Every Seventh Wave (10 page)

You and me, Emmi, we ought to have stopped all this long ago. This is no way to keep a diary, it's intolerable. You're always looking at me—you would write you're always looking at me so, so, so … And I can see you looking at me when you say so, so, so. It doesn't matter what I say, it doesn't matter if I shut up for as long as I like, you're still looking at me with your eyes/words. Every letter of your every word winks at me so, so, so, like so, like so, like so. Every syllable carries your gaze.

Emmi, Emmi, what a bad winter that was. No Merry Christmas or Happy New Year from Emmi Rothner. I really thought it was over. After that night, you wrote THE END. That night, and then THE END—not the end, but THE END—well, that was too much. I wrote you off. Everything vanished, nothing was left. No diary. No day. It was a horribly empty time, let me tell you. But Pamela loves me, of that I am sure.

Emmi, let me ask you, do you remember that night? We ought not to have done it. You were so angry, so bitter, so sad and yet so, so, so … Your breath on my face, in my eyes, it got under my skin. Could intimacy ever get more intimate? How often I had dreamed of that, always the same images. To be in such a close embrace and then to be turned to stone forever … And to feel nothing but your breath.

But I'd better stop writing now. I'm slightly drunk, the wine is strong, with or without the alcohol. Fifteen nights to go, Emmi, I've counted them, then Pamela's here. Then my new life will start, you say “phase,” I say life. But I don't have conservative values, or just a bit. Your life is Bernhard and the children. Don't cut yourself off. People who live their lives in phases lose the span, the scope, the meaning of the whole. They live in limp, meaningless little bits. In the end they miss out on everything. Cheers!

And now, what the heck, now I'm going to give you a kiss, my dear diary. Don't look at me like that!!! And please excuse emails like this. I'm not at my best at the moment, not even second best. And I'm slightly drunk. Not very, but slightly. So. Full stop. Finish. Send. The end, not THE END, just the end.

Yours,

Leo

The following morning

Subject: Fourteen nights to go

Dear Leo,

Your drunken outpourings are quite something! That was more than a flood of words, it was a proper torrent. You always let so much swirl about together. And yet sometimes when your closets burst open and your words are soaked in red wine, you can be quite the philosopher. Your observations about conservatism and life phases—the old teachers could learn something from those. I don't know how to begin to respond. I don't even know whether I
should
begin to respond. Is it worth it, for fourteen nights? I'll have to ask my therapist. And you, you can get all that alcohol out of your head!

Lots of love,

Your ever-interfering diary

Nine hours later

Re: Our schedule

Good evening Leo,

Have the words on the screen stopped swimming? (Can you see my face in them?) If so, I have the following question, in my capacity as diary, concerning our schedule for the next two weeks (which could well be our last): What shall we do?

1) Shall we do nothing, so that you can prepare for the arrival of “Pam” in peace? (And I quote: “But she loves me and we've made a decision, we'll be happy, we suit each other well.” Incidental comment from Emmi: what a great decision!)

2) Shall we keep writing to each other, as if there's never been anything between you and your diary (and for that reason alone there never could be)? And our correspondence will cease the moment the plane lands from Boston, so that you can concentrate on the rest of your life, while I plunge into the next phase of mine or repeat the preceding one because my performance in it was mediocre?

3) Or shall we meet one more time? You know, one of our notorious final meetings. Because, because, because … because nothing. Just because. What did we call it last summer?—“A fitting conclusion.” Shall we conclude this once and for all? I don't think there'll ever be a better opportunity.

The following evening

Subject: Thirteen nights to go

Hi Leo,

I see that you have opted for 1) without even consulting your diary. Or are you still thinking about it? Or are you just sober and silent? Come on, tell me!

Emmi

Two hours later

Re:

Sober, silent, and entirely at a loss.

Ten minutes later

Re:

If you're sober, drink. If you're silent, say something. If you're at a loss, ask me. That's what your diary is for.

Five minutes later

Re:

What should I be asking you?

Six minutes later

Re:

Preferably ask me whatever it is that you want to know. And if you're at a loss to the extent that you don't know what you should ask because you haven't a clue what you want to know, then ask me something else. (I learned how to construct sentences like that from you!)

Three minutes later

Re:

O.K., Emmi. What are you wearing?

One minute later

Re:

Well done, Leo! Considering you haven't a clue what you want to know, that was a good, perfectly valid, and—one might even say—burning question!

Fifty seconds later

Re:

Thank you. (I learned these questions from you!) So what are you wearing right now?

Five minutes later

Re:

What are you expecting me to say? Nothing? Or rather: “Nothing!”? I hope you can live with the sad truth: I'm wearing a gray flannel pajama top. I've lost the bottoms that go with it, so I've replaced them with a light blue pair which keep falling down because the elastic's gone. But I feel sorry for them because they're on their own now. One foggy November night, the top that matches them went on ahead, in the washing machine at 195 degrees. To spare myself the sight of my pajama combo, I'm also wearing a coffee-bean brown terry-cloth bathrobe from Eduscho. Does that make you feel better in yourself?

Fifteen minutes later

Re:

And if we do meet again, Emmi, what do you imagine might happen?

Three minutes later

Re:

There you go, you see? This last question shows a marked improvement on the previous one. You must have been inspired by my outfit.

Two minutes later

Re:

Go on, what do you imagine might happen?

Eight minutes later

Re:

You can say “will,” Leo, you don't have to keep forcing yourself to say “might.” I realize you're far from wanting to meet me a fourth time. And I do understand that completely. With “Pam” just around the corner, I expect you're terrified of another nighttime sex attack from me, which you might not want to have to fend off. (You're not the only one who likes the conditional tense!) But I can put your mind at rest: that's not what I imagine “might” happen this time, dear Leo.

One minute later

Re:

So what then?

Fifty seconds later

Re:

The way you imagine it.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

But I'm not imagining anything, Emmi, at least not anything in particular.

Twenty seconds later

Re:

That's just what I'm imagining too.

Fifty seconds later

Re:

I don't know, dear Emmi. If I'm being honest, I somehow can't imagine that a “final” meeting would be a good idea if neither of us can imagine what might happen. I think we ought to stick to writing. That way we can allow ourselves to be more expansive with our imaginations.

Forty seconds later

Re:

There you go again, dear Leo. Now you're not coming across as the least bit clueless. Or silent. But still sober, unfortunately. I don't think I'll ever get used to that. Good night, sleep well. I'm shutting down now.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

Good night, Emmi.

The following evening

Subject: Twelve nights to go

Hi Leo,

My therapist has explicitly and emphatically advised me not to meet you in this current phase (which is neither your best nor my second best). Have you two been talking?

Two hours later

Subject: Am I right?

You're there. Am I right?

And you read my email. Am I right?

You just don't know what to say anymore. Am I right?

Because you don't have a clue what to do with me. Am I right?

You're thinking to yourself: Dear God, I wish these twelve nights were over! Am I right?

Forty minutes later

Re:

Dear Emmi,

Hard though it is for me to admit, I'm afraid every word you say is correct.

Three minutes later

Re:

That's so grim!

One minute later

Re:

Not just for you!

Fifty seconds later

Re:

Shall we stop, then?

Thirty seconds later

Re:

Yes, it would be for the best.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

What, right now?

Forty seconds later

Re:

As far as I'm concerned, yes, right now!

Twenty seconds later

Re:

O.K.

Fifteen seconds later

Re:

O.K.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

You first, Leo!

Twenty seconds later

Re:

No, Emmi, you first!

Fifteen seconds later

Re:

Why me?

Twenty-five seconds later

Re:

It was your idea!

Three minutes later

Re:

But you've inspired me, Leo! You've been an inspiration for some days! You and your silence. You and your sobriety. You and your cluelessness. You and your: “It would be for the best.” You and your: “It would be better if we stopped …” You and your: “I think we should leave it now.” You and your: “Dear God, I wish these twelve nights were over!”

Four minutes later

Re:

You put that last sentence in my mouth, my dear.

One minute later

Re:

If I didn't put sentences into your mouth, nothing would come out at all, dear Leo!

Three minutes later

Re:

The melodramatic way in which you're conducting this farewell countdown makes me nervous, dear Emmi. Subject: Fourteen nights to go. Subject: Thirteen nights to go. Subject: Twelve nights to go. What painful subject fetishism, what extreme masochism! Why are you doing it? Why are you making it more difficult than it already is by the fact that it is what it is?

Three minutes later

Re:

If I didn't make it more difficult, it wouldn't be any easier. Please let me go on counting down our last nights together (sort of), Leo dear. It's my way of coping. And anyway, there aren't that many of them left. And tomorrow morning there'll be one fewer. In other words: your persistently provocative diary bids you a good twelfth-last night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The following day

Subject: A suggestion!

Good morning, dear Emmi. Let me make a suggestion for our virtual schedule for the next ten days: each of us may ask the other one question per day and must answer the other's question. Agreed?

Twenty minutes later

Re:

How did you hit upon that ludicrous idea, my love?

Three minutes later

Re:

Was that your question for today, dearest?

Five minutes later

Re:

Hang on, Leo, I never said I would agree to it. You know I like games—otherwise I wouldn't have been sitting here for the past two years. But this game is totally half-baked. What would we do if, for example, your answer to my question prompted a follow-up question?

One minute later

Re:

You could ask that the following day.

Fifty seconds later

Re:

That's not fair! All you want is for the period between myself and “Pam” to pass more quickly, so that you can be rid of the correspondence between you and your diary at last.

Forty seconds later

Re:

Sorry, Emmi, that's the way the game works. I know because I invented it. Shall we start?

One minute later

Re:

Just a sec. Am I allowed
not
to answer questions?

Fifty seconds later

Re:

No, there's to be no not answering of questions! Answers can be evasive, in a pinch.

Thirty seconds later

Re:

In that case you've got an unfair advantage: you've been in training for the past twenty-five months.

Forty seconds later

Re:

Shall we start now, Emmi love?

Thirty seconds later

Re:

What if I say no?

Two minutes later

Re:

Well, that would be your question and your answer for today. And we'd read each other again tomorrow.

One minute later

Re:

If you weren't the same Leo Leike I had seen with my very own eyes (but also with entirely different eyes) languishing at a café table, trying his best to be so charming that he could rival even my fantasy of him, then I might say: You're a sadist! Go on, then, ask me a question. (But please, not one about what I'm wearing!)