What about her? Mr. Leike, I bet you’re wondering, “But what about Emma?” Did she, this 23-year-old student, fall similarly in love with this sorrowful old knight, soon to be forty, who was being kept together by little more than keys and notes? I can’t answer this question, not to you, nor even to myself. How much was it due to her admiration for my music? (I was very successful at the time, an acclaimed pianist.) How much was pity, sympathy, a desire to help, the capacity to be there through the bad times? How much did I remind her of her father, who left her when she was so young? How much of it was her doting on my sweet Fiona and little, golden Jonas? To what extent was it my own euphoria reflected in her, to what extent did she love my boundless love for her, rather than love me? How much did she relish the certainty that I would never be unfaithful, a guaranteed lifetime of dependability, the assurance of my eternal loyalty? Please believe me, Mr. Leike, I’d never have dared get close to her if I hadn’t felt that her feelings for me were as strong as mine for her. It was obvious that she felt drawn to me and the children; she wanted to be part of our world, an influential part, a definitive part, the center. Two years later we got married. That was eight years ago. (I’m sorry, I’ve just ruined your game of hide-and-seek: the “Emmi” you know is thirty-four years young.) Not a day passed without my astonishment at having this vital young beauty at my side. And every day I waited in trepidation for “it” to happen, for a younger man to appear, one of the many who have admired and idolized her. And Emma would say, “Bernhard, I’ve fallen in love with somebody else. Where do we go from here?” This nightmare has failed to materialize. A far worse one has come to pass. You, Mr. Leike, the silent “other world.” Illusions of love via email, feelings intensifying day by day, a growing yearning, unsated passion, everything directed toward one apparently real goal, an ultimate goal that is forever being postponed, the meeting of all meetings, but one that will never take place because it would dispel the artifice of ultimate happiness, total satisfaction, without end, with no expiration date, which can be lived only in the mind. Against that I’m impotent.
Mr. Leike, since you “arrived,” it’s as though Emmi is transformed. She’s absentminded and distanced from me. She sits in her room for hours on end, staring at the computer screen, into the cosmos of her dreams. She lives in her “other world,” she lives with it. When there’s a beatific smile on her face, it’s no longer for me—it hasn’t been for a long time. She has to make a real effort to hide her distraction from the children. I can see just what torture it is for her to sit next to me now. Do you know how much that hurts? I’ve tried to ride out this phase by being extremely tolerant. I’ve never wanted Emma to feel constrained by me. Neither of us has ever been jealous. But all of a sudden I no longer knew what to do. I mean, there was nothing and nobody there, no actual person, no obvious interloper—until I discovered the root of the problem. I could have died with shame that the whole thing had gone so far. I snooped around in Emma’s room. Eventually, in a secret drawer, I found a folder, a fat folder full of documents: her entire email correspondence with a certain Leo Leike, printed out nice and crisp, page by page, message by message. I copied these documents with a trembling hand, and for a few weeks I managed to put them out of my mind. We had a ghastly vacation in Portugal. The little one was ill, the older one fell madly in love with a sports instructor. My wife and I didn’t say a word to each other for two weeks, but both of us tried to fool the other that everything was just fine, as it always was, as it always had to be, as custom dictated. After that I couldn’t hold out any longer. I took the folder with me on the hiking trip, and in a fit of self-destruction, out of some masochistic desire to make myself suffer, I read through all the emails in one night. Let me tell you, since the death of my first wife I have experienced no greater emotional torture. When I’d finished reading I couldn’t get out of bed. My daughter phoned the emergency services and I was taken to the hospital. My wife picked me up the day before yesterday. Now you know the whole story.
Mr. Leike, please meet up with Emma! And now I come to the wretched nadir of my self-humiliation. Meet her, spend a night with her, have sex with her! I know that you’ll want to. I’ll “allow” you to. I’m giving you carte blanche, I’m freeing you from all scruples, I won’t consider it cheating. I sense that Emma wants physical as well as mental intimacy with you, she wants to “know” it, thinks she needs it, something’s urging her to do it. That’s the thrill, the novelty, the variety I can’t offer her. So many men have worshipped and lusted after Emma, but it never struck me that she felt attracted to any of them. And then I saw the emails she’s written to you. Suddenly I understood just how great her desire can be if aroused by the “right one.” You, Mr. Leike, are her chosen one. And I’m almost wishing you would sleep with her once. ONCE (like my wife I’m using emphatic block capitals). ONCE. JUST ONCE! Let that be the culmination of the passion you have built up in writing. Make that the conclusion. Crown your email correspondence, and put a stop to it. Give me back my wife, you unearthly, untouchable being! Release her. Bring her back down to earth. Let our family continue to live. Don’t do it as a favor to me or my children. Do it for Emma, for her sake. I beg you!
And now I come to the end of my embarrassing, distressing cry for help, my excruciating appeal for mercy. Just one final request, Mr. Leike. Don’t betray my confidence. Leave me outside your shared narrative. I’ve abused Emma’s trust, I’ve gone behind her back, I’ve read her private, intimate correspondence. I’ve atoned for this. I could never look her in the eye again if she knew I’d been spying. She could never look me in the eye again if she knew what I’d read. She’d hate both herself and me in equal measure. Please, Mr. Leike, spare us that. Don’t tell her about this letter. Once more, I beg you!
So now I’m going to send the most excruciating letter I’ve ever written.
Yours sincerely,
Bernhard Rothner
Four hours later
Re: To Mr. Leike
Dear Mr. Rothner,
I got your email. I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know if I should say anything. I’m shocked. You haven’t just humiliated yourself, you’ve shamed all three of us. I need to think. I’m going to pull back for a while. I can’t promise you anything, I can’t promise anything at all.
Kind regards,
Leo Leike
The following day
Subject: Leo???
Leo, where are you? I can’t stop hearing your voice. Always saying the same thing: “Is that how the guy spoke to me the whole time?” I know exactly how the guy speaks. The only problem is, he hasn’t spoken for days. Did you down too much French vin de pays that night? Can you even remember? You invited me to Hochleitnergasse 17, Flat 15. “Just a sniff,” you wrote. You have no idea how close I was to coming over. Closer than I’ve ever been. You occupy my thoughts twenty-four hours a day. Why won’t you write to me? Should I be worried?
The following day
Subject: Leo??????
Leo, what’s wrong? Please write to me!
Your Emmi
Half an hour later
Subject: To Mr. Rothner
Dear Mr. Rothner,
Let me propose a little deal. You have to promise me something. And I’ll promise you something in return. So, I promise that I won’t say a word to your wife about your email and how it came about. And you have to promise me that you will NEVER AGAIN READ A SINGLE EMAIL that your wife writes to me, or I to her. I trust you not to break the promise, if you agree to it, that is. And you too can be assured that I’ll be as good as my word. If you agree, please say so. Otherwise I’ll tell your wife the secrets you were good enough to share with me.
Regards,
Leo Leike
Two hours later
Re: To Mr. Rothner
Yes, Mr. Leike, I promise. I will no longer read any emails that aren’t addressed to me. I’ve already read too many things I shouldn’t have. And now may I reiterate my request: Will yo
u meet my wife?
Ten minutes later
Re: To Mr. Rothner
Mr. Rothner,
I can’t answer that. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. In writing to me I think you made a grave error, symptomatic of a blatant flaw in your marriage. It’s probably been there for years. You wrote to the wrong address. You should have told your wife everything you’ve said to me, but much sooner, right at the beginning. I think you should be doing that right now! Make up for it! And please don’t send me any more emails. I believe you’ve said everything you thought you needed to. That was already too much.
Kind regards,
Leo Leike
Fifteen minutes later
Subject: (no subject)
Hi Emmi,
Just back from a work trip to Cologne. Sorry, it was so frantic I didn’t even have a few minutes to write to you in peace. I hope your family is in better health now. I’m going to take advantage of this nice weather and go away for a few days, somewhere south, where no one can get hold of me. I think it’s what I need—I’m feeling pretty drained. I’ll write when I’m back. Enjoy these lovely sunny days. I hope dislocated arms are kept to a minimum.
Lots and lots of love,
Leo
Five minutes later
Re:
What’s her name?
Ten minutes later
Re:
What’s whose name?
Four minutes later
Re:
Please don’t insult my intelligence, Leo, or my Leo-sensor. Whenever you start blustering about frantic work trips and having to make the most of the good weather, or complaining about being drained, or warning me in advance that you’ll be out of contact, or even ordering me to enjoy the sunny days ahead, there’s only one thing I can put it down to. What’s her name? Could it possibly be—Marlene?
Eight minutes later
Re:
No Emmi, you’ve got it all wrong. There’s no Marlene, nor anybody else. I just need to get away. The last few weeks and months have worn me out. I need a break.
One minute later
Re:
A break from me?
Five minutes later
Re:
A break from myself! I’ll write again in a few days. I promise!
Three days later
Subject: Missing Leo!
Hi Leo, it’s me. I know you’re not there, you’re having a break from yourself just now. How does one actually do that? I wish I could. I urgently need a break from myself, but instead I’m fully occupied with me. And it’s wearing me out. I have to admit something, Leo. Actually I don’t have to admit it, and it’s not a good thing that I am, but I can’t help it. Leo, I’m so unhappy at the moment. And do you know why? (You probably don’t want to know at all, but that’s just too bad— sorry.) Because you’re not there. Emails from Leo make me happy. And I’m unhappy because I’m not getting them. It is my misfortune that my happiness depends so much on your emails. And now that I know your voice, I’m missing your emails three times as much.
I was with Mia yesterday evening and late into the night. It was the best time we’d had together for years. And do you know why? (This is mean, I know, but you have to hear it.) It was our best time together because at long last I was unhappy. Mia said I seemed the same as ever, the only difference being that this time I admitted I was unhappy, to myself as well as to her. And for that she’s grateful. Sounds pretty sad, doesn’t it?
Mia thinks that I’ve fallen in love with you in a peculiar way—through words. She says I can’t live without you at the moment, at least not happily. And she says she can understand why. Awful, isn’t it? But I love my husband too. I honestly do. I chose him, him and his children, him and my children. I wanted this family and no other, and I still do. At the time it was a tragic situation, I’ll tell you about it one day. (Have you noticed I’m talking about my family without you even asking . . .) Bernhard has never let me down, and he never will. He gives me all the freedom I want, and he responds to my every need. He’s a very educated, unselfish, calm, lovely man. Of course you can feel suffocated by routine over time. Sometimes things are too ordered; there aren’t enough surprises. We know each other inside out, and we have no more secrets from each other. Mia said, “Perhaps what you’re after is the secrecy of it all. Perhaps you’ve fallen in love with a hot secret.” So I said, “What should I do? I can’t suddenly turn Bernhard into a hot secret too.” What do you think, Leo? Can I turn Bernhard into a hot secret? Can I make a hot secret out of eight years of family life?
Oh Leo, Leo, Leo. Everything’s so hard at the moment. I’m in a bad place. I’ve got no drive. I’ve got no passion. I’ve got no—Leo, the one and only Leo. I don’t know where all this is going. I don’t want to know. I don’t even care. The main thing is that you write to me again soon. Please hurry up with your break from yourself. I want to drink wine with you again. I want you to want to kiss me again. (Was that a proper sentence?) I don’t need real kisses. I need the man who’s sometimes so desperate to kiss me that he has to write to tell me so. I need Leo. I feel so lonely with my whisky bottle. I’ve had so much whisky, Leo, have you noticed? How would it be, a life together with you? Would you still be desperate to kiss me after weeks, months, years—or would it last forever? I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I’m happily married. But at the same time I feel unhappy. I’m probably contradicting myself. You’re the contradiction, Leo. Thanks for listening. Just one more whisky. Good night, Leo. I miss you so much. I would even kiss you blindfolded. I really would. Right now.
Two days later
Subject: Not a word
Eighty-six degrees, and not a word from the man on a break from himself. I realize that my email from a couple of days ago was verging on painful. Was it too much for you, Leo? Believe me, it was the whisky! The whisky and me. What’s deep inside me and what the whisky dragged out.
Longingly,
Emmi
The following day
Subject: (no subject)
A southerly wind—and still I’m tossing and turning in bed. A single syllable from you would send me straight to sleep. Good night, dear man-on-a-break-from-himself.
Two days later
Subject: My last message
This is the last email I’m going to send without hearing back. What you’re doing to me is so harsh, Leo! Please stop, because it’s hurting like hell. You can do anything you want, anything except keep up this silence.
The next day
Subject: Counter-message
Dear Emmi,
It only took me a few hours to make a life-changing decision. But it’s taken me nine days to tell you the consequences. In a few weeks’ time I’ll be moving to Boston for at least two years. I’m going to be running a project group at the university there. The job is extremely attractive, both academically and financially. My circumstances permit me this spontaneity— there are only a few things here I’d have to give up. Moving halfway across the world must be in the blood. I’ll miss a few close friends. I’ll miss my sister Adrienne. And I’ll miss . . . Emmi. Yes, I’ll miss her particularly.
I’ve also made another decision. It sounds so harsh that my fingers are trembling in anticipation of having to tell you. O.K., here it comes, after this colon: I’m going to stop our email contact. I have to get you out of my head, Emmi. You can’t be the first and last thought I have each day for the rest of my life. That’s sick. You’re “spoken for,” you have a family, you have duties, challenges, responsibilities. You’re very attached to all that, and it’s the world you’re happy in. This you’ve made perfectly clear. (With a heady cocktail of whisky and longing it’s possible to write oneself into an unhappy mood, like you did in your last long email, but the very next morning it’s gone.) I’m certain your husband loves you, as only someone who’s spent so many years living together with a woman can. Perhaps all you’re missing is a touch of extramarital adventure playing out in your head, something cosmet
ic to brighten up your day-to-day emotional life. That’s why you’re so attached to me. That’s what keeps our written relationship going. But instead of enriching your life in the long term I suspect it just creates more confusion.
Now, about me. I’m thirty-six years old (so now you know). I don’t intend to spend my life with a woman who’s only mine in my in-box. Boston will be a fresh start. All of a sudden I have this desire to meet a woman in a frightfully conventional way again. First I’ll see her, then I’ll hear her voice, then I’ll smell her, then maybe I’ll kiss her. The backward path we took was—and is—extremely exciting, but it doesn’t lead anywhere. I’ve got to get rid of this mental block. For months now I’ve seen Emmi in every beautiful woman in the street. But none of them has been able to measure up to the real one, none of them has been able to compete. Because I’ve hidden my real Emmi far from public view. I’ve cut her off, isolated her, and kept her all for myself—in my computer. And that’s where she’s met me after work. She’s waited for me there before, after, or instead of breakfast. She’s wished me good night after a long evening together. Often she’s stayed up with me until dawn, beside me, in my room, in my bed, secretly tucked under the covers. But the truth is she’s remained unattainable in every phase of our relationship. The images I have of her are so delicate and frail that had I seen her in the flesh, they would surely have cracked and broken. This artificially generated Emmi has seemed to me so fragile that she would have shattered if I’d ever actually touched her. Physically she’s been nothing more than the air between the computer keys that I’ve used to create her day by day. One puff and she would have been gone. Yes, that’s what it’s come to, Emmi. I’m going to close my in-box, I’m going to puff at my keyboard, I’m going to close the screen down. I’m going to say good-bye.