Text for You

by Sofie Cramer

  As possible to kiss your lovely smile

  Being with you a very sweet while,

  Clara, my heart; Clara, my light,

  Your beauty is shining bright—all over the moon.

  Of course Clara thought the refrain was incredibly corny, but the gesture behind it, and the thunderous applause that suddenly came from the surprise guests in the kitchen, sent a pleasant tingling feeling down her spine, and still does, even today. It was such a wonderful party, the kind anyone would wish for on their birthday. Even Bea, who was so reserved, admitted that she envied Clara for having a boyfriend who was such a cool singer and always came up with such great ideas.

  Looking back on that night, Clara can’t help but start laughing and crying all at once. She knows that the pain will get a little easier to bear with every month. But will she ever understand Ben? How could she feel so close to someone who clearly never really opened himself up to her? Was that why Ben had so often escaped into drugs and music? Had she simply not realized at the time how low an opinion Ben had of his talent and himself? Was he plagued by guilt for playing the role of the artist and bohemian when in reality he felt like a failure?

  That at least is what Carsten told her after it happened.

  Clara starts to feel a mixture of fear and rage whenever she thinks of Carsten. Of course she actually really likes Ben’s best friend, and she knows that he’s a good guy at heart. But the plain truth was that the bond between the two men had always been a thorn in her side.

  Ben had whiled away more time with Carsten than with any of his other friends. And he had spent more nights blitzed on drugs with Carsten than with anyone else, too. The last night of his life was no different. And yet at the crucial moment, Carsten hadn’t been there. Apparently he’d gotten sick. At least that’s what he’d told the police later on. Sick from too much alcohol and too many joints.

  He must have been off in the bathroom for half an hour while Ben stayed outside on the balcony. No one knows if Ben got cocky from all the alcohol in his blood and recklessly sat down on the concrete railing—or if, after the horrible fight with Clara, he took this opportunity to end his own life.

  Carsten, at any rate, didn’t think Ben’s deadly fall from the fifth floor was an accident.

  In the first few days following Ben’s death, Clara had categorically refused to accept the possibility that it could have been suicide. Night after night she would replay scenes from her memory of her life with Ben, but the puzzle pieces just wouldn’t fit together.

  Only after countless grueling conversations with Dr. Ferdinand, her psychologist, did Clara get the courage to gradually start venturing inside Ben’s world. Little by little, she began to understand that Ben might possibly have suffered from a personality disorder and could very well have repressed it or kept it secret for years. But even if at every session Clara learned more and more about the different pathological indicators and tried to fit Ben’s life into this pattern, in the end what remained was only the sobering knowledge that there was absolutely no comfort to be found in his death.

  Her Ben, a young man with dreams and hopes, with talents and faults, had died much too soon and for no reason at all. He hadn’t left a suicide note. All that remained for Clara, his family, and his friends were memories, photographs, and his songs.

  For the first time in a long time, Clara now dares to go over to her desk to get the burned CD with the song on it that Ben had given to her on her birthday. With trembling hands she reaches for the jewel case, which she’d illustrated with chalk markers that same night. A moon in silvery, shimmering hues, shining brightly out into the dark universe.

  But when she opens the case, she gets a massive shock. On the back of the booklet a few lines are written, in handwriting that is more than familiar to her:

  For Lilime, my great little artist! Ben

  sven

  Sven lies on his couch, his hands behind his head, and stares at the ceiling. It’s Saturday night. There’s some kind of reality show playing on television that doesn’t actually interest him.

  He’s waiting for another one of these mysterious texts. By this point, he’s spending more time thinking about these brief messages than he’d care to admit. He keeps puzzling over who they could be coming from and whether he might not be the intended recipient after all. Who knows, maybe it’s someone he knows trying to mess with him. An old coworker, maybe, or someone from his Tai Chi club, whose meetings he hasn’t gone to for months now.

  Weirdly enough, the mysterious sender wrote a text last night with the words Thank you for your message. Maybe the texts actually were reaching the person they were intended for but were also being sent to him as the result of a technical glitch, like he was cc’d or something.

  Sven decides to do some research when he gets to the office on Monday morning to find out if something like that is theoretically possible—and above all, if there isn’t some way of learning the identity of the sender, even though they clearly want to remain anonymous and their number isn’t listed anywhere.

  Of course, Sven could also just call the number and politely ask the person to stop texting him. But somehow he just wouldn’t feel right doing it. Maybe he’s just curious, simple as that.

  Really, though, Sven considers himself a discreet person. He doesn’t get involved in things that don’t concern him. It’s different of course with research that he has to do for professional reasons. Every person probably has some part of themselves that’s eager to find out secret information, Sven thinks as he pours himself some more wine. But that doesn’t make everybody a journalist.

  At the end of the day he’s proud that he gets to work for an internationally recognized magazine and be part of a respected news organization. And things have gone a fair amount better for him over the past week than they had been going for most of the last few months. Even Breiding, in stark contrast to his usual arrogant manner, had praised his interview with the new Special Adviser on Sport and Development at the United Nations.

  After a few glasses of red wine, a gift from his father, Sven sees that it’s now half past ten. He reaches for his phone again. He’s surprised that he hasn’t gotten a text yet today. He double-checks the display to make sure. Nothing. Disappointed almost, he gets up and heads to the bathroom.

  Just as he’s reaching for his toothbrush, the ding goes off to signal that a text has come in. He immediately sets the toothbrush down again and hurries over to his phone. He saved the unknown sender in his contacts as “No Name.” No Name writes:

  Finally started painting again today—for you only: Dark Side of the Moon! In love and gratitude, xoxo, your Lilime

  Suddenly Sven has to grin a little in spite of himself. The Pink Floyd record is one of the oldest in his collection. He walks over to the long white shelf in the living room where he keeps all his LPs and CDs arranged in alphabetical order. He reaches up, pulls the record off the shelf, and looks at the cover, amused—it seems so familiar to him and immediately brings back memories from his teenage years. The first parties, wood-paneled basement rooms; his buddies from back then; his first love . . . He was with Michaela for more than two years. Sven looks back fondly on their time together, even though she never wanted to go all the way. Once his father had caught him clumsily trying to undo Michaela’s bra after school. That was the most embarrassing experience in his life up to that point. He is far older today than his father was at the time, though he seemed much older to Sven back then.

  Sven studies the record closely from every angle. Maybe he would feel more mature if his mother hadn’t died so young? An expert would certainly be able to confirm this bit of amateur psychoanalysis.

  But I’ve gotten along just fine in my life so far without professional help, thinks Sven—even if Hilke likes to tell me otherwise.

  He puts the record on. It’s been years since he last used his record player; it stands in s
uch stark visual contrast to his B&O sound system with its top-of-the-line tube amplifiers. Curious to see whether it still works, Sven moves the needle to the fourth song, “Time.” Immediately the music starts playing and the sound quality is amazingly good. Sven turns the volume up a little, pours the last bit of wine left in the bottle into his glass, and takes a hefty sip. He opens the door to the roof terrace and breathes in the cool air. His gaze sweeps over the buildings across the street. Only a few lights are still on in the windows. But the moon is uncommonly bright, shining high above the city.

  Life can be so beautiful, Sven thinks suddenly. And without really thinking of anything in particular, he tries to remember the last time he felt so good.

  clara

  Clara looks proudly at the painting on her easel. She’s standing in the middle of the large kitchen, where it looks like she’s just hosted a kindergarten art class. There are paints, brushes, and little glass jars everywhere.

  Exhausted, she flops down onto a chair and only now realizes how numb her arms feel after painting for so long. She can’t remember the last time she devoted herself to something with so much calm and purpose of mind. Sure, every now and then at the agency she had to do small drawings or sketch rough designs by hand. But a real oil painting and on such a large, framed canvas—it must be more than two years since she last managed to complete something on this scale. Clara has no idea why she stopped for so long. It does her good to escape into this fascinating world of color and form. A place where there are no gloomy thoughts and time and space are completely forgotten.

  Over the last few months with Ben, she had simply never managed to make time for it. First she had wanted to fix up the new apartment and had been busy with redecorating work for weeks. There was no time left for picking up her brushes and being creative. And then, after that, she didn’t have the space or the time anymore for things that she’d enjoyed doing when she was single. All she had was a stack of over a hundred drawings, watercolors, oil paintings, and etchings in the new basement storage space that she never so much as looked at.

  Clara gets up to grab a soda from the refrigerator and is just sitting down again when suddenly her cell goes off. For a second, she hesitates to go out into the hallway to see who could be texting her so late. She can’t help smiling when she catches herself thinking that Ben might have sent a message. But the text can’t be from Ben; it can only be from Katja.

  Clara drags herself to her feet and goes to get her phone. Sure enough, her friend asks:

  Still awake?

  Clara hits the green button to call right back.

  “Hey there, stranger, where are you?”

  “On my way to your place, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure! But I thought you were still off somewhere way down south?”

  “All right, so first of all, Kassel isn’t exactly Bavaria, and second of all, it was a total bust. But I’ll tell you all about it in a second.”

  “Okay. I’ll go ahead and open a bottle of prosecco.”

  “And a box of tissues, please. Be right there!”

  Before Clara can ask what Katja meant, her friend has already hung up.

  Clara puts the painting in the closet, easel and all, hurries into the bathroom, tosses her old paint-spattered smock into the bathtub, and washes her hands, first with mineral spirits and then with lots of soap. When she catches sight of herself in the mirror, she can’t help but give herself a big grin, almost like she’s happy. She’s just so pleased to have had a successful day, and now her friend is dropping by unexpectedly on top of that.

  The buzzer for the door downstairs is already ringing when she heads back to the kitchen.

  “Hey, babe!” pants Katja after a quick sprint up the stairs. She gives Clara a hug—as always, the embrace is a touch too rushed. Katja is an impulsive person through and through, and before Clara knows it, she’s already parked herself on the couch.

  “I have to confess something to you. But you can’t get mad, okay?” Katja calls out toward the kitchen, where Clara is getting the prosecco, two glasses, and an open bag of chips.

  “You’ve got me on the edge of my seat over here.”

  “So, confession number one: I wasn’t in Kassel on business. Confession number two: I’m in love. Confession number three: The son of a bitch is married!”

  Clara is so stunned she almost drops the bottle. Before she can say anything, Katja is already talking again: “I didn’t tell you about it earlier because I . . . well, because I didn’t know if you could hear it without getting sad.”

  “What can’t I hear?” Clara asks with a little resentment in her voice.

  “Just that I’m so happy because I met Robert. Check that, was happy!”

  “Okay, so one thing at a time now. First off, you of all people should know that you can talk to me about anything. I still live on this planet; I’m not some alien who can’t bear to listen to other people anymore.”

  “Yeah, sure. But—”

  “And also,” Clara interrupts her friend, her voice becoming a little gentler now, “I’m actually glad to hear that things are going well at least in some parts of the world.”

  “Well, they’re not going quite as well anymore,” says Katja in an unusually serious tone and drains her glass in a single gulp.

  “All right, fire away. Start from the beginning. And don’t you dare spare any details!”

  It takes Katja more than half an hour to get everything off her chest. She’s so worked up it’s as if they hadn’t spoken in months. She has kept this secret from her best friend for far too long, and meanwhile it’s been totally consuming her. This thing with Robert had been totally casual at first, just like with all the other guys—after a brief, hot phase, Katja usually sends them packing; they get to be too demanding. Only once had Katja really been in love. At seventeen, she had fallen for a teacher who was much older—too old. And now she’s finally caught the bug again. Clara can barely follow what she’s saying; there are so many details and they all seem to be of vital importance.

  Robert is six foot one and according to Katja fairly skeletal. He doesn’t have a single ounce of body fat, works out almost incessantly, and spends the rest of his time in the office, working in investments or something like that. That is, when he’s not spending time with his wife, who he’d neglected to mention until just five hours ago.

  Katja is almost bursting with anger. And by the time Clara has opened a second bottle of prosecco, she’s really letting loose.

  “He’s actually married. That asshole!”

  Apparently his wife was just as unwitting as Katja was. Supposedly she had gone to visit her parents in East Frisia over the weekend, and Robert figured this was a great opportunity to invite Katja to their house. Up until that point they had only ever met at Katja’s place in Lüneburg or in hotels in Hamburg—so long as he could declare the trip a business expense.

  “You should have seen that asshole showing off that dump of his, blabbering on about how I should jazz it up and all that. Like what does the guy think, I’m going to conjure up a palace for him?” Katja is slurring her speech a little by this point, and her voice is reaching unexpectedly high pitches.

  Clara isn’t sure if the angry part is just now getting started or if the first tears are about to fall. Somewhat overwhelmed with the whole situation, she decides to stick to listening for now and wait to see if the “asshole” is still such an asshole in the morning.

  Katja sighs and looks at Clara, bleary-eyed. “And speaking of goddamn assholes—how come you look so goddamn thin? I’m really starting to worry about you. Three months ago this bag of chips wouldn’t have lasted an hour in this apartment!” She grabs a handful and gleefully stuffs them all into her mouth. Then suddenly she makes a face.

  “Yuck, how old are these?”

  “Oh, about three months . . .” Clara lowers her gaze
and then adds with a slightly pained smile: “You know how it is. I’m on the hope-free diet.”

  Katja almost chokes. She gives Clara an uncertain look, hesitates for a moment, and then bursts out laughing, spraying huge quantities of half-chewed potato chips all over the couch in zero seconds flat.

  “The hope-free diet!” she coughs. “Oh my God! The new weight-loss craze—developed by the two most pathetic losers in the universe: Clara Sommerfeld and Katja Albers. The recipe for weight-loss success: First fall in love, then separate—and just like that, you’ll lose twenty pounds in ten weeks!” Katja is almost screaming. Her laughter is so infectious that Clara can’t help joining in and laughing with her until her stomach hurts.

  “Okay, but for real now,” Katja says finally and reaches for the chips again. “We’ve really got to fatten you up!”

  “Oh, cut it out. And now it’s your turn again,” Clara replies and refills both of their glasses.

  “Oh, I’m just going to let him sweat a bit. That always does the trick.”

  “Well, in any case, you were definitely right not to let him get away with that cowardly trick he tried to pull.”

  “Agreed. We can’t let that kind of thing go unpunished!”

  “Just don’t end up punishing yourself worst of all. Do you really think he’s going to leave her?”

  “No idea. But what we had going before now was really amazing. You should get online and find something for yourself!”

  “Oh, sure. I’ll put up a personal ad. Dried-up widow seeks something male from the discard pile.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Most couples meet online these days. It’s not just perverts or people who don’t have any other options.”

  “Though there are plenty of married scumbags who lead a double life!”

  “Ugh, tell me about it. And of all people, I had to fall for it!” Katja hangs her head and lets out a big yawn. “But it’s not like I’m any better. How many guys have I led on by this point? There’s probably some nasty old angel up there who thought he’d even the scales . . .”