKS
TEXT FOR YOU
Sofie Cramer, born 1974 in Soltau, Germany, studied German and Political Science in Bonn and Hanover. At the beginning of her career she worked as an editor for radio. Today she lives near Hamburg and makes her living as an author, writing novels and developing stories for film and television. Text for You is her third novel, and the first that she wrote under a pseudonym—among other reasons because she chose to draw on her own personal experiences.
More on the author at www.sofie-cramer.de.
PENGUIN BOOKS
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Copyright © 2009 by Rowohlt Verlag GmbH
Translation copyright © 2021 by Marshall Yarbrough Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
First published in German as SMS für dich by Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag, an imprint of Rowohlt Verlag GmbH, Reinbek bei Hamburg.
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Cramer, Sofie, 1974– author. | Yarbrough, Marshall, translator.
Title: Text for you : a novel / Sofie Cramer ; [translated by Marshall Yarbrough].
Other titles: SMS für dich. English
Description: [New York] : Penguin Books, [2021] | “First published in German as SMS für dich by Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag, an imprint of Rowohlt Verlag GmbH, Reinbek bei Hamburg”
Identifiers: LCCN 2021038383 (print) | LCCN 2021038384 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780143136903 (paperback) | ISBN 9780525508380 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PT2707.O33 S6713 2021 (print) |
LCC PT2707.O33 (ebook) | DDC 833/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021038383
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021038384
Cover design and illustration by Sandra Chiu
Designed by Alexis Farabaugh, adapted for ebook by Shayan Saalabi
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
Sven
Clara
For Björn
prologue
“Good morning, Lilime. Care for a croissant?”
Without opening her eyes, Clara breathes in the delightful aroma of fresh coffee. She stretches out on the soft bed and surrenders herself to the warm feeling that fills her entire body. It must be the weekend! Otherwise there’s no way Ben would be up getting breakfast ready, especially given how late they’d gotten to bed last night. It must have been close to four o’clock by the time they’d come stumbling home from their favorite Italian place. This was after two bottles of rosé and way too many glasses of Ramazzotti, urged on them by Beppo in that charming way of his, just like he did every time they ate there. When they got to the stairs, Ben scooped Clara up in his arms and carried her to the third floor without batting an eye, simply because her feet were hurting from all the impromptu dancing on the way home.
Now he carefully sets the tray down and gingerly sits next to her. Tenderly his lips begin to brush against her face.
“Actually I had something else in mind,” Ben whispers in her ear.
Clara is a little more awake now. She feels Ben’s fine, short stubble on her chest. His mouth slides slowly down her paper-thin nightie.
She loves it when he wakes her up like this. Nothing gives her such a sense of being taken care of than to feel his strong body so close to hers.
But he’s very light. And she can barely sense the familiar way he smells. Something is different today.
Hesitantly, as if in a trance, Clara opens her eyes. And all at once she’s wide awake.
For a second she feels like a stranger, trapped in a time that’s unfamiliar to her.
And suddenly it’s back again, the brutal reality: Ben isn’t here.
Ben will never be here again.
She must have been dreaming. It’s been a long time since Clara had a dream. In the last two months and five days, she hasn’t smiled either—though she’s tried to, every now and then. Like for example when she’s attempting to keep her mother from launching into another one of her exhausting pep talks. If she were the old Clara again, maybe her mother would be more willing to leave her alone and let her manage all by herself.
All by herself . . .
That’s exactly how she’s felt since that day in January when her beloved Ben fell to his death from a balcony.
All by herself. Abandoned. Alone. Alone with all the thoughts that haunt Clara like a giant shadowy figure. Especially at night. Again and again she’ll wake from a restless, dreamless sleep. Only for a fleeting, peaceful second between sleep and waking does Clara feel like the Clara she used to be.
Before Ben died, Clara was a confident, independent woman. A woman who was less romantic and sentimental than most of her friends. It was this strong, rational side that Ben had found captivating about her right from the start. They each had different ways of looking at the world, true, but together their separate worldviews formed a wonderfully complete vision that was a source of comfort and support for both of them.
Whenever they fought, they were quick to make up afterward. One of them would say something, sheepishly, trying to swallow their pride, then a gesture here or there would give way to a familiar touch as their bodies drew closer. This was usually followed by a playful chase around their cozy one-bedroom apartment, until finally Clara fell exhausted into Ben’s arms. As he held her she could feel his fingers on her ribs beneath her shirt, and all he would have to do then was feign like he was going to tickle her and already she would be shrieking with panic and delight. When finally he would lean in closer and tenderly kiss her slender neck just below her ear, whispering affectionate nonsense as he kissed her. At moments like this he would call her “Lilime” in a soft voice. Only Clara knew that this was short
for Lieblingsmensch—favorite person. Her bright green eyes would begin to shine every time, and they would make love without another word.
Even after being together for more than three years, there was still such a feeling of closeness between them every time they made love that it was as if they had only just fallen for each other.
But not the night it happened. One reproach had led to another, and today Clara would do anything never to have uttered such harsh words.
She could still hear the sound of the door slamming when Ben left the apartment, beside himself with anger. It was the first and last time he’d ever left without saying where he was going.
When she thinks back on how relieved she had been that she was now by herself and was free to vent to her closest friend Katja about how immature and irresponsible Ben was, despite his thirty-two years . . . Clara can still feel the guilt coursing through her whole body like burning acid.
True, that night she had kept an eye on her cell phone the whole time she was talking to Katja on the landline, discussing whether she should teach Ben a lesson this time and take off for a whole night, something she’d normally never do. But no text came from Ben. And he was always texting her. Whenever he had a break between classes at the university, was out on the road with his band, or over at his buddy Carsten’s place getting loaded—if for no other reason than that he didn’t want to give Clara the chance to feel annoyed, he would considerately send a few reassuring words to “Lilime.”
When they first met at Cheers, Clara had been skeptical. She’d heard all the rumors about Ben Runge the lothario, the guy who’d turned the head of every pretty girl in Lüneburg. But with his texts, Ben made an effort to show her that she was the only one he cared about. And so, whenever he thought of her, he would send her a text and make her phone light up for a brief moment, as a kind of token of his love.
But since that horrible night, Clara hadn’t received a single text.
Ben doesn’t contact her at all anymore.
He remains forever silent.
clara
Clara is nervous. Her compassionate leave is now officially over. Today is her first day back at work since Ben’s death.
The doctor did offer to write her a note granting her an extra week off, but by this point, Clara longs for structure and everyday routine. She can no longer bear lying awake all night and staying in bed till late morning without really feeling rested. It makes her feel like a moldy, dried-up piece of bread. If, early on, her mother hadn’t started making her take a short walk every afternoon, she probably still wouldn’t have the nerve to even leave the apartment.
The first time she went out grocery shopping on her own to replenish her supply of canned soup, Clara had felt like everyone could see the pain written on her face. The cashier hadn’t even been able to look her in the eye. And Clara had felt this indescribable urge to just shout out: “Yes, my boyfriend is dead, and nobody knows why!”
But there are a few things connecting her to the world outside that are more pleasant, that lend her strength, or at least that don’t add to her sorrow. Niklas, her boss, for example, has called her every week to ask how she’s doing and to assure her that where her job is concerned she has nothing to worry about. Her colleague Antje was taking care of everything, he’d tell her, but she could never take Clara’s place as the best graphic designer at the agency.
Clara knows that Antje isn’t very passionate about advertising anyway and doesn’t understand how Clara can be so committed to her career. By this point, Clara also has to admit to herself that she spent far too many nights alone at the office instead of enjoying a relaxing night at home with Ben or going out with him and simply celebrating life. She had always wanted to do perfect work, to be able to present the client not with a single half-hearted mock-up but rather a brilliant design and two excellent alternatives on top of that. It gave her the most satisfying feeling when the client ended up choosing her favorite. Most of the time, though, Clara would just enjoy her success in silence, and her triumph was usually brief.
At heart I’m a loner, thinks Clara, and when I’m working on my designs no one can bother me. It’s like I’m in a trance; I can stay like that for hours. But this trance-like state seems unattainable now—reality mercilessly blocks her way into this beautiful other world.
Clara hopes that work will do her good. After all, at the office she’ll have to pull herself together, she can’t just sit there brooding for hours at a time, wondering what was going on in Ben’s head that night and how she was supposed to get by without him. She still hasn’t found an answer. But if Clara goes even a few minutes without thinking about Ben and his death, guilt immediately takes hold of her again.
She’d gone for a walk with her grandmother Lisbeth in Lüneburg’s Kurpark yesterday and had left abruptly because she absolutely had to hurry home to look at photos. She was worried that she might have forgotten Ben’s face and wanted to recover the supposedly lost memories right away. When she finally got back home, with a stitch in her side from running the whole way, she grabbed all the photo albums off the shelf, frantically opened them, and lined up the nicest photos in a row on the floor.
Should she put a photo of Ben on her desk at the office? One that shows that clever smile of his, that preserves at least some small piece of his charm? How would her colleagues react? Today Clara will be seeing them for the first time since the funeral.
But she’s tired of having this strange feeling like she’s some kind of leper. She doesn’t want to make things uncomfortable for the others unnecessarily.
The worst thing isn’t the clumsy expressions of sympathy from friends and coworkers who are simply trying to offer their condolences. Rather it’s all the words that go unsaid, thinks Clara—they’re what I find so humiliating.
Like her mother’s neighbor, who just leaped up and left the kitchen without a word when Clara stopped by her mother’s house one day unannounced.
At least at the agency everybody knows that today is her first day back. Hopefully everything goes well, Clara prays as she pushes open the glass door of the office building in Lüneburg’s industrial district. She’s gotten here extra early; this way maybe she’ll have a chance to acclimate herself to being back at the office before the day’s work routine comes crashing down on her again.
She’s incredibly nervous as she steps out of the elevator. The hallway seems ominously quiet. Not even Viola, the receptionist, is here yet.
Clara is surprised to see that the door to her office is closed. Is her brain already so addled at this point that she’s gotten Sunday confused with Monday?
But Niklas’s gaudy Fiat Spider convertible was parked right in front of the entrance, so her boss must be here at least. Since his door isn’t open either, Clara decides to wait till later to say hello to him.
“Surprise!” Clara’s office erupts into a many-voiced shout as she turns the handle and opens the door.
The whole team is standing in a semicircle around her desk and looking at her expectantly. Over her Mac hangs a banner with the words “Welcome Back!” And on her desk is a large glass vase with a bouquet of colorful spring flowers.
Before Clara can say anything, Niklas takes the floor.
“Looks like we managed to pull off this early-morning surprise. Hello, Clara!” He clears his throat and looks around awkwardly at everyone standing there. “Right, um, we’re just happy to have you back. And since I’ve known you long enough by now to know that you don’t like to be the center of attention, I won’t make any big speech or anything. All I wanted to say was that we all wish you a warm welcome! So okay, and now let’s get back to work, everybody.”
The group gives a muted round of applause and quickly breaks up. Only Antje goes up to Clara and greets her with a quick hug. Clara is very touched. She has to fight back tears.
“Thanks,” she whispers softly.
Hearing this, Antje looks at her wide-eyed and quickly responds: “Hey, what for?”
Clara shrugs her shoulders and smiles. It’s her first smile in weeks.
sven
Ishould’ve just stayed in bed! Sven regrets having to wake up so early as the garlic breath of the man standing across from him in the packed Landungsbrücken-bound tram car hits him in the face—no chance now of enjoying the coffee with almond syrup and foam he’d bought. As angry as he is at this fat man speaking loudly to a colleague and projecting his stench into the already foul air, he’s angrier at himself. It’s been at least ten weeks and he still hasn’t managed to fix his road bike. There’s really no excuse for it; whatever explanation he might come up with would be lacking. Too much alcohol and too many sordid hookups, not enough positive input, which in turn only slowed down what little inner drive he had left.
The strange thing is that Sven has always thought of himself as a pretty fortunate guy. Somehow, though, for the past three years, things just haven’t been running quite as smoothly as they used to. True, his career as a business journalist is going fine, he’s well respected in his field, but ultimately no one is impressed anymore by the fact that he regularly interviews all the big CEOs. Least of all himself. At editorial meetings he’s constantly letting his mind wander instead of impressing the two editors in chief or his colleagues with razor-sharp comments or brilliant article ideas.
What happened to him?
When he first got to college to study economics, he was full of excitement and fresh ideas. He was politically active, had lots of friends, and worked out every day. He loved being out in the harbor air—early in the morning, when most of the residents of Altona were still zonked out in their beds.
Could his lethargy have something to do with the breakup with Fiona? Sven refuses to see a connection. If he did, then that would mean having to admit to himself that he was powerless in the face of his problems. He prefers to tell himself that she wasn’t really his true love. But even though so much time has passed since then, he can still see the image clearly in his mind: Fiona pressed up against her Mini Cooper, her arms slung around another man’s body.