So, my dear Leo, maybe now you understand why I feel the way I do? LEO, ARE YOU JUST ANALYZING ME? ARE YOU JUST TESTING ME AS A MEDIUM FOR CONVEYING EMOTIONS? AM I NOTHING MORE THAN THE CONTENT OF A COLD PHD THESIS OR SOME OTHER GHASTLY LANGUAGE EXPERIMENT?
Forty minutes later
Re: Confession II
If I were you I’d ask Bernhard what he thinks about it, because I’ve had enough of you. Besides, any means of conveyance would collapse under the weight of your emotional baggage.
Leo
Five minutes later
Re: Confession II
You can go on the counterattack if you want, but don’t think my concerns about being exploited by a language psychologist have gone away. So please be straight with me.
You owe me that much, Leo.
Three days later
Subject: Leo!
Dear Leo,
The last three days have been horrible. On the one hand I’ve been terrified—yes, it was a real panic attack—that you’ve been using me all along for some study, and on the other I’m plagued by the awful misgiving that I might have done you an injustice. Perhaps my rash accusations have destroyed something between us. I’ve no idea what would be worse: to have been “betrayed” by you, or, in an attack of blind suspicion, to have bulldozed the refuge of our mutual trust which we’ve so lovingly and carefully built up.
Dear Leo, please try to put yourself in my shoes. I must confess I haven’t had such an intense emotional exchange with anyone for a long time. I’d never have believed that this was possible. In my emails to you I can be the real Emmi, in a way that I can’t be at any other time. In what we call “real life”—if you want to be successful, if you want to get on in the long term—you always have to come to some kind of compromise with your own emotions: I can’t overreact NOW! I have to accept THIS! I have to ignore THAT!—You’re forever having to tailor your emotions to the circumstances, you go easy on the people you love, you slip into your hundred little daily roles, you juggle, you balance, you weigh things up so as not to jeopardize the entire structure, because you yourself have a stake in it.
But with you, dear Leo, I’m not afraid to be spontaneous, or true to my inner self. I don’t need to think about what I can tell you and what I can’t. I just natter on blithely. It does me so much good!!! And that’s all because of you, Leo. That’s why you’ve become so essential to me: you take me just as I am. Sometimes you rein me in, sometimes you ignore things, sometimes you take things the wrong way. But your patience, the fact that you stick with me, shows me that I can be who I am. And, if you’ll allow me to blow my own trumpet a little, I’m much more gentle than my emails might lead you to believe. Which means that someone out there likes the Emmi who lets herself go, who couldn’t care less about making a good impression, who insists on drawing attention to her shortcomings—yes, Leo, I’m jealous, yes, I’m untrusting, I’m a bit neurotic, and I don’t have a particularly high opinion of the opposite sex, nor even of my own—now I’m losing the thread. Where was I?—But someone out there likes the Emmi who makes no effort to be a good person, who plays up weaknesses that would otherwise be suppressed. He’s interested in Emmi as she really is; he likes her precisely because she’s aware that there’s so much of herself she cannot reveal to others, this bundle of moods, this harbor of self-doubt, this jumble of contradictions.
But it’s not just about me, Leo. I think about you all the time. You’ve occupied a few square millimeters of my cerebrum (or maybe it’s the cerebellum, or pituitary gland, I’ve got no idea where my thoughts about someone like you are based). You’ve effectively set up camp there. I don’t know if you’re the same person as the man who writes to me. But even if you’re only a part of that man, you’re still very special. Your lines to me and my interpretation of them yield up the kind of man I now suddenly realize does actually exist. You’ve always written about your “fantasy Emmi.” Well maybe I’m less willing to content myself with a “fantasy Leo,” to have someone I’m so fond of confined to my imagination. I want him to be made of flesh and blood and stuff like that. And he must be up to meeting me. I know we’re not at that stage yet, but I think we could come closer to a meeting through our writing. Until we get to the point where we’re standing face-to-face. Or sitting. Or kneeling. Whatever.
Take this email, for example. I find it appalling that you might be analyzing its contents word for word in order to gain some kind of scientific insight, or quoting sections of it to show how or by what means emotions may be conveyed, or worse, how emotions may be aroused in others, how to write in a way which sucks someone in emotionally. I could scream in agony at the very thought!! Please tell me that our correspondence has nothing whatsoever to do with your research. And please forgive me for having thought such a thing. I’m the kind of person who has to assume the worst: it’s how I build up my defenses against my worst fears being realized.
That’s the longest email I’ve ever written to you, Leo. Please don’t ignore it. Please come back. Don’t strike camp and move on from my cerebral cortex. I need you! I . . . cherish you!
Your Emmi
P.S. I know it’s sooo late, but I’m convinced you’re still awake. I’m sure you’ll check your emails again tonight. You don’t have to answer me now. But maybe you could just write one word to let me know you’ve got my message? Just one, is that O.K.? Or you could make it two, or three if that’s easier. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please
Two seconds later
Out of Office AutoReply
I AM AWAY AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO CHECK EMAIL UNTIL MAY 18. FOR URGENT MATTERS PLEASE CONTACT THE UNIVERSITY’S INSTITUTE OF PSYCHOLOGY. EMAIL:
[email protected].
One minute later
Re:
That’s the pits!
CHAPTER FIVE
Eight days later
Subject: Back!
Hi Emmi,
I’m back. I was in Amsterdam. With Marlene. We made another attempt at it. A brief attempt. After two days I was in bed with pneumonia. I found it really embarrassing; she spent five days shaking a thermometer and giving me bittersweet smiles. She was like a nurse in her thirtieth year of service who hates her job, but who tries not to blame her patients for it. Amsterdam was the opposite of what I had expected—not a fresh start, but a familiar ending, fairly routine after all these years. This time we separated with dignity. She said that if I ever needed anything she’d always help me out. What she meant was something from the pharmacy. And I said, “If you ever imagine you can’t live without me, and if I convince myself that I can’t live without you, I suggest we come back to Amsterdam for a few days to show ourselves just how wrong we are.”
I told Marlene about us too. She reacted as if this was more serious than my pneumonia. I said, “I’m obsessed with a woman on the Internet.” She said, “How old is she? What does she look like?” I said, “No idea. Between thirty and forty. She’s either blond, brunette, or a redhead. Anyway, she’s happily married.” She said, “You’re sick!”
“This woman,” I said, “allows me to think of somebody else apart from you, Marlene, and yet have similar feelings. She teases me, irritates me—at times I could boot her into cyberspace, but then I’m just as eager to get her back again. I need her here on earth, you see. She listens. She’s clever. She’s funny. And, most important of all, she’s there for me.” “If it helps to write to her, then write to her,” Marlene told me on the way to bed. “And don’t forget your pills,” she added.
I don’t know what to do, Emmi. How can I get away from this woman? She’s a block of ice, but I get hot whenever I touch her. When I walk with her through the streets of Amsterdam I get pneumonia. But when she lays her hand on my forehead at night, I begin to glow.
Right, Emmi, part two. I’m back. I’ve got no intention of striking camp from your cerebral cortex. I want us to keep writing to each other. And I’d like us to meet in person. By all the criteria of human logic, we’ve missed all the obvious, rig
ht moments. We’ve ignored the most basic rules of being together. We’re old soul mates, mutual support in our daily lives, sometimes we’re even lovers. And despite all this our relationship hasn’t had the customary beginning: a meeting. I’m sure we’ll make up for it! But I don’t know how yet, without losing a part of what we are. Do you have any idea?
Right, Emmi, part three. I deliberately started my email talking about Marlene. Because I’d like us to share more about our lives. I don’t want to pretend there’s only the two of us. I want to know how you cope with your marriage, how you manage with the children, things like that. I’d also like to know what you worry about. I’d find it a great comfort to know it’s not just me who has problems. It would help me to talk about them. It would be an honor to be taken into your strictest confidence.
Right, Emmi, part four. Please don’t hate me on spec ever again! I couldn’t stand it. At the beginning of March I dropped out of the study on the influence of email on our linguistic behavior and its significance as a means of conveying emotions. The official excuse I gave was that I didn’t have enough time.
But in fact this subject had become too personal and I couldn’t look at it scientifically anymore. Does that clear things up?
Have a nice day,
Leo
P.S. Although my “Out of office” autoreply was the correct punishment for your aggressive and suspicious note, I also felt sorry for you. That was a really lovely, candid, honest, and detailed message. Thanks for every word! Now you have a few cheeky comments in credit.
Forty-five minutes later
Re: Back!
Did you drop out of the study because of us? That’s nice, Leo, for that I love you! (Luckily you can’t have a clue what I mean by that.) I’ve got to take Jonas to the dentist. It’s a shame he’s not already under general anesthetic. There’s your answer to how I manage with the kids.
Till later,
Emmi
Six hours later
Subject: (no subject)
O.K., Leo, I’m sitting in my study, Bernhard’s still working, Fiona’s staying over at a friend’s, Jonas is asleep (minus two teeth), Wurlitzer’s eating dog food (much cheaper, and Wurlitzer doesn’t seem to mind, as long as there’s enough of it). You know we don’t have chipmunks—if we did, the cat would probably want to eat them too. I’m being stared at reproachfully by the furniture. Scenting betrayal, it threatens me: You’d better not let on how much we cost, what color we are or what our design is! The piano’s saying: Don’t you dare tell him that Bernhard was your piano teacher! Don’t tell him how it felt the first time you kissed, and how you made love on top of me. The bookcase is asking: Who is this Leo anyway? What’s he doing here? Why do you spend so much time with him? Why do you ignore me most of the time? Why have you become so preoccupied? The CD player is telling me: Soon it’s going to get so bad that you won’t play Rachmaninoff anymore—don’t forget how important music is to your relationship with Bernhard—instead you’ll want to know what this Leo likes to listen to. Who knows, it might be the Sugarbabes! Only the wine rack has something to say in your defense: Well, I don’t have anything against Leo, the three of us get along just fine. But I hear threats from the bed: Don’t lie here dreaming about being somewhere else. Don’t get caught here with Leo. That’s a warning!
I can’t do it, Leo. I can’t share this world with you. You can never become a part of it. It’s impenetrable, like a fortress. It can’t be conquered, it allows no one to intrude, it resolutely keeps them out. You and I have to stay “outside,” Leo, it’s our only chance. I’ll lose you otherwise. You asked how I “cope” with my marriage? Admirably, and I mean that! And Bernhard does too. He worships me. I respect and treasure him. We respect each other. He would never deceive me. I could never let him down. We would never want to hurt each other. We’ve built up a life together. We depend on each other. We’ve got music, we have the theater. We’ve got lots of friends in common. Fiona, she’s sixteen, she’s like a younger sister to me. And I really have become a kind of mother to Jonas. His mother died when he was three.
Leo, please don’t force me to open my family album. Why don’t we do it like this: I’ll tell you about my home life if I feel like it, if I’ve got something on my mind, if I want to confide in a very close friend. But you can tell me about your private life anytime you want, down to the very last, explosive detail. (Just don’t go into anything erotic—I forbid you!)
I’m off to bed now—and I’m finally going to get a good night’s sleep. I’m so glad you’re back, Leo!! I need you! I have to be able to live, breathe, and feel beyond my world here as well. You are my other world! And we can talk about Marlene tomorrow—I’m going to need a clear head for that. Good night, my love! And a good night kiss!
The next day
Subject: Marlene
Good morning, Leo. If you can’t be with each other, and you can’t be without each other, the only other option is to find someone else. You need someone else, Leo. You need to fall in love again. And that’s when you’ll realize what you’ve been missing all this time. Closeness isn’t just an absence of distance, it means actively eliminating it. The thrill doesn’t stem from a lack of completeness, but from constantly striving for it, and clinging on to it when you’ve got it. There’s nothing else, Leo, we need to find you a woman! Of course it would be naive to say “Forget Marlene!” But you’ve got to, once and for all. I’ve got a suggestion to make. Instead of thinking about Marlene, why don’t you make a conscious effort to think about me instead? Imagine you’re doing everything with me that you’d like to do with Marlene. (My furniture’s beginning to stare at me again.) I mean, just for the transition phase, until we’ve found you someone else. What kind of a woman would you like? How would you like her to look? Go on, tell me! Maybe I’ve got someone in mind.
Seriously now, a woman who says, “If it helps to write to her, then write to her,” is a million miles away from what I understand by being in love. Marlene doesn’t love Leo. Leo doesn’t love Marlene. The passion of these two non-lovers is forged from the other’s craving for love. I can’t put it better than that. I have to work now.
Till soon,
Emmi, your “virtual alternative”
Four hours later
Re: Marlene
Dear Emmi,
Greetings from your other world. I enjoy your emails, and I’m really grateful for them. Please tell your various pieces of furniture that I admire their attitude and respect their team spirit. I’m not going to intrude on the Rothner household; I’ll restrict my dealings with Emmi to the screen. My particular compliments to the wine cabinet. Maybe one day the three of us can have another midnight rendezvous. (I promise not to drink so much beforehand.)
I’m extremely tickled that you’re thinking about pairing me off. What sort of women do I like? Women who look the way you write, Emmi. And I wouldn’t mind getting a crack at being their real world, not just their other world. In short, women who aren’t already “happily married,” holed up in a family fortress and under surveillance by their furniture. Until one of those crosses my path, I’ll gladly take you up on your offer and think about you before I think of Marlene. It won’t always work, but if you keep on spoiling me with emails I’ll inch ever closer to my goal.
I hope you have a nice evening. I’m meeting up with my sister Adrienne tonight. She’ll be pleased that I’ve managed to break up with Marlene again. And she’ll be delighted that I’m still in touch with you. All she knows is the odd excerpt from your emails and what I’ve told her about you—and she’s seen the three Emmi candidates. She likes you, irrespective of which one is you. She’s agreed with her brother on this.
The next day
Subject: Mia!
Hi Leo, it came to me in the night. Of course, Mia! It’s Mia! Leo and Mia—it already sounds wonderful! Listen up, Leo, Mia’s thirty-four and gorgeous. She’s a gym teacher with long legs and a lovely figure, not an ounce of fat on her, dark complexio
n, black hair. There’s only one drawback: she’s vegetarian, but all you have to do is tell her it’s tofu and she’ll eat meat too. She’s extremely well read, highly intelligent, enterprising, cheerful, always in a good mood. In other words, she’s a dream woman. And . . . she’s single!
Shall I introduce you?
An hour and a half later
Re: Mia!
Emmi, Emmi, Emmi! I know all about those long-legged Mias. My little sister introduces me to one of them practically every week. I’ve seen those designer clothes catalogues full of 0.0 percent fat models à la Mia, each one more beautiful and long-legged than the next. And they’re all single. And do you know why, dear Emmi? Because that’s how they like it! And that’s how they want it to stay for a while longer.
I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, my dear other-world Emmi, but I’m not in the mood for meeting a dream Mia at the moment. I’m very happy with my life as it is. Thank you for your efforts nonetheless!
My sister sends her greetings, by the way. She says I shouldn’t make the mistake of meeting you. Her exact words were, “A meeting would be the end of your relationship. And this relationship is doing you a world of good!”