Love Virtually (18 page)

Dear Mr. Leike,

I have found it very hard to write you this message. I'll admit I'm embarrassed, and the embarrassment I'm bringing upon myself increases with every line. My name is Bernhard Rothner—I believe I don't need to give you more of an introduction. Mr. Leike, I have a huge favor to ask of you. When I tell you what this favor is you will be amazed, maybe even shocked. I will then try to explain my motives for asking this favor. I am no great writer, unfortunately, and I'm not really comfortable with email. But I will endeavor to say all those things that have been concerning me for months, things that have put my life out of joint, my life and that of my family, even my wife's, and I believe I can judge this accurately after so many harmonious years of marriage.

And so to the favor: Mr. Leike, meet my wife! Please do it, finally, and bring this nightmare to an end! We're grown men, I can't dictate what you do. I can only implore you: meet up with her! I'm feeling inferior and powerless, and suffering because of it. How humiliating do you think it is for me to write lines like these? You, on the other hand, haven't shown the slightest weakness, Mr. Leike. You've got nothing to reproach yourself for. And me, I don't have anything to reproach you for either, unfortunately. I really don't. You can't reproach a mind. You're not palpable, Mr. Leike, you're not tangible. You're not real. You're just my wife's fantasy, an illusion of unlimited emotional happiness, an otherworldly rapture, a utopia of love, but all built out of words. I'm impotent against this; all I can do is wait until fate is merciful and turns you at last into a being of flesh and blood, a man with contours, with strengths and weaknesses, something to aim at. Only when my wife can see you as she sees me, as someone vulnerable, an imperfect creation, an example of that flawed being which is man; only when you have met face-to-face will your superiority vanish. Only then can I compete with you on an equal footing, Mr. Leike. Only then can I fight for Emma.

My wife once wrote to you, “Leo, please don't force me to open my family album.” But now I find myself obliged to do it in her stead. When we met, Emma was twenty-three and I was her piano teacher at the Academy of Music, fourteen years her senior, happily married and the father of two delightful children. A car accident destroyed our family—our three-year-old was traumatized, the elder one badly injured. I suffered permanent injuries, and the children's mother, my wife Johanna, died. Without the piano I would have fallen apart. But music when it's played is life itself—nothing can remain dead forever. If you're a musician and you play music, you live out memories as if they were happening now. Music helped me pull myself back together. And then there were my pupils, there was a distraction, there was a job to do, there was meaning. And then, out of the blue, there was Emma. This lively, sparkling, sassy, gorgeous young woman began—all by herself—to pick up the pieces of our life, without expecting anything in return. Extraordinary people like her are put onto this earth to counter sadness. They are few and far between. I don't know how I deserved it, but suddenly she was there by my side. The children ran straight to her, and I fell head over heels in love with her.

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 you 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.