Dying to Know You (10 page)

No point in going back to bed. A shower revived me.
Breakfast calmed me. And as so often happens, a thirty-minute walk after breakfast clarified my jumbled nighttime thoughts and supplied the missing link.

What had happened during their time together that caused Fiorella to break up with Karl and go home on her own earlier than planned?

Whatever had happened was the cause of Karl’s plunge into depression.

But Karl wouldn’t tell his mother or the doctor. So why would he tell me?

If I knew what had happened and could think of a way to get in touch without scaring him off, he might open up as he had with me before, and I’d be prepared for what he told me. It’s always easier to help someone when you know what is bothering them and have had time to think about it before getting involved.

So knowing what had happened was the key to unlocking Karl’s locked-up soul.

The only other person who knew what had happened was Fiorella.

Maybe she would tell.

It was worth a try.

Hi, Fiorella.

I expect you remember our exchange of emails a year or so ago.

Forgive me for writing to you out of the blue,
but there’s something important I’d like to ask you. Would you mind? Email, MSN, phone, as you prefer.

Luckily, it was a weekend. Fiorella was at home. She replied by MSN.

Hi. Is it about Karl?

Yes. How did you know?

Is it about when we went away together?

Yes.

Why do you want to know?

Karl is having a very bad time, which started after your trip. He won’t say what happened. Only that you broke up with him.

But why do you want to know?

His mother thinks I might be able to help him, because I helped him before.

I know how you helped him and I was furious with you. And still am a bit.

Why?

Because I believed he wrote those emails but he didn’t, you did. You shouldn’t have done it. They were private.

He told you, did he, that I only wrote what he told me to write?

Yes. But writing is not just what is said, is it? It is how it is said. He didn’t dictate the words to you, did he? They were your words not his. So I wasn’t really getting him, was I?

Did Karl explain why he asked me to help?

Yes.

What did he tell you?

That he is dyslexic and was afraid I wouldn’t go on with him if I saw his writing.

Did that matter to you?

No. Why should it? If he had told me from the start I would have helped him. Then he would not have needed to ask you.

So you broke it off with him because he involved me without telling you and you felt you couldn’t trust him anymore?

No. That was not the reason. I was cross with him and with you and very upset at first. But I understood when he explained. And I would have forgiven him.

So why did you break up?

I don’t want to tell you that. It has nothing to do with you.

I respect that, if it is what you decide. I’m sorry that I upset you. I did think it was risky. But Karl was so insistent and so desperate to do what you wanted him to do that I couldn’t say no.

Well, alright. But that has nothing to do with breaking up with him.

Karl is very ill. If you still feel anything for him, you’ll want to help him get better. His mother has asked me to try and help. But if I’m going to, I need to know what happened, and only you know that, apart from Karl, who won’t say.

You are being very hard.

It’s hard for me too. I feel I am partly to blame.

Let me think about it.

An hour or so later:

OK. But I want to do it properly. I’ll send you an attachment later today.

Fiorella’s Attachment

I’m not sure I want to tell you this. I think I might regret it. I’ve told my parents what happened, well, almost all that happened, not all, but no one else. I’m only telling you because you emotionally blackmailed me. Do I still have feelings for Karl? Of course I do! And I don’t want him to suffer because of anything I’ve done. Also because you were my favourite author. You are not now because of the emails, which, whatever you say,
were not his
. I still like your books but I don’t like you.

Anyway, this is what happened.

Karl asked me to go away with him for the week of half-term holiday so that we could get to know each other better. He quoted some teacher or other who told him that the best way to find out if you really loved someone and
could live with her was to go away with her to a remote cottage in bad weather, and if after a few days you didn’t mind seeing her in her dirty underwear and looking her worst, you’d know it would be alright. He thought this very funny. But he also believed it, I think.

I was amused but didn’t take it seriously. I mean, what sort of girl is going to risk being seen in her dirty knickers when she goes away for the first time with her boyfriend? What off the beam teacher told him this rubbish?

I must admit I’m not that fond of camping. In fact, I’m not all that keen on outdoor activities, full stop. But I put this aside because I wanted to be with Karl for longer than a day on our own, which is all we had had so far. And he was very keen we should camp together, so I did it for him. It crossed my mind to wonder how it would be if ever we set up together, him wanting to camp and fish and play rugby, and me not wanting any of that. But I pushed the thought away.

Anyway, as it happened we had fun and I enjoyed myself.

Until the crisis. I’m quite good at arranging things, I like having everything neat and exactly right, and Karl is the same. Karl isn’t one of those boys, men, who have to be in charge all the time and have their way over everything. He takes pride in what he does, he’s careful, he’s amazing at paring what you need down to the essentials, and packing everything. He knew I’m not an experienced camper (to say the least). He discussed everything with me. And he tried to make sure we took what would make me
comfortable, even if he didn’t think it essential. The only thing we almost had a row about was the books I wanted to take and what Karl called my “stationery”—notebooks, pens, pencils, etc.—to which I am addicted and without which my life is unliveable. I countered by pointing out the amount of stuff he was taking for fishing. In the end, we came to an agreement, both of us cutting down to manageable amounts for carrying. But one thing I learned from this was how stubborn he can be. I had to be really firm before he agreed.

Not that we needed to, because my dad drove us to the place we were camping. It was where you spent a day with Karl, he told me. This also annoyed me when I found out, which I didn’t till we were there. We could have taken a lot more stuff, but for Karl, Dad driving us was just luck, and we should only take what we could carry if we had to walk, otherwise, he said, it wasn’t camping, it was setting up house.

As it turned out, it’s just as well we did as he wanted.

We were lucky with the weather. There were showers in the night a couple of times, and a morning of rain. But I didn’t mind the showers because they freshened everything. And though I’m not keen on camping, I have to admit I found there is something relaxing, and romantic as well, about being in a good rainproof tent, and the smell the rain brings out of the earth and the plants, and the feeling of being secure but very close to nature is really beautiful.

During the day Karl fished for hours on end. I knew
he had amazing concentration. I’d noticed this when we played chess. But I didn’t know he had such stamina as well. Not that this was a problem, because I’m pretty good at concentrating for longish periods myself. I read a lot while he was fishing and also worked on an essay for school.

The first three days were pretty idyllic. One reason Karl said he wanted us to go away together was that he thought he’d be able to tell me all the things I wanted to know about him, because he’d be relaxed, and we’d have time, and he could do it better by telling me than writing it. I didn’t remind him of this during those first three days. I thought it would be best to let him settle in and enjoy himself.

Now I have to tell you something I’d rather not, but it’s part of what happened. It’s about sex. When Karl and I got together both of us had already lost our virginity. But the first times hadn’t been satisfactory for either of us. And neither of us had done any more. So we weren’t exactly innocent, but we weren’t what you’d call experienced either. Really, we learned about it together. What’s for sure is we never enjoyed it so much as during those first three days and nights. But love isn’t only about someone’s sex, is it? There are more important things about a person than that.

So the first three days went by without us talking about Karl. But on the fourth day, because there was rain in the morning, we stayed in the tent and snuggled together and
I decided it was a good time to talk about the things I wanted him to tell me.

I asked him again why he found it so difficult to write answers to my questions. I said I’d liked his emails. Why couldn’t he go on writing them.

He got all tensed up at that, and sat up.

I asked him what was the matter? What had I said that upset him?

He wouldn’t reply. He closed himself off. The sudden contrast with the way he’d been, from relaxed and loving to silent and hard, hurt me and made me nervous.

I knew before that week he could be moody. Sometimes he would be full of fun and energy and playful and all over me. At other times he would be quiet and wanted to be still and serious. I didn’t know why he was like that but was used to it and didn’t mind. But this was different.

I tried to soothe him. I said whatever it was it didn’t matter. We didn’t have to talk about those things that day, if he didn’t want to. But he wouldn’t give, wouldn’t look at me, didn’t want me to hold him. He’d never been like that before.

I didn’t know what to do. I felt like crying but made myself not. I couldn’t stay lying down. I wanted to move around. But the tent was too small to stand in and the rain put me off from going out.

I sat up. We sat side by side, cross-legged, not looking at each other.

After a while he said he hadn’t written the emails.

Just like that. No warning. Straight out.

I thought I must have heard wrongly. But he repeated it. “I didn’t write the emails.”

I said I didn’t understand and asked him what he meant.

It was then he told me about coming to see you and how you’d written the emails for him.

It was one of those times when you can’t believe what you’re hearing. One part of you does, but another part doesn’t. You feel confused, half shocked and half numb.

I said something about how could he do that? How could he deceive me like that? But it was as if someone else inside me was saying this.

He kept saying he was sorry, he hadn’t meant to deceive me, he’d done it because he was afraid he’d lose me if he didn’t write the answers well enough to please me.

I kept repeating how could he do that? Why did he think I’d not like what he’d written?

He didn’t say anything about his dyslexia. He’d never mentioned this and he didn’t then. If he’d told me I would have understood. Of course I would. But he didn’t. And the longer it went on the more upset I became as what he was telling sunk in and all of me, not just a part, was upset so much I couldn’t bear it anymore.

I pushed my way out of the tent. I was in floods of tears. I ran from the tent till I was far enough away for Karl not to hear me sobbing. Then I stood and let the rain fall on me, soaking me to the skin.

It was so cold it shocked me out of the shock.

I liked that it was so cold. I liked that it took the heat out of me. I liked that it was fresh. I liked that it wasn’t people, just water. Unthinking, unfeeling, impersonal and water.

I don’t know how to put this, but it was the first time in my life that I’d felt the comforting pleasure of dispassion. (Is dispassion a word?)

Whatever.

I stood there till I’d come to my senses.

Then I went back to the tent.

Inside, it seemed stuffy, smelt of our sweaty bodies, damp sweat from the rainy air.

Karl was sitting where I’d left him.

I undressed, towelled myself, and pulled on some clothes.

I sat facing him this time, and said how upset I was by what he’d told me, and couldn’t understand why he’d done it. There must be something that would explain it.

I was guessing. It just felt like there must be.

It was then he told me about being dyslexic. It came out in fits and starts, like someone trying to sick up something stuck in his throat.