Five hours later
Subject: Leo?
Hello Leo, any chance you’re still awake? Will you join me for a glass of wine? Leo, Leo, Leo. I’m miserable.
Emmi
Thirteen minutes later
Re: Leo?
Yes, I’m still awake. Or rather, I’m awake again. I set my Emmi alarm clock. I’ve turned the volume of the new mail alert up to full and put the laptop next to my pillow. It just got me out of bed.
I knew you’d write again tonight, Emmi! How late is it, in fact? Ah, I see, just after midnight. You and Mia didn’t last very long! (I’m not going to drink any more wine. I’ve already brushed my teeth. And wine after toothpaste is like having chicken noodle soup with your morning coffee.)
Two minutes later
Re: Leo?
Leo, I’m soooooo happy you’ve replied!!! How did you know I’d write again tonight?
Seven minutes later
Re: Leo?
1) Because you enjoy spending time with people you’re fond of. Time “with friends, or with people who might become friends.”
2) Because you’re at home on your own.
3) Because you feel lonely.
4) Because the north wind is blowing.
Two minutes later
Re: Leo?
Thank you for not being angry with me, Leo. I’ve been sending you some horribly mean-spirited emails. You’re not just any old friend. You mean so much more to me. To me you are. You are. You are. You are someone who answers questions I haven’t even asked: yes, I feel lonely, which is why I’m writing to you.
Forty seconds later
Re: Leo?
And how was it with Mia?
Two and a half minutes later
Re: Leo?
It was ghastly! She doesn’t like the way I talk about Bernhard. She doesn’t like the way I talk about my marriage. She doesn’t like the way I talk about my family. She doesn’t like the way I talk about my emails. She doesn’t like the way I talk about my . . . the way I talk about Leo. She doesn’t like the way I talk. She doesn’t like the fact that I talk. She doesn’t like. She doesn’t like me.
One minute later
Re: Leo?
But why did you talk about all those things? I thought you wanted to go on a pub crawl, like in the old days.
Three minutes later
Re: Leo?
You can’t bring back the old days. They’re called old for a reason. New days can never be like the old ones. And if you try to make them like that, you’ll come across as old and jaded, like those people who long for them. We shouldn’t always look back to the old days. Anybody who does is old and backward looking. Shall I tell you something? I wanted nothing more than to come home—to Leo.
Fifty seconds later
Re: Leo?
It’s great that I’ve now become your home.
Two minutes later
Re: Leo?
Seriously, Leo, what do you think of me and Bernhard, after all Mia and I have told you? Please be honest!
Four minutes later
Re: Leo?
Gosh! What sort of question is that for half past midnight? And anyway, I thought you were trying to keep your “real life” at a safe distance from me. But since you’re asking, I think you have a smoothly functioning marriage.
Forty-five seconds later
Re: Leo?
“Smoothly functioning”: is that some kind of snide comment? Is there something wrong with that? Why do all my closest friends seem to be telling me that a “smoothly functioning” relationship is a bad relationship?
Six minutes later
Re: Leo?
It wasn’t meant to be a snide comment, Emmi. If something functions smoothly it can’t be all that bad, can it? It’s only bad when it stops functioning smoothly. Then you’d have to ask yourself, “Why isn’t it functioning smoothly anymore?” Or, “Could it possibly function any better?” But I really think I’m the wrong person to talk to about Bernhard and your marriage. Mia’s probably the wrong person too. But Bernhard, yes, I think Bernhard would be the right one.
Thirteen minutes later
Subject: (no subject)
Hey, Emmi, have you gone to sleep?
Thirty-five seconds later
Re:
I really want to hear your voice, Leo.
Twenty-five seconds later
Re:
I’m sorry?
Forty seconds later
Re:
I really want to hear your voice.
Three minutes later
Re:
Do you really? How do you imagine we might do that? Should I make a recording and send it to you? What do you want me to say? Would a microphone test do—“one, two, three, testing”? Or should I sing a song? (If I happen to hit the right note, I can sustain it and it doesn’t sound all that bad.) You could accompany me on the piano . . .
Fifty-five seconds later
Re:
Now, Leo! I REALLY WANT TO HEAR YOUR VOICE NOW. Please grant me this one wish. Call me. 83 17 433. Leave a message on the answering machine. Please, please, please! Just a few words.
One minute later
Re:
And sometime I’d love to hear you say those sentences you write in caps. Do you scream them? Are they ear piercing? Shrieking?
Two minutes later
Re:
O.K., O.K., I have the following suggestion: you phone me and read one of your emails to the answering machine. For example, “Do you really? How do you imagine we might do that? Should I make a recording and send it to you? What do you want me to say? . . .” etc., etc. Then I’ll call you back and say: “Now, Leo! I REALLY WANT TO HEAR YOUR VOICE NOW. Please grant me this one wish . . .” and so on.
Three minutes later
Re:
I’ve got an alternate suggestion. Agreed, but let’s leave it till tomorrow. I’ve got to get my voice back in order first. And I’m exhausted. Answering machine session tomorrow evening at 9 o’clock—with a good glass of wine. Is that O.K.?
One minute later
Re:
O.K. Good-rest-of-night, Leo. Thanks for being there. Thanks for having intercepted me. Thanks for existing. Thank you!
Forty-five seconds later
Re:
And now I’m chucking my laptop out of bed! Good night.
The following evening
Subject: Our voices
Hi Emmi,
Are we going to go through with this?
Three minutes later
Re: Our voices
Definitely. I can’t wait.
Two minutes later
Re: Our voices
What if you don’t like my voice? What if you’re shocked? If you think, “Is that how the guy spoke to me the whole time?” (Cheers! I’m drinking a French vin de pays.)
A minute and a half later
Re: Our voices
How about the other way round? What if you don’t like my voice? What if it makes your toes curl? You might not want to talk to me anymore. (Chin-chin! I’m having whisky, if that’s all right with you. I’m too nervous for wine.)
Two minutes later
Re: Our voices
Let’s use the two emails we’ve just sent each other. O.K.?
Three minutes later
Re: Our voices
But they’re quite difficult emails, they’re mostly questions. When you’re talking to someone for the first time, questions are quite hard to say out loud. Particularly for women. Women are at a vocal disadvantage with questions, because their voices have to go up at the end of a sentence, i.e., they’re forced up into the higher registers. And if they’re nervous as well, they might make gurgling noises. Do you know what I mean? Gurgling sounds stupid.
One minute later
Re: Our voices
LET’S START NOW, EMMI! I’ll go first. You speak in five minutes. Let’s email each other when we’re finished. And we won’t listen to the answering m
achine UNTIL AFTERWARD. Understood?
Thirty seconds later
Re: Our voices
Hang on!!! Your phone number, if you don’t mind.
Thirty-five seconds later
Re: Our voices
Oh, sorry. 45 20 737. Right, I’m going now.
Nine minutes later
Re: Our voices
Done. Your turn!
Seven minutes later
Re: Our voices
I’m done. Who’s going to listen first?
Fifty seconds later
Re: Our voices
Both at the same time.
Forty seconds later
Re: Our voices
O.K. And afterward we’ll email each other.
Fourteen minutes later
Re: Our voices
Why haven’t you written, Leo? If you don’t like my voice, you could at least tell me to my face (or in-box, rather). I think the choice of messages put me, as a woman, at a disadvantage. And that rasping tone isn’t me, it’s the whisky. And if you don’t write to me now I’ll finish the whole bottle! And if I get alcohol poisoning I’ll send you the hospital bill!
Two minutes later
Re: Our voices
Emmi, I’m speechless. I mean, I’m astonished. I imagined you to sound quite different. Tell me, do you always talk like that, or did you disguise your voice?
Forty-five seconds later
Re: Our voices
Talk like what?
One minute later
Re: Our voices
Unbelievably erotically! Like the host of some love and relationships program.
Seven minutes later
Re: Our voices
That sounds all right, I could live with that! You don’t sound so bad yourself. The way you talk is much bolder than the way you write. Your voice is really smoky. My favorite part was “Is that how the guy spoke to me the whole time?” Especially the words “guy” and “spoke.” It’s the “y” in “guy.” Your “y” is quite sensational, it’s not an “ai” or a “ye,” in fact it’s hardly a sound at all. More of a murmur, a whisper, as if you’re exhaling the smoke of a joint through your teeth. I think we underuse the letter “y,” don’t you? You should use the “y” as often as you can. And in “spoke,” it’s the “spo” bit I liked. It’s wicked, the way you say it, and damn sexy, like a challenge to . . . well, who cares what, but it’s a challenge that you would accept. “Spo,” at least the way you say it, could be the name of a new potency pill. Not Viagra, but Spo, with the voice of Leo Leike—it could be a big hit.
Four minutes later
Re: Our voices
What stunned me most of all, Emmi, was how you say the word “toes.” I’ve never heard such a graceful, soft, dusky, clear “toes” before, and I’d never have imagined you would say it like that. No shrieking, no gurgling, no crowing. A really beautiful, soft, elegant, sleek, gentle, tiptoed “toes.” And “whisky,” that sounded really classy too. The “wh” like a rope swishing through the air; the “ky” like a key to your . . . hmm . . . bedroom. (My bottle of red wine’s almost finished, can you tell?)
One minute later
Re: Our voices
Keep drinking, Leo! I love it when you’re a bit tipsy. That and hearing your voice turn me on . . .
Twenty minutes later
Re: Our voices
Leo? Where are you?
Ten minutes later
Re: Our voices
Hold on. I’m just opening another bottle. This French vin de pays is good, Emmi! We don’t drink French vin de pays often enough. Not often enough, and not enough of it. If we drank more French vin de pays more often, we’d all be happier and we’d sleep better too. Your voice is very erotic, Emmi. I like your voice. Marlene had a very erotic voice too, but different. Marlene is much colder than you, Emmi. Marlene’s voice is deep, but cold. Emmi’s voice is deep and warm. And she says, “whisky, whisky, whisky.” Let’s drink one more to us! I’m on French red. I’m going to read all your emails again, Emmi, and they’ll sound completely different. Until now I’ve been reading all your emails with the wrong voice. I’ve been reading them all with Marlene’s voice. For me, Emmi was Marlene, Marlene at the very beginning, when everything was still possible. All there was, was love—nothing else. Everything was possible. How are you, Emmi?
Five minutes later
Re: Our voices
Oh no! Do you have to drink so fast, Leo? Can’t you hang on a bit longer? If your head’s already hit the keyboard I’ll just say good night, my friend. It’s wonderful being with you. Wonderful, but sometimes—and especially when it’s just getting interesting—distinctly short (mainly because of alcohol). Ah well, at least I have the answering machine message. Before I go to bed I’ll treat myself to a few more rounds of Leo Leike’s “Is that how the guy spoke to me the whole time?” I’m sure it will help against the north wind.
Twelve minutes later
Re: Our voices
Don’t go to bed yet, Emmi! I’m still awake, I’m feeling fine. Come to me, Emmi! Let’s have another drink. Whisper “whisky, whisky, whisky” into my ear. Say “toes.” Show them to me. I’ll say, “So those are the famous Emmi toes of the famous Emmi feet with the famous size 6 1/2 shoes. I’ll only put my hand on your shoulder, I promise. Just a hug. Just a kiss. Just a few kisses, nothing more. Totally harmless kisses. Emmi, I have to know what you smell like. I’ve got your voice in my ears, now I need your smell in my nose. I’m being serious, Emmi. Come over to my place. I’ll pay for the taxi. No, you don’t want me to do that. Who cares who pays for the taxi? Hochleitnergasse 17, flat 15. Come over! Or do you want me to come to your place? I could come over to yours! Just a sniff. Just a kiss. No sex. You’re married— unfortunately. No sex, I promise. Bernhard, I promise! I just want to smell your skin, Emmi. I really don’t want to know what you look like. We won’t turn the lights on. Completely in the dark. Just a few kisses, Emmi. Is that so awful? Is that cheating? What is cheating? An email? Or a voice? Or a sniff? Or a kiss? I want to be with you now. I want to have my arms around you. Just one night together with Emmi. I’ll close my eyes. I don’t have to know what you look like. I just need to smell, kiss, and feel you, very close. I’m laughing with happiness. Is that cheating, Emmi?
Five minutes later
Re: Our voices
“Is that how the guy spoke to me the whole time?” Night-night, Leo. It’s good to be with you. Astonishingly good. Amazingly good!!! I could get used to it. I have gotten used to it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The following morning
Subject: (no subject)
Good morning, Leo. Bad news. I’ve got to go to the South Tirol. Bernhard’s in the hospital. The doctors think it was some kind of heatstroke. I’ve got to drive down and fetch the kids. I’ve got a headache (too much whisky!). Thanks for a lovely evening. I don’t know what “cheating” is either. All I know is that I need you, Leo, I need you very badly. And I need my family too. I’m off now. I’ll be in touch again tomorrow. I hope you feel O.K. after all that vin de pays . . .
The following day
Subject: Everything O.K.?
Why no message from Leo? I just wanted to let you know that we’re back, and Bernhard was able to come home too. It was a circulatory collapse, but he’s already back on his feet. Please email me!!
Two hours later
Subject: To Mr. Leike
Dear Mr. Leike,
I have found it very hard to write you this message. I’ll admit I’m embarrassed, and the embarrassment I’m bringing upon myself increases with every line. My name is Bernhard Rothner—I believe I don’t need to give you more of an introduction. Mr. Leike, I have a huge favor to ask of you. When I tell you what this favor is you will be amazed, maybe even shocked. I will then try to explain my motives for asking this favor. I am no great writer, unfortunately, and I’m not really comfortable with email. But I will endeavor to say all those things that have been concerning me
for months, things that have put my life out of joint, my life and that of my family, even my wife’s, and I believe I can judge this accurately after so many harmonious years of marriage.
And so to the favor: Mr. Leike, meet my wife! Please do it, finally, and bring this nightmare to an end! We’re grown men, I can’t dictate what you do. I can only implore you: meet up with her! I’m feeling inferior and powerless, and suffering because of it. How humiliating do you think it is for me to write lines like these? You, on the other hand, haven’t shown the slightest weakness, Mr. Leike. You’ve got nothing to reproach yourself for. And me, I don’t have anything to reproach you for either, unfortunately. I really don’t. You can’t reproach a mind. You’re not palpable, Mr. Leike, you’re not tangible. You’re not real. You’re just my wife’s fantasy, an illusion of unlimited emotional happiness, an otherworldly rapture, a utopia of love, but all built out of words. I’m impotent against this; all I can do is wait until fate is merciful and turns you at last into a being of flesh and blood, a man with contours, with strengths and weaknesses, something to aim at. Only when my wife can see you as she sees me, as someone vulnerable, an imperfect creation, an example of that flawed being which is man; only when you have met face-to-face will your superiority vanish. Only then can I compete with you on an equal footing, Mr. Leike. Only then can I fight for Emma.
My wife once wrote to you, “Leo, please don’t force me to open my family album.” But now I find myself obliged to do it in her stead. When we met, Emma was twenty-three and I was her piano teacher at the Academy of Music, fourteen years her senior, happily married and the father of two delightful children. A car accident destroyed our family—our three-year-old was traumatized, the elder one badly injured. I suffered permanent injuries, and the children’s mother, my wife Johanna, died. Without the piano I would have fallen apart. But music when it’s played is life itself—nothing can remain dead forever. If you’re a musician and you play music, you live out memories as if they were happening now. Music helped me pull myself back together. And then there were my pupils, there was a distraction, there was a job to do, there was meaning. And then, out of the blue, there was Emma. This lively, sparkling, sassy, gorgeous young woman began—all by herself—to pick up the pieces of our life, without expecting anything in return. Extraordinary people like her are put onto this earth to counter sadness. They are few and far between. I don’t know how I deserved it, but suddenly she was there by my side. The children ran straight to her, and I fell head over heels in love with her.