Every Seventh Wave

by Daniel Glattauer

  Kiss on the cheek,

  Emmi

  (the soft-faced one)

  Two hours later

  Subject: (no subject)

  Leo, please write back!!!

  One hour later

  Subject: (no subject)

  Oh, Leo, do you have to? It drives me nuts, having to wait for answers to my pressing questions! Just write “yes,” or “no,” or even “bah!”—just write something, anything, but write! Otherwise a prop plane’s going to land on the balcony of flat 15. You have been warned!

  Emmi

  The following morning

  Subject: Harsh

  Thanks, Leo. Thanks for an unforgettable night. I didn’t sleep a wink.

  Ten seconds later

  Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Returned)

  This is an automatically generated Delivery Status

  Notification.

  THIS EMAIL ADDRESS HAS CHANGED. THE RECIPIENT CAN NO LONGER RECEIVE MAIL SENT TO THIS ADDRESS. ALL INCOMING MAIL WILL BE DELETED AUTOMATICALLY. FOR ANY QUERIES, PLEASE CONTACT THE SYSTEMS MANAGER.

  Three minutes later

  Re:

  Leo, please tell me that you’re just testing the limits with your attempts at tasteless jokes. If you get in touch right now, I may yet forgive you!

  Emmi

  Ten seconds later

  Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Returned)

  This is an automatically generated Delivery Status

  Notification.

  THIS EMAIL ADDRESS HAS CHANGED. THE RECIPIENT CAN NO LONGER RECEIVE MAIL SENT TO THIS ADDRESS. ALL INCOMING MAIL WILL BE DELETED AUTOMATICALLY. FOR ANY QUERIES, PLEASE CONTACT THE SYSTEMS MANAGER.

  One minute later

  Re:

  Why are you doing this to me?

  Ten seconds later

  Subject: Delivery Status Notification (Returned)

  This is an automatically generated Delivery Status

  Notification.

  THIS EMAIL ADDRESS HAS CHANGED. THE RECIPIENT CAN NO LONGER RECEIVE MAIL SENT TO THIS ADDRESS. ALL INCOMING MAIL WILL BE DELETED AUTOMATICALLY. FOR ANY QUERIES, PLEASE CONTACT THE SYSTEMS MANAGER.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The following evening

  Subject: Test

  Hello Emmi,

  Let me know if you get this.

  Leo

  Half an hour later

  Re:

  Yes, I got it. But you get this, Leo, I haven’t exactly enjoyed your company these past few days. What’s the matter with you? Where have you been? What are you trying to do? What the hell are you playing at? Why are you setting the Systems Manager onto me? I thought for a moment that you’d run away back to Boston.

  Two minutes later

  Re:

  I’m sorry, Emmi. I’m really sorry! Evidently there’s been a serious software error. My Outlook account was accidently unsubscribed. Maybe I missed a payment. I’ve had no messages for three days. Did you write to me?

  Twelve minutes later

  Re:

  Yes, Leo, I did write to you. I asked you a question. I waited two and a half days for an answer. I was worried sick, felt like I did during those marvelous days before you escaped to America. I even tried to phone you. I wasn’t going to say anything, I just wanted to hear your voice, but there was a message saying that your old number had “not been recognized.” I wept at the thought of you, but no tears came. I giggled hysterically at the thought of you. It struck me that something that had never really begun was already over for a second time. Those were the high points of my miserable existence for the duration of your serious software error. As if there weren’t enough things keeping us apart, the “system,” which seems to have played a starring role in all this, throws another one into the mix. The space we’re inhabiting is so creepy, I’m just shattered. Good night. Lovely to have you back. Lovely and comforting.

  Three minutes later

  Re:

  Dear Emmi,

  Please believe me, it pains me to have hurt you. It was an act of God: computer technology, whatever, separating us just as swiftly as it connects us. Our feelings are powerless against it. Forgive me. And sleep well, my love.

  The following morning

  Subject: Your question

  Good morning, Emmi. I’ve just been on the phone to a “specialist.” The “system” is up and running again. I hope you had a good sleep. Oh yes, you said you’d asked me something. What was it you wanted to know?

  All my love,

  Leo

  One hour later

  Re:

  In short: today, 3 p.m., Café Huber?

  Thirty minutes later

  Re:

  Yes, but (…). No, not but. Yes!

  Twenty minutes later

  Re:

  Great! And it took you half an hour to come up with that remarkable causal chain, Leo dear? ONLY half an hour? Do you mind if I analyze it? First there was a “yes,” an apparently resolute affirmative. Then came a comma, in expectation of an additional element to the sentence. Then there was a “but,” heralding a qualification. After that came a round open parenthesis. Then three points to convey a variety of thoughts shrouded in mystery. Then enough discipline to close the parentheses and wrap up this confusing mystery. Then a traditional full stop to maintain the outward appearance of order and to mask inner turmoil. And then all of a sudden a truculent little “no,” as if to signify a purposeful refusal. Another comma, anticipating additional information, and after that a “not,” an outright rejection. And then another “but,” a dissipation, a “but” that is only there to demonstrate that there isn’t one anymore. All doubt has been intimated. No doubt has been voiced. All doubt has been cast aside. And at the end what we’re left with is a gutsy little “yes,” complete with a defiant exclamation mark. To repeat: “Yes, but (…). No, not but. Yes!” What a poetic description of your fickleness. What a lyrical exposition of your decision-making processes. This man knows exactly that he doesn’t know what he wants. And he knows better than anyone how to pass on this knowledge to the very individual it concerns. All in barely half an hour. Brilliant! And someone had the wit to sign you up for language psychology so that you could come up with that, Leo dear.

  Three minutes later

  Re:

  Do you know what you want?

  Thirty seconds later

  Re:

  Yes.

  Forty seconds later

  Re:

  What?

  Fifty seconds later

  Re:

  You. (For a coffee.) ((As you can see, even I have mastered the art of the parenthesis.))

  Thirty seconds later

  Re:

  Why?

  One minute later

  Re:

  Because I’m doing the same thing as you, although it seems you can only admit it to yourself, open parenthesis, and me, close parenthesis, when you’re drunk.

  Forty seconds later

  Re:

  And what would that be?

  Thirty seconds later

  Re:

  Being interested in you.

  Forty seconds later

  Re:

  Yes, dear Emmi. No but, no full stop, no parentheses. Just a plain and uncomplex “yes.” Correct, well spotted. I am interested in you.

  One minute later

  Re:

  Splendid, Leo dear. In that case I think all requirements for a second visit to the coffeehouse have been fulfilled. Three o’clock?

  Twenty seconds later

  Re:

  Yes. Open parenthesis. Exclamation mark. Exclamation mark. Close parenthesis. Three o’clock.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Around midnight

  Subject: You

  Dear Leo,

  This time I’ll do the thanking (first). Thank you for this afternoon. Thank you for allowing me to peep through the narrow chinks into your closets full of feelings. What I saw has convinced me that you’re the same person who writes to m
e. I recognized you, Leo. I recognized you again. You’re the same person. You’re one and the same. You’re real. I like you very much! Sleep well.

  Twenty minutes later

  Re:

  Dear Emmi,

  There’s a particular point on the palm of my left hand, roughly in the middle, where the life line is crossed by deep creases and turns down toward the artery. I look at it, but I can’t see it. I stare at it but I can’t pin it down. I can only feel it. I can feel it when I close my eyes too. A point. It’s such a strong feeling that it makes me dizzy. When I concentrate on it, I sense it extending through my body as far as my toes. It tingles, it tickles, it warms me, it churns my insides. It boosts my circulation, it governs my pulse, it determines the speed of my heartbeat. And in my head it intoxicates me like a drug, expanding my consciousness, broadening my horizons. A point. I could laugh with joy, because it makes me feel so good. I could weep tears of happiness, happiness at possessing it and being seized and filled by it to the very tips of my fingers.

  Dear Emmi, in a certain café this afternoon—it must have been at around four o’clock—something happened on my left palm where this point is. My hand was reaching for a glass of water. The lissom fingers of another, softer hand came toward it; they tried to stop, tried to get out of the way, tried to avoid the collision. They almost succeeded. Almost. For a millisecond the soft tip of a finger breezing past rested on the palm of my hand as it reached for the glass. There was a delicate contact. I have stored it away. Nobody can take it from me. I can feel you. I recognize you. I recognize you again. You’re the same person. You’re one and the same. You are my point. Sleep well.

  Ten minutes later

  Re:

  Leo!!! That was so lovely! Where do you learn stuff like that? Now I need a whisky. Don’t let me bother you. Feel free to go to bed. And don’t forget your point. I recommend you close your fist around it, to keep it safe.

  Fifty minutes later

  Subject: Three whiskies and me

  Dear Leo,

  We stayed up a while and talked about you, the physical you. (“We” being me and three small whiskies.) It occurred to the first whisky and myself that when you’re in my presence you’re at pains to keep your words, gestures, and expressions in check. The first whisky, who knew me quite well, said you didn’t need to do this. (Unfortunately that one’s long gone.) The second whisky, now also departed, suspected that you had decided ages ago to get no closer to me than you do in my in-box, or across a brightly lit café table under the protective gaze of a dozen witnesses. Given all this, today’s conversation was pleasantly warm, affectionate, sincere, personal if not intimate, and it was even half an hour longer than we had planned. That’s what the second whisky thought. There’s a good chance that we could go on with this kind of Sunday-afternoon café meeting until we’re retirees, and play doubles solitaire together, or maybe a round of hearts, if our partners played too. (I’m sure “Pam” is a natural.)

  Now, the third whisky, which can be a little fruity, asked about your physical feelings. (The whisky called it “libido,” rather grandiloquently I thought. I told him that might be going a bit far.) He wanted to know whether I really believed that you only find me attractive with a blood-alcohol level of 3.8 parts per thousand. Because with coffee and water you seem to lack all interest in my physical appearance. I replied: “You’re definitely wrong there, Whisky. Leo is a man who can concentrate all of his feelings, however strong, and whatever they are, into a single point in the middle of his palm. It wouldn’t occur to a man like him to let a woman know if he found her attractive, and he certainly wouldn’t say to her face: ‘I like you!’ He’d find that far too crude.” And the third whisky said to me: “I bet he’s said stuff like that to Pamela a thousand times.” Do you know what I did with the third whisky after that, Leo dear? I annihilated it. And now I’m going to bed. Good morning!

  Later that morning

  Subject: Honestly, Emmi!

  What was it you wrote the day after our first meeting? Let me quote: “‘Thank you, Emmi’ was feeble. Very feeble. Well below your potential.”

  And what did you say last night about our second meeting? Let me quote: “Because with coffee and water you seem to lack all interest in my physical appearance.” That was feeble, Emmi. Very feeble. Well below your potential.

  Three hours later

  Re:

  Leo, I’m sorry. You’re right, that sentence sounded ridiculous. If you’d written it, I’d have laid into you. The whole email is embarrassing. Vain. Touchy. Smarmy. Bitchy. Yuck! But you’ve got to believe me: IT WASN’T ME, IT WAS THE THREE WHISKIES! I’ve got a headache. I’m going to go and lie down. Bye-bye!

  The following evening

  Subject: Bernhard

  Emmi, I’m sorry. I need to try to reevaluate what you (and your whiskies) have said. So I’m going to ask you, in all seriousness and without a trace of humor, as befits my personality: why should I have any “interest in your physical appearance”? Why should I say to your face, “I like you”? Why should I get any closer to you than across the table of a well-lit café? Surely you don’t want me to fall in love with you “physically” too (or libidinously, as the booze puts it)?! Where would that get you? I don’t understand, you’ll have to explain. In fact, there are a number of things that need an explanation, my dear. Over coffee you managed yet again to be elegantly evasive. You’ve been skirting around the issue for months—since Boston, in fact. But now I want to know. Yes, I really do want to know. Exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark.

  Here’s my first questionnaire: How’s your relationship? How are things with you and Bernhard? What are the children up to? What goes on in your life? Questionnaire two: Why did you resume contact with me after Boston? What do you now think about the circumstances that led to the break in our correspondence? How could you forgive Bernhard? How could you forgive me? Questionnaire three: What is missing from your life? What can I do for you? What do you want to do with me? What should I be for you? How should we go on from here? Should we go on at all? And where to? Please tell me: WHERE TO? Give yourself a few days before you answer; time is the one thing we have in abundance.

  Have a nice evening,

  Leo

  Five hours later

  Subject: Impressions

  Just want to add a few words to my nonexistent or indiscernible “interest in your physical appearance,” dear Emmi. Please tell your former and future whiskies that I like you. I can say that with 0.0 parts per thousand of alcohol in my blood. It’s lovely to look at you. You’re stunning to look at. And fortunately I can look at you anytime I choose. Not only have I got hundreds of impressions of you, I also have an impression from you. I have a point of contact on my palm. I can look at you there. I can even caress you. Good night.

  Three minutes later

  Re:

  You’ve just answered the question “What can I do for you?” yourself. Caress the point of contact, my love.

  One minute later

  Re:

  I will. But I’ll do it for me, not for you. Because only I can feel this point, it belongs to me, my love!

  Fifty seconds later

  Re:

  That is a misapprehension, my love! A point of contact always belongs to two people. 1) The contacter. 2) The contactee. Good night.

  Three days later

  Subject: Questionnaire one

  Fiona is about to turn eighteen. She finishes school next year. At the moment I’m only speaking to her in English or French, so she can practice. Which means she’s not speaking to me at all anymore. She wants to be an air hostess or a concert pianist. I’m trying to persuade her that she can do both: an in-flight pianist, a flying piano player. There’d be no competition. She’s pretty, slim, medium height, blond, fair skin, freckles—just like her mother. She’s been “going out” with Gregor for the past six months. “Going out with Gregor” seems to be code for staying up all ni
ght with anyone, male or female. Officially she spends every night with him. The poor guy doesn’t seem to be aware of this, much less does he get anything out of it. “What do you two spend the whole time doing?” I ask. She smiles at me as wickedly as she can. Hinting at “sex” is still the best strategy for incommunicative teenagers. It’s obvious. No need for Fiona to waste her breath. She’ll just have to put up with a few lectures on contraception and safe sex.

  Jonas is fourteen, and still a child. He’s sensitive and quite clingy. He misses his mother, and he needs me very much. He keeps the family tightly together, and it’s a major effort for him. He has no energy for school. Every few days he asks whether I still love his father, and Leo, you can’t imagine how he looks at me. For him the nicest thing in the world is to see us both happy, and he’s the main focus for both of us. Sometimes he even pushes me into his father’s arms. He tries to force the two of us together, to make us more intimate. He can sense that little by little this intimacy is slipping away from us.

  Bernhard, yes, Bernhard! What can I say, Leo? And why should I have to say it to you, of all people? I’m finding it hard enough to admit it to myself. Our relationship has cooled. It’s no longer an affair of the heart, but merely a kind of mental exercise. I have nothing to reproach him for, unfortunately. He never displays any weaknesses. He’s the kindest, most unselfish person I know. I like him. I respect his decency. I cherish his attentiveness. I marvel at his calm, and his intelligence.

  But no, it’s no longer the “great love” it once was. Perhaps it never was. But we so enjoyed our staging of it, and acting out our parts to each other, playing them to the children so that they could feel secure. But after twelve years of shifting the scenes we’ve tired of our roles as partners in a perfect marriage. Bernhard is a musician. He loves harmony. He needs harmony. He lives it. WE live it together. I decided to be a part of this whole. If I withdraw, I would bring about the collapse of everything we’ve built for ourselves. Bernhard and the children have already lived through one collapse. There cannot be another. I couldn’t do that to them. I couldn’t do it to myself. I would never forgive myself. Do you understand?