Read Online Every Seventh Wave by Daniel Glattauer - Free Book Online Page B

speaking on the phone to my therapist and I read out the email I sent you on Tuesday. She says I shouldn’t be at all surprised not to have had a response. I said: “But I’m not surprised.” And then she said: “But you want to know how he is, don’t you?” Me: “Yes.” Her: “Then you have to ask him in a way that might give you a chance of finding out.” Me: “Oh, I see. So what’s the best way of doing that?” Her: “Try being friendly.” Me: “But I don’t feel like being friendly.” Her: “Yes you do, you’re feeling more like being friendly than you want to admit to yourself. You just don’t want him to think that you’re feeling like being friendly toward him.” Me: “I don’t care what he thinks.” Her: “You don’t really believe that!” Me: “You’re right. You’re good at seeing straight through people.” Her: “Thanks, it’s my job.” Me: “So what should I do, then?” Her: “First of all, do whatever you think is best for you. Second, ask him how he is, but nicely.”
    Five minutes later
    Subject: Me yet again
    Hello Leo,
    So I’m going to ask you nicely: “How are things?”
    I can be even more friendly and say: “Hello Leo, how are you?”
    I could even go one step higher on the friendliness scale with: “My dear Leo, how are you, how are you, how is everything with you, how was Christmas, I hope the New Year has got off to a good start, what are you up to these days, how is your love life, how’s “Pam,” sorry Pameeela ?”
    Best possible wishes ever,
    Emmi
    Two hours later
    Subject: Me for a third time
    Hello Leo,
    It’s me again. Please forget the nonsense I sent you earlier. But let me tell you something. (That’s one of my favorite Leo quotes; I always imagine you blind drunk when you’re saying it.) Let me tell you something: writing does me a world of good!
    Tomorrow I’ll tell my therapist that I’ve written to him, and that writing does me good. She’ll say to me: “But that was only half the truth.” And I’ll say: “What was the whole truth, then?” She’ll say: “It would have been more accurate to write: Writing to YOU does me a world of good.” And I’ll say: “But I don’t write to anyone else. So if I write that writing does me good, I mean automatically that writing to HIM does me so much good.” She’ll say: “But he’s not to know that.” Me: “Yes he will—he knows me.” Her: “I’d be very surprised. You don’t even know yourself, that’s why you’ve ended up with me.” Me: “So what’s your hourly rate for insults like this one, then?”
    Everything around me is in a state of flux; only the letters that make up these words are the same. It does me good to hold (myself) onto them. It feels as though by doing so, I’m being true at least to myself. I’m not expecting you to reply. In fact I think it’s probably best if you don’t. The train we were both on has left the station, and “Boston” (and everything leading up to it) threw me off track with a yearlong delay. And now I’m sitting in a dingy compartment in a completely new carriage, trying to get my bearings. I have no idea where I’m heading; the stations have no names and even the direction we’re going in is rather unclear. When I look out through the small, frosted-glass window at the landscape racing by, I’d like to be able to tell you from time to time whether I see anything familiar, and what that might be. Would that be O.K.? I know you keep a good record of my impressions. And if you’d like to tell me about your own journey sometime—about your experiences aboard the “Pam Express”—I’m all ears. Well, bye then, and make sure you