Everything There Was

by Hanna Bervoets

  Four minutes to three I looked in the other desks. Again those perennial notebooks, wooden fountain pens, little plastic rulers. Albeit no longer neatly stacked next to and on top of each other, but mixed up: turned upside down during searches for other things. After the sixth desk I gave up. These were places for old things, not places to put new things.

  Three minutes to three: two minutes to go before Leo could be back. Again I looked around the classroom: the curtains, the teacher’s desk, the lower desks, the even lower chairs, the mat, a ticking clock: two to three.

  One minute to three, I thought: perhaps under Leo’s pillow. That pillow was the biggest doll from the kindergarten, the head and limbs Leo had ripped off, they were too hard. Sounds of movement in the hallway. Quickly I lifted up the doll rump: no letter.

  At three o’clock the door handle was pushed down. I was too late. Leo came in; he would ask me what I was doing. On my knees now, hearing the door open, I focused. And then quickly lifted the top corner of the mat. Three pieces of origami paper, neatly stapled together. I stuffed them in the pocket of my vest. “Hey,” said Leo at one minute past three. “Hey,” I said, “I was looking for you.”

  Leo’s wet hair stuck to his temples, goose bumps covered his upper arms. But he smiled.

  “Then you found me.”

  I nodded. “Yes. Hurray.”

  Leo walked up to me. Put a hand on my neck, ruffled softly through my hair. I pushed my pelvis against his.

  “Brrr,” I said, “you must be cold.”

  “Yes. That towel’s not what it used to be.”

  Leo shook his head like a wet dog; the drops from his hair spattered in my face.

  “Stop it,” I said, “I still have to be at the office today.”

  “It’s the weekend.”

  “I know, but I’ve got a key card. I still have to Xerox some stuff.”

  With his thumbs Leo wiped my cheeks dry. He leaned forward, our lips touched. Briefly I sucked on the tip of his tongue. Then I turned around, reached back. And waited until Leo took my hand.

  That’s how I pulled him onto the mat. And for a moment I forgot what was no longer underneath.

  Believe me: Things would have gone differently if I’d known what that was.

  * * *

  Leo,

  Ok: Version 3. At the top of the first was Hey Leo, but that seemed an absurd salutation. The second started with “I don’t know how to begin,” and I suddenly felt that was a crappy cliché. And now I’m writing this I feel that this opening also doesn’t really do justice to what I want to say, but now I’ll just keep writing because otherwise it’s a waste of origami paper. We’re almost out, and soon we might even have to burn Karlsson-on-the-Roof. I don’t want to have that on my conscience. Here ends the (corny) introduction.

  Ok, so why am I writing you now? Yesterday I talked to Merel. About you and me, and you and her, let’s say. We’d never actually done that. And now that we were I suddenly couldn’t let go of her. I really just about squeezed her throat shut (I don’t know if she told you?). I’m so ashamed, really feel horrible about it; because, really, what the fuck!? I still don’t know just what happened exactly. Or maybe a little, or well: It got me thinking.

  Maybe I’m not doing so well after all. I thought I was ok, that I could deal with it all. Cause you guys seem to be able to deal with it so well, with this: all this. That might’ve been why I thought I could too. But flipping out like that all of a sudden (I don’t know a better word for it right now): That means something. And I actually also know just what. I’ve known it was in my head all this time, like a floor I never go to because I’m afraid that then the whole house will come crashing down. Sorry, I must sound very vague right now (jesus, this is starting to sound like some teenager’s letter) (sorry about that) but I’m just trying to write down what I’m feeling and it’s all coming out a little silly.

  Yesterday morning, do you remember what I said? How much I miss Jeroen, how every day I wonder whether he’s still alive, and where he is, and what he’s doing, and if he misses me too. Well, all of that was bullshit. Just as bullshit as Wednesday, when I said you sang out of tune when you joined in with Kalim. And oh: that one time in the shower, remember: When you asked if you gave a good handjob, and I said: “Mwah.” Nonsense, the best I ever got.

  I’ve been lying to you, Leo. And I know where it started. That one time in my classroom, when the button popped off of your trousers, and you gave it to me: “Keep it.” (Why did you say that?) Since then I’ve been lying to you. All the time. Because I’m afraid I am weaker than you. Maybe weaker is not the right word, but what I mean: Love is a game and the one who feels the most loses. (Always.)

  There. I used the word. Love. I say it without being (intentionally) sentimental, I’m just stating it as fact. I love you, Leo. You’re in my head all the fucking time.

  I wake up and wonder how you slept. I look in the mirror and want to know what you see (when you see me). When I’m reading a book, I’d most like to do it out loud so you can hear it too. During poker I want to let you see my cards, during dinner I imagine slipping my rice in your mug. I don’t need it, that little bit of rice. I don’t feel hungry, I only feel you. Especially when we’re not together.

  We should give each other space, not crowd each other, all that stuff. But when I’m upstairs and you’re downstairs, then I suddenly can’t do anything. Not read, not sleep, because what you said that day keeps running through my head, along with the things your words could mean:

  “You’re starting to look like a rapper in those pants,” (Do you think that’s cool or ugly?); “I think I’m going to have a shower in a bit,” (Do you want me to come along?); “I’m just so happy that we are here together,” (Together with us? Together with me?); “How did you sleep last night?” (Do you want to know if I thought about you?). And when I’ve thought myself crazy like that again, I go lie down in the empty classroom. My ear to the linoleum: It looks ridiculous, really does. But I just have to know what you’re doing. If I hear Merel talking, you’re with her. If I hear her moving around, you’re probably alone. Reading, or exercising. And maybe you’ll have a shower right after. And maybe I should too. I end up at the top of the stairs hesitating, feeling like an idiot.

  And so, Leo, that, that is why I’ve been lying to you. And why I secretly hope (hoped) that you were lying to me too. Not with what you said, but with what you omitted. Can omitting something be a lie? Anyhow, I hoped you were. That when you quietly got up and silently put your shirt on, you were thinking all kinds of things. And that those thoughts resembled mine. And that you didn’t want to say them out loud, for the same reason I didn’t want to say them out loud.

  Of course I already knew/thought that my hope was probably unfounded. That really I’d already lost the game. And I thought that was fine. Because I didn’t suspect that anybody could win but you. (Dra-MA-tic, yes, sorry, I’ll keep writing now, just get everything out of my head in one go, ok?)

  But since yesterday, my talk with Merel, I feel sick when I see you, or her: see you guys. Because now I suspect that you really do feel what I’m feeling. Just not for me. And if I’m right, I want it to stop; everything there is between you and me. Whatever that everything may be. But I couldn’t (want to) be with you knowing that you thought of her while I’m sucking you off. And really, I know how that must be for you: I’ve often enough thought about Garrett Hedlund while I was going at it with some random guy. But that random guy, I don’t want to be him. You could call that pride. But I just don’t want to feel like a retard.

  So, long story (looooong story) short, this is what I’m asking: if I’m right, and you love her, not me, keep this letter. You don’t have to explain yourself to me; this way it’s the least painful for everyone. Everything stays the way it is, only I won’t come visit you at night (or during the day, to do, well, that. And then I’ll just hope you will eventually get out of my head.

  And if I’m wrong (which really I do
n’t think I am) (but still), and I’m seeing this all wrong, and you’re also lying to me, then slide this letter under my door. Then we also won’t have to define it or anything. But that way I’ll just know that my fear was unwarranted. (Fuck, that would make me happy.) (But again: I really don’t think so.)

  And in any case: no hard feelings. None of this is your fault, someone (a writer) once said: Feelings are never hypocritical. I forgive you everything (fucking softie).

  And now I’ll really stop. This really is a waste of origami paper.

  Barry

  PS: Could you (please) not show this to Merel?

  Day 102

  Pay attention now. I’m going to explain something to you and it’s something important, perhaps the only thing you really need to know. It’s about a story. A story we often told each other in the old situation. I thought it no longer actually existed, but now that it has become clear that some people have kept believing it, I think you need my explanation. Ok, here we go.

  This is what people used to tell each other:

  * * *

  Once upon a time there was: your birth. Also known as the starting shot of the quest; the search for the one and only. At that point you don’t yet know whom that is and where you’ll find him, but two things are certain: You will love him and you two will have great sex. The search for the one could take a while. That’s fine. It’s good to have sex with other people, that way you know what you’re missing and you won’t have to miss that when your quest for the one has been completed. If however the quest lasts beyond your thirtieth birthday, you’re allowed to put pictures of yourself on the internet and to stand around for hours in places where they sell beer to other people on the same quest. And if someone there says the words “click” or “spark,” and you also hear yourself say these words to him, then it’s time to find out whether the man you’re facing is the one. This is possible by finding out three things, the most important criteria in the quest for the one. One: You’re in love with him. Two: He’s in love with you. Three: You feel for each other in exactly equal measure, yes, your love is two packages perfectly balancing the scales. If you suspect this to be the case, then it’s time to take steps.

  First you’ll do things together you never used to do by yourself: take a boat, drink a cocktail on top of a high building, stay at that table even though it’s really too cold to be outside. Then, you’ll do things you once used to do by yourself: eat, watch TV, lie in bed, sleep. To make the latter easier, the best thing to do is to move into the same space and purchase things together: a stove on which to cook each other meals, a dog to take turns walking, shelves that fit all your books, and perhaps you’ll also have a child to feed with food paid for out of a joint account.

  Now, it can happen that, after months or years together, you find out that the one was not the one and only: because you no longer love him or he no longer loves you. In that case, the requirements have been violated and it no longer makes any sense for you to keep doing together the things you’ve been doing together, so you divide up what you purchased and start searching anew, searching for the one to share the next part of your life with. Whether that really will be the one and only, you’ll never entirely know for sure, because the one and only loves you until you die: An event you yourself won’t get to experience.

  That was the story in the old situation.

  Now, there were also variations: Some believed in having multiple ones at the same time, others never had children, chose a one of the same gender, didn’t want to move in together, or threw their books away instead of buying bigger bookshelves. But however different the tales were, they were all based on the same foundation: The quest is necessary, mutual love the highest goal, and being in love a pure motive.

  * * *

  Good. This is what I want you to do now: Read the story above a few more times and memorize it, yes, memorize it really well so you’ll recognize it when you encounter it. And when that happens, halt, turn around, and remember what I’m telling you now: The story is not true. We only told it because we didn’t know the actual truth, and to make strange behavior seem normal, to understand others and ourselves. But to understand something is to convince yourself that you know how something works. People who say they understand it are blind to the fact that they’ve made up the story themselves. Now, I don’t pretend to understand what love really is instead, but it probably resembles something like this:

  * * *

  You see another person; your brain releases neurotransmitters. If you find the other person especially attractive, nice, or hot, then the neurotransmitters in question will likely be phenylethylamine and noradrenaline. That feels good. If the other person in turn finds you especially attractive, nice, or hot, then he will be inclined to touch you, which will make your brain produce even more neurotransmitters and you will also touch the other person, which makes his brain produce even more neurotransmitters until you are both addicted to them and spend as much time together as possible to touch each other as much as possible or, better yet, disappear into each other on a regular basis. Only, now that you are both used to the phenylethylamine and noradrenaline, you require more and more of it to make you happy. And after a maximum of seven years the threshold is reached and the substances are no longer produced. Maybe by that time there is a child, a guarantee for the survival of your last name, the only function being in love has; the only concrete result.

  Yes, that’s sort of what was going on, but people didn’t believe it because it feels different.

  The transmitters are powerful, they stimulate by blocking the things that do not stimulate, in the upper right-hand corner of your brain, the place where weed works and wine intervenes, albeit with temporary effects and a clearly demarcated hangover, but what we call love is not demarcated and love is not a pure motive, the compulsion to be with the one is merely a sign of addiction: It was and is not really lovely, it’s a cup of coffee, rendering you alert, but only for a bit. You weren’t allowed to drive on pills, had to be careful with alcohol, while phenylethylamine, noradrenaline, dopamine, oxytocin cause a far higher high, painting half your head blue in brain scanners, like rain clouds on weather radar images, you can no longer see what’s underneath – what memories, thoughts, actions, places – and by the time the clouds have left, you still don’t have a clear sky, because then all you have is emptiness, a low equivalent to the high. That is what life was and, according to some, still is: Desire for desire, looking for the high that always ends in a low that we need to fight with the high that always ends a low that we have to fight and if that doesn’t work, because the substances have simply worn off, we call ourselves unhappy because we failed to make the story come true, the story that I am trying to explain to you is not true, even though you think it is; feel it even, yes, you feel the story but you shouldn’t, I don’t know if you believe me now because I really am so very tired, really so very tired, but maybe that’s exactly why I can’t stop now, stopping requires action, going on doesn’t, so I’ll try it one more time, one last warning: The story they call love is dangerous.

  It led to my best friend no longer speaking, to him lying on a table, me sitting beside it. And not being able to imagine I will ever get up again.

  Day 103

  Six o’clock, for the third time, I think. Time is moving fast and slow at the same time: I blink and the little hand has moved up a number, I stare at the sheet for hours and it’s four minutes later. Twenty-four hours have passed at least, because there are two mugs and I finished them both. The first brought by Leo, the second by Kalim. Only Kalim did I look in the face.

  Six o’clock and it feels like I’m at sea. We are moving but the view never changes: The ceiling looks clear, the red sheet bobs a little. Sometimes the waves are higher for a bit. Then Barry is breathing more heavily and I focus on the hairs peeking out from under the sheet. And sometimes the bobbing stops completely. Then I write that down in Melissa’s diary. What time. How long. I always add a
second: The second I realized the breathing halted again.

  19:34 – 4 seconds of silence

  21:13 – 5 seconds of silence

  21:20 – 4 seconds of silence

  I know that my notes make no difference, but I have to do it. People used to straighten cutlery, people dusted never-used vases, people looked at strangers’ party pictures; I take notes. Because I pay attention. And the rest of the time I read out loud. Things I think Barry wants to hear.

  The house is on fire; Jonathan Lionheart takes Rusky on his back and jumps right into Nangiyala. Ronia shoots a boar and only shares it with Birk, Emil carves wooden dolls for his little sister, Ida, it’s raining but that doesn’t stop Karlsson: he spreads his arms and flies off the roof. Pippi travels to the South Seas across red cloth, a year later: The brothers Lionheart at a precipice, they jump, it’s the only way, Katla has bitten, Jonathan is paralyzed, there are savages on Pippi’s island.

  I read slowly, my voice sounds tranquil, calm, constant. But sometimes I suddenly no longer hear myself. Because I haven’t been listening or because I’m no longer reading: one of the two; I never know which.

  22:34 – 5 seconds of silence

  And sometimes it’s ten pages later all of a sudden, without me knowing what happened between seventy and eighty. And also, more and more often, the letters form things that happened. Things Leo said.

  Rusky is running, it’s raining flower petals, Leo screams that it’s too late. “I’m going into the forest,” Ronia tells her father. “That’s selfish,” Leo calls after her, “and the snow is dangerous!” Then Leo grabs Karlsson’s ankles to reel him in like an anchor, and Pippi throws her horse at Kalim because he sneakily read her diary.