Every Seventh Wave by Daniel Glattauer Read Free Book Online Page A

Bernhard is a musician. He loves harmony. He needs harmony. He lives it. WE live it together. I decided to be a part of this whole. If I withdraw, I would bring about the collapse of everything we’ve built for ourselves. Bernhard and the children have already lived through one collapse. There cannot be another. I couldn’t do that to them. I couldn’t do it to myself. I would never forgive myself. Do you understand?
    One day later
    Subject: Leo?
    Hello, my love, have you lost your tongue? Or are you waiting patiently for parts two and three of my family saga?
    Five minutes later
    Re:
    Do you talk to him about it, Emmi?
    Six minutes later
    Re:
    No, we make a point of not talking about it. It seems to work better that way. We both know only too well what it’s all about. We try to make the best of it. You must not think that I’m desperately unhappy, Leo. This corset I wear is a good friend; it supports and protects me. I just have to be careful that one day it doesn’t take my breath away altogether.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    Emmi, you’re thirty-five!
    Five minutes later
    Re:
    Thirty-five and a half. And Bernhard is forty-nine. Fiona is seventeen. Jonas is fourteen. Leo Leike is thirty-seven. Mrs. Kramer’s bulldog Hector is nine. And what about Vasilyev, the Wiessenbachers’ little terrapin? Remind me to ask them, Leo! But what are you trying to say? At thirty-five am I not old enough to be logical? At thirty-five am I not old enough to take responsibility? Am I not old enough to know what I owe to myself and to my life, and what I have to be resigned to in order to remain true to myself?
    Four minutes later
    Re:
    Whatever, you’re far too young to start worrying that your corset might take your breath away altogether, my love.
    One minute later
    Re:
    As long as Leo Leike is around to worry about my air supply, via email or sometimes even in real life at a café table, I don’t think I’ll get into breathing difficulties.
    Two minutes later
    Re:
    Nice try at changing the subject, Emmi dear. May I remind you that many of my questions remain unanswered? Are they saved, or should I send them again?
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    I’ve saved everything you’ve ever written to me, my love. Enough for today. Have a nice evening. You’re a good listener, Leo. Thank you.
    The following day
    Subject: Questionnaire number three
    I’m saving your second questionnaire, the weird one, until last. I’d rather leap straight into the present.
    What is missing from my life, Leo?—You. (Even before I knew that you existed.)
    What can you do for me, Leo?—Just be there. Write to me. Read me. Think of me. Stroke your palm where I touched you.
    What do I want to do with you, Leo?—Depends on the time of day. Mostly I want to have you in my head. Sometimes below it.
    What should you be for me, Leo?—The question is superfluous. You already are.
    How will this go on, Leo?—The same as before.
    Should it go on?—Definitely
    But where will it go?—Nowhere. Just on. You live your life, I live mine. And the rest we’ll live together.
    Ten minutes later
    Re:
    That won’t leave very much for “us,” my love.
    Three minutes later
    Re:
    That depends on you, my love. My reserves are deep.
    Two minutes later
    Re:
    Un(ful)filled reserves. I won’t be able to fill them, my love.
    Fifty seconds later
    Re:
    You can have no idea what you can fill, my love, what you can fill and what you have already filled. Don’t forget that you have vast closets of feelings at your disposal. You just need to give them an airing once in a while.
    Fifteen minutes later
    Re:
    I just want to know one thing: have our two encounters changed anything for you?
    Forty seconds later
    Re:
    Have they for you?
    Thirty seconds later
    Re:
    Your turn first: for you?
    Twenty seconds later
    Re:
    No, you first: has anything changed for you?
    One minute later
    Re:
    O.K.,