Text for You

by Sofie Cramer

  “Oh ho ho. Such big talk for so early in the morning . . .”

  “Oh ho ho. Such small-mindedness for such a big manly brain . . .”

  Sven wants to respond, but he can’t come up with anything. And so he tries to focus on his interviews again, which still need work. And Hilke, too, turns back to her screen with a stern look on her face and starts wildly pounding away at her keyboard.

  Even though he has already transcribed the most important parts from the MP3 files and inserted the quotes into his article, Sven stuffs his earbuds into his ears again to send a clear message to his colleague that she should spare him her blabbering already.

  But Hilke won’t drop it, and now she pipes up again via email. Sven tries to suppress a groan of annoyance when he sees the little Outlook window pop up on his screen.

  From: Hilke Schneider

  Subject: Deal

  Dear Svenny! Ok. I’ve gotten the message and I propose a deal. I’ll never stick my nose in your little affairs of the heart again, but only if you demonstrate that you actually have a heart!

  Yours truly, H.

  Sven can’t help himself. He immediately clicks Reply:

  From: Sven Lehmann

  My dear Hilkie! Perfect—keep out of it!

  Regards, S.

  It takes Hilke less than a minute to respond. She, too, makes every effort to keep her eyes glued to her monitor and her face blank:

  From: Hilke Schneider

  Ok, but first you have to promise that you’ll try to track her down.

  From: Sven Lehmann

  This is workplace harassment!

  From: Hilke Schneider

  So is having to look at your depressed face all the time!

  From: Sven Lehmann

  Leaving aside the fact that I don’t actually want to meet her in the first place, I wouldn’t even know how to track her down.

  From: Hilke Schneider

  You’re a reporter at a renowned news magazine. You should know how to do a bit of research.

  From: Sven Lehmann

  And what, in your opinion, dear colleague, is the end result of all this supposed to be?

  From: Hilke Schneider

  Happiness, you dummy!

  From: Sven Lehmann

  You’re the dummy. You’ve really got a screw loose!

  From: Hilke Schneider

  So do you! Hey you wanna try that Thai place over by the Magellan terraces? I’m hungry.

  From: Sven Lehmann

  OK.

  From: Hilke Schneider

  * * *

  • • •

  At lunch Hilke manages to keep to her half of the deal for just about half an hour. But then she just can’t help herself and makes another clumsy but charming attempt to urge Sven to finally “take his happiness into his own hands.”

  And now Sven doesn’t know if he tentatively agreed so that she would finally stop poking her nose into his nonexistent love life or because she had taken the same tack David had. If his buddy weren’t so unbelievably blinded by his own infatuation, there’s no question he would have advised Sven to write Lilime and politely inform her that she was bothering him and to please cease and desist. But David found the whole text business incredibly fascinating and said things like “Don’t be so uptight,” “Stay with it!” and “What do you have to lose?”

  Whatever the case, it really is time to act. Even Sven is convinced of this by now. If only so that he doesn’t lose his mind and risk making his whole sense of well-being dependent on a text message!

  Even though his piece still isn’t finished yet and it’s getting ominously close to press time, Sven takes a crack at composing an answer to all of Lilime’s texts. He opens a new Word document and saves the file in his personal folder under the name “Lilime.” He writes:

  Dear Lilime. I’m sorry for what you’re going through and I send you my deepest sympathies.

  Oh God, that sounds like something from a bad movie, Sven thinks. Without erasing the lines, he just hits the Return key and starts over again with a new paragraph:

  Dear Lilime. I’m the recipient of all your sad messages. Though I am deeply moved by your fate, I would like to ask you to refrain from sending texts to my number. Best regards . . .

  Total garbage!

  Sven looks out the window. He’s happy that Hilke has already left for the night and he’s no longer under close observation.

  A new attempt:

  Please refrain from texting this number. Respectfully yours . . .

  . . . Mr. Asshole, thinks Sven.

  “This can’t possibly be that hard,” he exhorts himself, speaking so loudly that he looks over anxiously at the open door to make sure none of his coworkers are nearby.

  Dear Lilime, I’m sorry for what you’re going through. If you’d like to tell me about your grief in person, rather than just by text, I’d be happy to take you out for coffee. Warm regards, an admirer.

  I sound like some creepy guy in his seventies!

  Dear stranger! In case you’re curious who’s been getting all your moving messages, feel free to get in touch! Sincerely, Your Addressee

  Sven stares out the window. How the hell is he supposed to keep from scaring Lilime to death when she gets a text that looks like it’s coming from her true love from beyond the grave?

  Maybe he should send it from a different cell phone. Unless—could it be that she suspects that her texts are going to some stranger? But then she’s sure to be very angry that he’s waited so long to write back. No doubt she’s just been going on the assumption that the number hasn’t been reassigned yet and the texts are all ending up in nirvana.

  It’s no use. Sven really has to give his job his full attention again. He reaches for his iPhone and types:

  Dear Lilime, I’m the recipient of all your moving words. If I can be of any help to you in your grief, let me know. Your anonymous confidante

  Even though Sven just saves this message as a draft for now, rather than sending it off right away, he finally feels more relaxed. The next time he gets in a situation that compels him to act, he’ll just send the text off and feel better immediately. But maybe he should wait for a sign.

  He shakes his head at this foolish game he’s playing in his mind. But at least he can get back to work again now. He takes a deep breath and steels himself for one last effort to finally get the article finished. After all, it’s the weekend—he wants to get out of here soon and make it to Tai Chi on time.

  * * *

  • • •

  For the third time tonight, Sven attempts to read the latest text from Lilime. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning; the sound of his phone going off must have woken him up. He can barely read the display, which probably has something to do with the bottle of good red wine that he enjoyed on his terrace after Tai Chi. But he absolutely wants to get more information from Lilime’s world. Ideally he’ll be able to fit it in with the rest and start to understand it right away.

  Thank you for the sign—Beppo’s matches! Going to ask him if he’ll let me exhibit at his restaurant—I’ll order your favorite: Diavola. Promise! Xx, L.

  Sven sits up and turns on the light. He reads the text again and wonders if Diavola is a kind of pizza. And if so, how many restaurants could there be in Germany that are owned by someone named Beppo and have that variety of pizza on the menu?

  One, ten, or hundreds?

  Hard to say. And where do the matches fit in? What kind of sign is Lilime talking about, for God’s sake? Does she really believe in that kind of New Agey nonsense?

  And what does she want to exhibit, anyway? Her paintings?

  I want to see her paintings, Sven thinks, then he gets up to get a bit of fresh air.

  It’s quite cool on the roof terrace. From here he’s got a good view of the few apartmen
ts in the surrounding buildings with their lights still on. Across the street he can see a young woman who is sitting in front of the television, wrapped in a towel and painting her toenails. Sven is tempted to go get the telescope he bought for the last partial lunar eclipse. Would it be worth it to take a closer look at this girl?

  But he lets this enticing thought go. He would feel sleazy violating his neighbor’s privacy like that when she clearly feels safe and secure.

  Does Lilime also paint her nails at two o’clock in the morning? Does she even go in for that sort of thing—nails, hair, makeup, and all the rest of it? Do people who have a talent for painting automatically put a lot of stock in appearances?

  What kind of paintings does she paint? And does Lilime feel safe and secure when she paints? Wouldn’t it be better for him to leave her alone, stay out of her life, give her the space she needs to overcome her grief, and delete whatever texts might come in from now on without reading them?

  Sven doesn’t care for this thought. It’s true he’s not thrilled with feeling like a sleazy snoop. But he’s even less thrilled at the idea of just staying away from Lilime’s world.

  He goes to get a bottle of water to help with his post-wine thirst and steps back out onto the terrace. But this time he sits in his beach chair so that he won’t be tempted to intrude on his young neighbor with his gaze.

  Really though with Lilime it was the other way around, he thinks suddenly and sits up. She’s the one who intruded on me!

  Now he looks up at the starry sky. The Summer Triangle is clearly visible, even though the city is still brightly lit and countless stars remain hidden.

  This is a good night to gain some more clarity—Sven can feel it. He goes back into the apartment again, where his MacBook waits in a bag by the door. Itching to get to the bottom of all the mysteries that hang in the air on a special summer night like this one, he grabs the laptop and a hoodie and heads back to the beach chair. Once he’s settled he turns the computer on, stares up at the sky while it starts up, and tries to see if he can find Polaris floating above the Big Dipper. When he does finally spot it, it almost feels like it’s a sign. Like the one Lilime received. The search will be worth it.

  As soon as the little bars in the right-hand corner of the screen indicate that he’s online, Sven pulls up Google and starts scouring the vast expanses of the virtual world for Diavola.

  clara

  Grandma, you make the best mashed potatoes in the world,” Clara says with her mouth full. She just loves sitting here with her grandparents and getting to feel like a spoiled little kid again.

  “Well, you’d better not let your mother hear you say that!” Lisbeth warns.

  Clara groans. Lisbeth likes Clara’s mother—but still, they’ve never really been on the same wavelength, and Clara doesn’t quite know how to respond.

  But Lisbeth just keeps talking: “You go ahead and eat all you want. I think it’s wonderful that you’ve finally put some weight back on, honey!”

  “I have?” Clara asks in amazement and sets her forkful of potatoes back down onto her plate. She glances down at herself.

  “Your face isn’t so awfully drawn anymore. You’re looking really pretty again!” Lisbeth gives Clara a sly look and suddenly breaks into a big grin. “You’re not in love, are you?”

  “Grandma!” Clara says indignantly. She feels completely blindsided. She has just been happily rhapsodizing about her painting, about how she’s finally picked it up again and it’s been so much fun—but Lisbeth can’t imagine that that might be the reason for her good mood; no, she has to go chalking it up to some imaginary love affair, never mind that the very idea of such a thing is completely ridiculous and unrealistic. What about Ben? Has everybody forgotten about him already? Clara asks herself silently.

  Lisbeth seems to realize she’s gone too far. “You know, sometimes the best way to get over an old love is by finding a new love.”

  “But maybe I don’t want to get over it!” Clara fires back angrily.

  “You shouldn’t give up hope, though.”

  “What am I supposed to hope for? Things aren’t ever going to be good again; it’s never going to be like it used to be.”

  “And nobody is saying it will be, honey. But you can try to make the best of the situation.”

  They both go silent. Clara crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

  “Honey, you’re a young, beautiful woman and talented, too, and—”

  “And intelligent!” Willy interjects, smiling proudly as he pushes his plate toward the gravy boat so that Lisbeth can top him up.

  “But do you think Ben would want for you to be alone?” Lisbeth asks gently—though it sounds pretty damn harsh.

  “Oh, leave the kid alone and let her eat,” her grandfather says.

  “It’s okay,” Clara responds. “I know you two mean well. But why don’t you tell me what was so urgent?”

  Clara had barely made it through the door when Lisbeth started talking excitedly, saying she had big news.

  It turns out that Lisbeth has inherited a “big pile” of money from her aunt, even though they’d only been in touch sporadically for years.

  “She was ninety-seven. An impressive age,” Willy declares, “and Lisbeth is her only living relative.”

  “Now of course we don’t actually know yet how much money it is or how much the funeral is going to cost,” Lisbeth adds. “I’ve asked your uncle to make the arrangements.”

  After lunch, when, as usual, Willy goes to the living room to take a little nap in his armchair, Clara starts shifting around restlessly in her chair. Finally she leans forward a little.

  “Lisbeth?” she begins carefully. The look on her grandma’s face makes it plain that she knows something’s coming—it must be important if her granddaughter is calling her by her first name. “Do you believe in signs?”

  Lisbeth leans back and clears her throat. “What kind of signs do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, just, signs—from up there.” Clara gestures with her head up toward the ceiling.

  “You mean, like, if the sun shines tomorrow, we’re going to inherit some money soon?”

  “Yeah, something like that. I mean, I think . . .” Clara hesitates. “I think Ben is sending me signs.” She looks at Lisbeth expectantly, puts her hands under her chin, props herself up on the table with her elbows, and adds: “Silly, huh?”

  “That is not at all silly.”

  “It’s not?”

  “Quite the opposite. It’s smart. You know, honey, when your dear father left us all those years ago, I did a lot of thinking about life and the way things are and how it’s hard sometimes to see the reason behind things. And I came to the conclusion that it pays to believe in something.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s too abstract for me.”

  “When fate deals people a blow, they either lose their faith, or they find their way to God or some kind of religion for the first time.”

  “But Grandma, I’m not talking about God, I’m talking about Ben. The signs are from him!”

  “What kind of signs are they—do you mind telling me?”

  “Well, like last night for example. I had just finished a large canvas, and I was sitting there; I’d poured myself a glass of wine and I was thinking about what I should do with all these paintings, whether there might be a way to exhibit them somewhere or even sell them. So anyway, I thought I’d light a few candles, and I went over to the cupboard to look for a lighter. But I couldn’t find one, so I went to the living room and started rummaging through a few drawers. Finally I was about to give up and was trying to shut the last drawer when it got stuck. I had to take everything out to check which of the papers or whatever else might have gotten stuck back there. It was this matchbook.”

  Clara reaches into her back pocket, pulls out a little matchbook, and places it on the t
able.

  Lisbeth picks it up and studies the writing on the cover. She gives Clara a somewhat puzzled look.

  “Castello?”

  “It’s the Italian place that Ben and I always went to. And yesterday it suddenly occurred to me: Beppo, I mean the guy who owns the place, exhibits paintings and photographs every now and then. With little price tags with big numbers on them. So then I thought . . . well, maybe I can show him my paintings sometime, too. It’s just an idea . . . But even if it sounds totally ridiculous, it feels like Ben sent me this sign. Do you understand?”

  Clara looks at her grandma, waiting for an answer. Lisbeth smiles contentedly and sits there in silence.

  “Well? You’re not saying anything!” Clara says with frustration.

  “I don’t really need to say anything. Some things in life are meaningful enough just the way they are. You don’t have to go looking for an explanation for them or dress them up in words.”

  “Oh, Grandma, I just get scared sometimes. I feel like I’m going nuts. You don’t think I’ve gone off the deep end?”

  “Not at all,” says Lisbeth, and seeing the desperate look on her granddaughter’s face she puts her hand on her shoulder. “You know, the question isn’t if there are such things as signs or not. The question is whether you choose to see them that way, and how you choose to interpret them.”

  Clara gives her grandmother a skeptical look.

  “Every positive thought is going to help you to get through this incredibly difficult time in your life and make things a little easier. Everything that strengthens your faith in the good in this world is just incredibly important for you, especially now. Faith in goodness and faith in love!”