Free Every Seventh Wave by Daniel Glattauer Page B

in when you write to me, and what your words actually mean when they quite definitely mean something different from what they say on the screen. I can see your lips as they release the words. I can picture your eyes avoiding mine, giving a commentary to what’s happening. Just now you wrote, “Well, that’s a surprise! Congratulations, Leo, and richly deserved!” What you actually meant was, “Well, that’s a disappointment! But it’s your own fault, Leo, you obviously don’t deserve anything better.” Jokingly, you added in parentheses, “I’m referring to ‘Pam,’ of course, not the cold.” A bitter and twisted comment that I read as, “Better to have a cold for three weeks than that ‘Pam’ for the rest of your life!” Am I right?
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    No, Leo—I may at times be bitter, but I’m not twisted. I’m sure “Pam” is an amazing woman, and I’m sure she’s a good thing for you, better than hay fever any day. Could you send me a photograph of her?
    One minute later
    Re:
    No, Emmi.
    Thirty seconds later
    Re:
    Why not?
    Two minutes later
    Re:
    Because I don’t know what you could possibly want with it. Because it should make no difference to you what she looks like. Because I don’t want you comparing your appearance to hers. Because I’m tired. Because I’m going to bed now.
    Good night, Emmi.
    One minute later
    Re:
    You sound sulky and irritable, Leo. Why? 1) Am I getting on your nerves? 2) Aren’t you happy? 3) Or don’t you have a photograph of her?
    Twenty seconds later
    Re:
    No.
    Yes I am.
    Yes I do.
    Good night!

CHAPTER TEN

    The following evening
    Subject: Apology
    Sorry if I was surly. I’m not going through my best phase at the moment. I’ll be in touch.
    Love,
    Leo
    Two hours later
    Re:
    No problem. Get in touch again whenever you feel like it.
    You don’t have to be at your best. I’d be quite happy with second best.
    Emmi
    Three days later
    Subject: My mood
    Dear Emmi,
    Why is it that for the last three days I’ve had this (sometimes really agonizing) feeling that you’re waiting impatiently for me to explain just why I’m not at my best at the moment?
    Four hours later
    Re:
    Probably because you’re desperate to explain it. If you are desperate, just get on with it, stop beating around the bush.
    Ten minutes later
    Re:
    No, Emmi. I’m not at all desperate to explain it! I can’t explain it to you, you see, because I can’t even explain it to myself. Paradoxically, however, I feel as if I owe you an explanation. Can you explain that?
    Eight minutes later
    Re:
    No idea, Leo. Perhaps you’ve become paranoid, perhaps you feel you have to explain whatever phase you’re going through. (A new trait, by the way.) If you like, I can ask my therapist if she’s come across any decent phase-explanation-paranoia specialists.
    A suggestion to help you relax: I’m not asking you to explain why you aren’t “at your best at the moment.” I already know.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    Terrific, Emmi. Go on, explain it to me then, please!
    Twenty minutes later
    Re:
    You’re agitated about “… ,” O.K., about Pamela. You were her guest in Boston. She was your guest after Boston. Or you switched between roles of host and guest in London or wherever else you happened to be. But now the geographical and romantic parameters of the relationship have changed. She’s coming to live with you. A long-distance relationship will become a close relationship. Meaning everyday life for two people in their own four walls rather than full board at some boutique hotel. Cleaning windows and rehanging washed curtains rather than gazing out wistfully upon an expanse of fairy-tale landscape. By the way, she’s not just coming to you. She’s coming because of you. She’s coming for you. She’s counting on you.