Text for You

by Sofie Cramer

  Maybe it’s partly his anger at himself that keeps him from closing that chapter once and for all. Instead he continues to torture himself with the question of why he didn’t have the guts to fling his bike to one side, march up to the two of them, and take command. He should have shown that dickhead who Fiona was really with.

  But maybe he had already screwed things up before then. Maybe Fiona had been right to criticize him all the time for never showing her how much she really meant to him. His coworker Hilke also tried to make him see that when Fiona finally moved out of the loft they shared, the mysterious other man wasn’t the reason, just the catalyst.

  Sven likes Hilke and trusts her, but he would never let her know this—not without a very compelling reason. For him, she’s like the sister he never had. She’s never let him down in all the years they’ve worked together. Hurt his feelings, sure, but never on purpose; really it’s just that in her open and almost naive way she can’t help but make blunt comments again and again. She hits him where it hurts. In all the time they’ve shared an office on the seventh floor, hardly a week has gone by without her saying something that makes him stop and think. She simply has a knack for always finding his sore spot.

  “You’re just in a bad mood because you’re not getting any good sex anymore”—that was the latest salvo, launched across their desks just last Monday, when Sven was muttering obscenities and cursing about some emails. “If you spend next weekend wasting your precious time on earth on the internet again with that stupid guild of yours, I’ll lose all affection for you!”

  Sven could only smirk. Hilke had looked a bit sheepish after making such a bold comment. She knew she’d gone a bit too far this time. Not because she’d touched so pointedly his biggest weakness, the computer game World of Warcraft, but more because her words had hit so close to home. In response, Sven had cleared his throat and quickly muttered something about not having any time next Saturday anyway because he really had to go look in on his father again; it had been too long.

  These visits were another reason why it would be wise to finally get the bike working again or at least take it to a shop if he couldn’t do it himself, Sven now thinks. He does his best to hide behind his newspaper, but its contents hardly interest him.

  Even though it’s already quite mild for March, he’s still wearing his old brown leather gloves so that he won’t have to touch any of the train surfaces that have already been touched by a thousand other people before him. It turns his stomach, everyone squeezing up against one another like this, penned in tight between the doors. He decides to just throw away his lukewarm coffee as soon as he gets out.

  Week after week, every Monday morning makes him more aware of how pathetic his life feels right now. A few minutes from now, when Hilke greets him cheerfully and asks how his weekend was, he’ll have to make something up to draw attention away from the fact that, once again, he didn’t manage to do anything he’d actually meant to do. He hadn’t dealt with the busted gear shifter, he hadn’t gone jogging, and he hadn’t gone out to the bar for a beer with his friend Bernd. And he hadn’t checked in with his father, either. He just doesn’t know what the two of them can talk about.

  Sven gets off the train and starts walking toward the magazine’s offices. He takes several deep breaths, in and out, as if he could expel from his body all the air that the other commuters had emitted. Something has to change, Sven thinks. I finally want to feel like I’m alive again. But he has absolutely no idea how he’s supposed to make this happen.

  clara

  Only that night, when she’s lying in bed and reflecting on her first day back at work, does it slowly become clear to Clara that Niklas had done just the right thing that morning. The warm greeting had made it much easier to jump back into things than she had feared it would be in the days leading up to today. The thought of everyone stopping by her office one by one, with eyes lowered, had been just awful.

  Suddenly Clara starts grinning in spite of herself. How many times had she tried—gently, to be sure—to alert her boss to the fact that he just didn’t have a head for the creative side of things, that rather his one strength was going out and finding new clients. But today he’d had a really good idea for once.

  Clara feels pleasantly exhausted from all the familiar and yet new impressions the day has left on her, and for the first time in a long time she looks forward to going to sleep. Still, though, she feels a real need to talk to someone. It’s too late to call her grandmother. And if she were to call Katja they’d get into a long chatty conversation like they usually did.

  She used to tell Ben everything. How much she would like to tell him about her day today. Today it had been evident that they really needed her at the agency. Just like that, tomorrow morning she would be taking part in a meeting to prepare for an important pitch. And that felt good; it felt a bit like normalcy.

  Acting on an impulse, Clara suddenly grabs her cell phone, sits up, and with trembling fingers and pounding heart, she types a text message to Ben.

  My darling! Oh, where are you? How are you? I miss you every single second, but today I laughed again for the first time. Loving you forever, your Lilime

  Clara takes a large sip of her nightly fruit tea, gives a satisfied nod, and hits Send.

  sven

  What a slap in the face!

  Sven is still sitting like a stone before a printout of his article on the new study put out by the German Institute for Economic Research, which his editor in chief had dropped on his desk without saying a word—he’d just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

  He’s used to his articles sailing through without him having to make any major changes. Since he usually sticks to what was discussed at the editorial meeting, his approach to the subject matter usually gets the nod without him having to go through a second or third round of revisions. Apparently though he’s going to have to start this piece all over again, completely rewrite it, even though it’s well past time to go to press.

  “Definitely an interesting take. But lacks focus! W.B.” Thus read Walter Breiding’s comments, scrawled on the last page after he’d drawn a diagonal line from top to bottom, slashing through all six manuscript pages.

  This had never happened to Sven before! Not even during his internship at the Hannoversche Allgemeine Zeitung. Or at News of the World magazine in London. Before he can start letting loose about Breiding to Hilke, it becomes clear to him that what he wrote this time really is crap.

  He’d put as little heart into the article as he had into the list that he’d begun last night at home over a bottle of red wine. Hilke had suggested that he write down his specific life goals for the coming years. She swears by this method. But Sven hadn’t gotten too far before turning his attention back to his article.

  And now he has to admit that, having failed to do enough research, he had simply shifted the focus of his article to serve his own arguments. And unfortunately he’d done this so blatantly that Breiding had no other choice but to throw the article back in his face.

  “Let me guess,” Hilke says, smirking, “he finds it a bit underseasoned?” Quoting one of Breiding’s typical lines is her way of letting Sven know that she very much noticed the boss’s appearance, despite having never looked up from her computer screen.

  “Eh, no,” Sven forces himself to reply. “I think it’s more like the main course never arrived.”

  “Let me see!” Hilke scans the pages and says sympathetically: “Looks like a night shift to me. Do you need any help?”

  “If I can’t think of anything clever by midnight, I’ll give you a call,” Sven replies and lifts the right corner of his mouth into something resembling a grin.

  “Oh yeah, I’m sure Martin would love that!” Hilke replies sarcastically.

  “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t want to put any strain on your marriage.”

  “Oh, it takes more than that to strain a
marriage,” Hilke replies, not without a little pride.

  “Yeah, and I really have to ask myself sometimes how you’re still holding it together after so many years . . .” Sven is worried that he might sound envious. But it’s true he doesn’t really understand.

  “Love, that’s the secret. L-O-V-E. But of course you don’t know anything about that!”

  Even though he’s sure Hilke doesn’t mean it like that, Sven feels a faint stab of pain. But he chooses not to say anything.

  “If you need any last-minute help with matters of the heart or anything else, feel free to call. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Have a good night.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s already past midnight, and Sven is still sitting at his computer. When the custodian stopped by a little while ago, he realized he hadn’t moved an inch since Hilke left. But she simply vacuumed around him and emptied his wastebasket as quietly as possible.

  Not a thing has happened on his computer screen. Sven just feels zero motivation to start the piece over again. Instead he sits in his chair with a view out the window of HafenCity. The redevelopment project on the harbor is still just a giant construction site, though not uninteresting to look at. He stares and lets his mind wander. He can feel an ominous twinge in the back of his neck. There’s a pain beginning to announce itself just above the shoulder blades; it’s bearable, for now, but still uncomfortably present.

  Outside it’s dark, and his stern face is reflected in the windowpane. Sven asks himself if he actually likes what he sees. He feels pretty good about his body, as out of shape as he might be currently. But he has no real opinion of his face. He feels it to be average, neither particularly ugly nor particularly attractive. His old girlfriends had liked his eyes best. They’re his mother’s. She apparently had the same pale blue eyes. She died when Sven was four years old, and he wonders sometimes what else he might have inherited from her.

  Fiona had always said his eyes glowed like the icy-blue eyes of a husky, almost sinister-looking, but irresistibly handsome. She found his gaze sexy. He usually didn’t let it show, but the compliment made him happy every time he heard it.

  Catching sight of himself now, however, Sven feels he looks rather pallid, like he’s staring into the face of a lifeless figure. His hair has grown thin. At forty-two, he feels old for the first time in his life. Would a wife, to say nothing of a family, bring about any sort of change? Sven wonders. But quickly he checks himself—he shouldn’t start dwelling on any romantic fantasies. Sooner or later, one way or another, they would just lead to disappointment.

  There hadn’t been any kind of enduring love in his life up to this point. And there wouldn’t ever be, either—on this point Sven is convinced. With Fiona, he had been able to imagine the two of them having a future together. But the day was bound to have come eventually when all the wonderful facets that together made up the feeling of being in love would have vanished, gone in a way that was as mysterious as it was irrevocable. People just aren’t made to spend their whole lives with the same person. Even if corny movies and books never got tired of suggesting the opposite.

  Just as Sven is deciding to put together that list of his life goals after all, his cell phone dings. He reaches in his bag to see who could be texting him this late. No doubt it’s Hilke, Sven thinks, sending him a few words of encouragement before she gets into bed with her husband. Sven can sense himself envying her for her relationship.

  But when he reads the text, it’s immediately clear to him that the message isn’t meant for him at all. Clearly some utterly hopeless romantic has got the wrong number. Sven gets the gist all the same: If you’re in love, your brain turns to mush. If you’re not in love, you go numb.

  clara

  A sign!”

  “Huh?” Katja mumbles, slightly annoyed, on the other end of the line. “I’m totally lost here. Give me a second to wake up.”

  Clara has thrown on her old velour jacket and sat down on the windowsill in the kitchen, her legs pulled up so that her bare feet aren’t touching the cold tile floor. She’s still totally worked up and is afraid that Katja is either going to call an ambulance or just laugh at her.

  “All right, one more time, babe. Start from the very beginning. Take a deep breath and then tell me again what happened, nice and slow, okay?”

  “I mean the damn lights went out!” Clara says again and is startled by how hysterical her voice sounds. “I sent Ben a text, and as soon as the display said ‘message sent’ the damn lights went out in the bedroom!”

  “You did what?”

  “Nothing! I didn’t do a thing. That’s what’s so crazy about it!”

  “No, I mean, you sent Ben a text?!”

  Clara has to swallow hard. She doesn’t want to start bawling yet again. Not now, not after such a successful day. She tries to sound as calm as possible.

  “Yeah, I know it’s stupid. And it’s not like I’ve ever done something so ridiculous before. Honest! But I just felt like doing it. And then, just like that, everything went dark!” Clara realizes that she’s talking a bit too loudly again.

  “Um, okay, so you sent the text, and then it got dark?” Katja asks, taken aback.

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure that you didn’t turn the lights off yourself?”

  “Katja, come on! I mean I know you all think I’m still out of my head, but I’m not an idiot!”

  “Hmm, well, it does sound a bit spooky . . . ,” Katja mumbles quietly, as if she’s talking to herself.

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying. I was totally freaked out and started flipping the light switch up and down like crazy. Then suddenly the lights came back on. So I mean the lamp still works totally fine.”

  “Well, okay, so I guess everything’s all right then,” Katja yawns into the receiver.

  “Nothing is all right!” Clara’s voice is so tearful now that Katja can barely understand her.

  “Listen, babe, why don’t you get all your stuff together for tomorrow and come spend the night at my place tonight? I’ll pick you up, okay?”

  “I don’t think I can. I have to get going really early tomorrow.”

  “Mm-hmm, all right, then try to get some sleep now. Tuck yourself in nice and warm. And make yourself some hot chocolate beforehand—and don’t forget the whipped cream! I’m sure you’ve gone all day again without eating anything but a bowl of soup!”

  Clara lets out a sigh. Her grandmother is always preaching the exact same thing. Just yesterday, when she was at her grandparents’ place for a visit, her grandmother had tried every trick in the book urging Clara to get some more “meat on her bones,” as she lovingly puts it.

  Clara used to fret about extra pounds. But by this point even she is beginning to worry a little about her loss of appetite.

  Within just a few weeks after the wake the little love handles around her hips had just about vanished. Since Ben has been gone, Clara has to choke down even the smallest of meals, without taking any enjoyment in them. Sometimes on Saturdays she still drives out to a big supermarket to buy cans of soup and buttermilk. But she only does this because it makes her feel a little closer to Ben. He loved plunging into the big adventure that was grocery shopping on Saturday mornings. He was always coaxing Clara into coming along with him, usually by holding out the prospect of a family-sized box of stracciatella ice cream.

  Ben just fundamentally did not care, at all, what other people thought about him. He could start juggling a handful of oranges in the middle of a crowded supermarket or get Clara to join him in a little dance routine by the freezer section. He had a theatrical way of planting a kiss on her in some unlikely place—her nose, her elbow, her knee—while they were standing in line or just brazenly pinching her butt so that she let out a shriek—it was anything but embarrassing to him. Wherever he went h
e was immediately the center of attention. True, there were times when Clara felt a bit mortified when she was with him, but most of the time she watched him with adoration.

  And on the other hand, there was simply no one better than Ben when it came to making Clara feel that she was the most wonderful woman in the world. Even if he did like to overdo it with his compliments. Whenever she was complaining for the umpteenth time about her breasts being too small or her boring dirty blond hair, he had always been able to convince her that she was the only one, that everything revolved around her.

  But then how could he ever have left her? If he was supposed to have loved her so much? Or did he not leave her at all? Was it all just the workings of ruthless fate?

  Clara feels the despair rising within her. She quickly promises Katja that she’ll snuggle down with another cup of fruit tea and hangs up.

  Which is more distressing, really: the idea of a young life and a happy relationship being snuffed out forever by a tragic accident? Or the feeling that in reality you barely knew your own partner, the man with whom you shared every day of your life for more than three years? How long must Ben have been suffering?

  All these painful questions keep popping up out of the blue, and Clara admonishes herself to put them out of her mind. It’s time she started facing her new life, one step at a time. The last thing she wants is to continue to be a burden to her family and to Katja. And above all she wants to stop adding to Lisbeth and Willy’s worries.

  It’s already bad enough that things are getting worse for her grandfather with every year, Clara thinks, running her hands down her face. And her grandmother? Ever since Willy’s stroke she, too, had lost so much of her vitality and joy in life. Most of the time her grandfather doesn’t do much else than sit in his armchair. He tries to hide behind his books on astronomy or history, but his eyes get tired very quickly.