Every Seventh Wave by Daniel Glattauer Read Free Book Online

you? What do you want to do with me? What should I be for you? How should we go on from here? Should we go on at all? And where to? Please tell me: WHERE TO? Give yourself a few days before you answer; time is the one thing we have in abundance.
    Have a nice evening,
    Leo
    Five hours later
    Subject: Impressions
    Just want to add a few words to my nonexistent or indiscernible “interest in your physical appearance,” dear Emmi. Please tell your former and future whiskies that I like you. I can say that with 0.0 parts per thousand of alcohol in my blood. It’s lovely to look at you. You’re stunning to look at. And fortunately I can look at you anytime I choose. Not only have I got hundreds of impressions of you, I also have an impression from you. I have a point of contact on my palm. I can look at you there. I can even caress you. Good night.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    You’ve just answered the question “What can I do for you?” yourself. Caress the point of contact, my love.
    One minute later
    Re:
    I will. But I’ll do it for me, not for you. Because only I can feel this point, it belongs to me, my love!
    Fifty seconds later
    Re:
    That is a misapprehension, my love! A point of contact always belongs to two people. 1) The contacter. 2) The contactee. Good night.
    Three days later
    Subject: Questionnaire one
    Fiona is about to turn eighteen. She finishes school next year. At the moment I’m only speaking to her in English or French, so she can practice. Which means she’s not speaking to me at all anymore. She wants to be an air hostess or a concert pianist. I’m trying to persuade her that she can do both: an in-flight pianist, a flying piano player. There’d be no competition. She’s pretty, slim, medium height, blond, fair skin, freckles—just like her mother. She’s been “going out” with Gregor for the past six months. “Going out with Gregor” seems to be code for staying up all night with anyone, male or female. Officially she spends every night with him. The poor guy doesn’t seem to be aware of this, much less does he get anything out of it. “What do you two spend the whole time doing?” I ask. She smiles at me as wickedly as she can. Hinting at “sex” is still the best strategy for incommunicative teenagers. It’s obvious. No need for Fiona to waste her breath. She’ll just have to put up with a few lectures on contraception and safe sex.
    Jonas is fourteen, and still a child. He’s sensitive and quite clingy. He misses his mother, and he needs me very much. He keeps the family tightly together, and it’s a major effort for him. He has no energy for school. Every few days he asks whether I still love his father, and Leo, you can’t imagine how he looks at me. For him the nicest thing in the world is to see us both happy, and he’s the main focus for both of us. Sometimes he even pushes me into his father’s arms. He tries to force the two of us together, to make us more intimate. He can sense that little by little this intimacy is slipping away from us.
    Bernhard, yes, Bernhard! What can I say, Leo? And why should I have to say it to you, of all people? I’m finding it hard enough to admit it to myself. Our relationship has cooled. It’s no longer an affair of the heart, but merely a kind of mental exercise. I have nothing to reproach him for, unfortunately. He never displays any weaknesses. He’s the kindest, most unselfish person I know. I like him. I respect his decency. I cherish his attentiveness. I marvel at his calm, and his intelligence.
    But no, it’s no longer the “great love” it once was. Perhaps it never was. But we so enjoyed our staging of it, and acting out our parts to each other, playing them to the children so that they could feel secure. But after twelve years of shifting the scenes we’ve tired of our roles as partners in a perfect marriage.