Love Virtually
Daniel Glattauer
DANIEL GLATTAUER
Translated from the German by
Katharina Bielenberg and Jamie Bulloch
An Imprint of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc. (New York)
and Quercus Publishing Plc (London)
387 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
SILVEROAK is a trademark of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Originally published in German as Gut gegen Nordwind; English translation
published in Great Britain by Maclehose Press, an imprint of Quercus, London,
in 2011. Published by arrangement with Quercus Publishing PLC (UK).
First US edition published in 2011 by Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.
© 2006 by Deuticke im Paul Zsolnay Verlag Wien
English translation © 2010 by Katharina Bielenberg and Jamie Bulloch
Distributed in Canada by Sterling Publishing
c/o Canadian Manda Group, 165 Dufferin Street
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M6K 3H6
Manufactured in the United States of America
All rights reserved
Sterling ISBN 978-1-4027-8674-7 (trade paperback)
978-1-4027-8877-2 (ebook)
Sterling ISBN13: 978-1-4027-8877-2
For information about custom editions, special sales, premium and
corporate purchases, please contact Sterling Special Sales
Department at 800-805-5489 or [email protected].
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
CHAPTER ONE
January 15
Subject: Canceling my subscription
I would like to cancel my subscription. Can I do so by email?
Best wishes,
E. Rothner
Eighteen days later
Subject: Canceling my subscription
I want to cancel my subscription. Is that possible by email? I look forward to hearing from you.
Best wishes,
E. Rothner
Thirty-three days later
Subject: Canceling my subscription
Dear Sir/Madam at Like magazine,
Are you deliberately ignoring my attempts to cancel my subscription? If you’re trying to offload more copies of your rag, which, let’s face it, is gradually going down the tubes, I regret to inform you that I’m not going to pay another penny!
Best wishes,
E. Rothner
Eight minutes later
Re: Canceling my subscription
You’ve sent your message to the wrong address. This is a private one: [email protected]. You want [email protected]. You’re the third person who’s sent me an email trying to cancel their subscription. It must be a really shocking magazine.
Five minutes later
Re: Canceling my subscription
Oh, really sorry! And thanks for putting me right.
Best,
E.R.
Nine months later
Subject: (no subject)
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Emmi Rothner
Two minutes later
Re:
Dear Emmi Rothner,
We don’t know each other in the slightest but I’d like to thank you for your warm and highly original round-robin email! One thing you should know: I just adore round-robin emails.
Rgds,
Leo Leike
Eighteen minutes later
Re:
Excuse the written imposition, Mr. Rgds Leike. You seem to have slipped into my contacts list by accident—a few months ago I was trying to cancel a subscription and inadvertently got hold of your email address. I’ll delete you right away.
P.S. If you can think of a more original way of wishing people a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year than “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,” please do share it with me. Until then: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! E.
Rothner
Six minutes later
Re:
I wish you a pleasant Christmas break and trust the forthcoming year will rank as one of your top eighty. And if, in the meantime, you subscribe to some bad times, please do not hesitate to contact me—in error—to cancel them.
Leo Leike
Three minutes later
Re:
I’m impressed!
Best,
E.R.
Thirty-eight days later
Subject: Not a penny more!
Dear Management of Like,
I have endeavored to part company with your magazine three times in writing and twice by telephone (I spoke to a lady called Ms. Hahn). If you insist on sending it to me, I’ll have to assume it’s for your personal entertainment. I’d be happy to keep your enclosed bill as a souvenir so that I can continue to remember Like when you finally stop shipping me your latest issues. But please don’t imagine for a moment that I have any intention of paying it.
Yours faithfully,
E. Rothner
Two hours later
Re: Not a penny more!
Dear Ms. Rothner, Are you doing this on purpose? Or have you taken delivery of some bad days?
Rgds,
Leo Leike
Fifteen minutes later
Re: Not a penny more!
Dear Mr. Leike,
Now I’m seriously embarrassed. Unfortunately I have this chronic “ei” problem, or rather an “e” before “i” problem. If I’m typing quickly, and I’m trying to type “i,” somehow I always manage to slip in an “e” before it. It’s as if the tips of my two middle fingers are fighting over the keys. The left one is always trying to be that much quicker than the right. You see, I was born left-handed and forced to write with my right at school. My left hand hasn’t forgiven me to this day. It keeps tapping out an “e” with the middle finger before the right hand can type an “i.” I’m so sorry to have bothered you—it (probably) won’t happen again. Have a nice evening.
E. Rothner
Four minutes later
Re: Not a penny more!
Dear Ms. Rothner,
May I ask you a question? And here’s a second one: How long did it take you to write your email outlining your “ei” problem?
Best wishes,
Leo Leike
Three minutes later
Re: Not a penny more!
Two questions for you: How long do you think? And why are you asking?
E.R.
Eight minutes later
Re: Not a penny more!
I’m guessing it took you no more than twenty seconds. And I’d like to congratulate you on having produced a brilliant message in such a short period of time. It put a smile on my face. And that’s something that no one else will do this evening. As to your second question: I’m currently involved in a project on the language of emails. So now I’ll ask you again—am I right in thinking it took you no longer than twenty seconds?
Three minutes later
Re: Not a penny more!
Ah, so you work professionally with emails. Sounds fascinating, although now I feel a bit like a guinea pig. Oh well, who cares. Do you by any chance have a website? If you don’t, would you like one? If you do, would you like a better one? That’s my job, designing websites. (So far this has only taken me ten seconds—I’ve been timing it, but then again it was a work conversation, and they’re always much snappier.)
I’m afraid you were completely wrong about my utterly banal “e” before “i” email. It must have robbed me of at least three minut
es of my life. I wonder what the point of it was? Now I’ve got a question for you: Why did you assume that my “e” before “i” email took only twenty seconds? And before I leave you in peace once and for all (unless those guys at Like send me another bill), there’s one more thing I’d like to know. You wrote above: “May I ask you a question? And here’s a second one: How long did it take you, etc . . . ?” I’ve got two questions in return. First, how long did it take you to think of the joke? Second, is that what you call funny?
E.R.
An hour and a half later
Re: Not a penny more!
Dear unknown Ms. Rothner, I’ll answer you tomorrow. I’m going to turn off my computer now.
Good evening, good night, whatever.
Leo Leike
Four days later
Subject: Open questions
Dear Ms. Rothner,
Please excuse me for not having replied earlier, but my life is somewhat chaotic at the moment. You wanted to know why I wrongly assumed it had taken you no longer than twenty seconds to tell me about your “ei” mistake. Well, your emails seem to “gush,” if I may be allowed to make this observation. I could have sworn that you were a fast talker and typist, a bubbly individual who cannot go about her daily business quickly enough. When I read your emails I can’t detect any pauses. Both their tone and tempo seem to be bursting with energy—breathless, zippy, even a touch excited. Your written style is not that of somebody with low blood pressure. I imagine that your spontaneous thoughts flow into your emails unchecked. And then your language shows confidence; you have a skillful and deliberate way with words. But if you’re telling me that it took you more than three minutes to write your “ei”-mail, then I must have painted a false picture of you.
You asked about my sense of humor, unfortunately. It’s a sorry state of affairs. To be witty, you have to find at least one thing about yourself that’s remotely funny. I can’t think of anything about me that’s funny at the moment, to tell the truth—I feel utterly humorless. When I look back at the past few days and weeks, all laughter escapes me. But that’s my personal tale and it has no place here. Thank you, in any case, for your refreshing manner. It’s been awfully nice corresponding with you. I believe all your questions have now been answered, more or less. If you happen to err into my in-box again, I’d be delighted. Just one request: Please could you cancel your Like subscription now? Or would you like me to do it for you?
Best wishes,
Leo Leike
Forty minutes later
Re: Open questions
Dear Mr. Leike,
I have a confession to make: actually, my “e” before “i”-mail didn’t take me longer than twenty seconds. But I was irritated that you’d presumed I was someone who just dashes off emails. It’s the truth, of course, but you had no right to know it before now. Still, even if you have no sense of humor (at the moment), you obviously know a lot about emailing. I’m impressed that you managed to see straight through me! Are you a professor of literature?
Best regards,
“Bubbly” Emmi Rothner
Eighteen days later
Subject: Hello
Hello Mr. Leike,
I just wanted to tell you that the folks at Like have stopped sending me their magazine. Did you have anything to do with it? You could email me sometime, by the way. I still don’t know whether you’re a professor. Either Google’s never heard of you, or it knows how to keep you hidden. And how’s your sense of humor these days? Mind you, it’s carnival time. No competition there then.
Best regards,
Emmi Rothner
Two hours later
Re: Hello
Dear Ms. Rothner,
I’m so glad you’ve written back—I’ve missed you. I was just about to get myself a subscription to Like. (Beware, my humor is germinating!) And did you really Google me? How flattering! But to be honest I’m a little disappointed that you think I might be a “professor.” You see me as some old fart, don’t you? Stiff, pedantic, a know-it-all. I’m not going to bust a gut trying to prove to you that I’m quite the opposite; that would only be embarrassing. But I may be writing like someone older at the moment. And I suspect that you write like somebody younger than you are. As it happens, I’m a communications consultant and a university assistant in language psychology. We’re currently working on a study that’s looking at the influence of email on our linguistic behavior and—the much more interesting part of the project—email as a medium for conveying our emotions. This is why I tend to talk shop, but in future I promise to restrain myself.
I hope you survive the carnival festivities! My impression of you is of someone who must have quite a collection of false noses and party horns. :-)
All the best,
Leo
Twenty-two minutes later
Re: Hello
Dear Mr. Language Psychologist,
Now it’s my turn to test you (as if I haven’t been doing so all along): which part of the email you just sent me do you think I found most interesting, so interesting in fact that I urgently need to ask you about it?
And here’s some useful advice concerning your humor: the sentence “I was just about to get myself a subscription to Like” was promising—or so I thought! But when you added “(Beware, my humor is germinating),” you botched it, sadly: you should have just left that out! I liked the bit about the false noses and party horns. We’ve clearly got the same nonsense of humor. But trust me, I do recognize irony when I see it—spare yourself the smiley!
All the best, nice chatting with you.
Emmi Rothner
Ten minutes later
Re: Hello
Dear Emmi Rothner,
Thank you for your humor tips. You’ll make a funny man out of me yet. And I’m even more grateful for the test! It gives me the opportunity to show you that I’m not (yet) the “self-opinionated old professor” type. If I were, then I would have guessed that the most interesting part for you must have been: “We’re currently working on a study . . . email as a medium for conveying our emotions.” But I’m convinced that you’re most interested in this: “And I suspect that you write like somebody younger than you are.” Now you’re forced to ask yourself: “What makes him think he’s right?” And then: “How old does he actually think I am?”
Am I right?
Eight minutes later
Re: Hello
You’re one hell of a guy, Leo Leike!!! And now you can come up with some good reasons why I must be older than my writing makes me sound. Or, more to the point: how old is my writing? How old am I? And why? If you manage to solve this puzzle, you can tell me what shoe size I am too.
All the best,
Emmi
P.S. I’m enjoying this.
Forty-five minutes later
Re: Hello
You write like a thirty-year-old. But you’re around forty, let’s say forty-two. What makes me think I’m right?
A thirty-year-old doesn’t read Like on a regular basis. The average age of Like subscribers is around fifty. But you’re younger, because you work with websites, so you could be thirty or even a fair bit younger than that. On the other hand, no thirty-year-old sends a mass email to clients to wish them “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” And finally, your name is Emmi, i.e.,
Emma. I know three Emmas and they’re all over forty. Thirty-year-olds aren’t called Emma. It’s only people under twenty who are called Emma again. But you’re not under twenty, or you’d use words like “cool,” “wicked,” “lush,” “totally,” “awesome” and suchlike. And you wouldn’t begin sentences with capital letters, or write in full sentences either. But most important, you’d have better things to do than chat with a humorless man who might or might not be a professor and be interested in how young or old he thinks you might be. Another thing about “Emmi”: if your name were Emma, and you wrote as if you were younger— perhaps because you felt much younger than you were—you wouldn’t call you
rself Emma, but Emmi. In short, my dear Emmi Rothner, you write as if you’re thirty, but in fact you’re forty-two. Am I right? Your shoe size is 6. You’re petite, bubbly, and you’ve got short, dark hair. And you gush when you speak.
Am I right?
Good evening,
Leo Leike
The next day
Subject: ???
Dear Ms. Rothner,
Have I offended you? Look, I don’t know you. How am I supposed to know how old you are? Maybe you’re twenty, maybe you’re sixty. Perhaps you’re six feet two inches tall and weigh 220 pounds. Maybe your shoe size is 14 and you’ve only got three pairs of shoes, made to measure. And to afford a fourth pair you have to cancel your Like subscription and keep your website customers happy by sending them Christmas greetings. So please don’t be angry with me. I had fun guessing; I have a hazy picture of you, and I’ve tried to convey this to you in exaggerated detail. I really didn’t mean to offend you.
Best wishes,
Leo Leike
Two hours later
Re: ???
Dear “Professor,”
I like your humor, it’s only a semitone away from chronic seriousness, which is why it sounds particularly skewed!! I’ll write again tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it already!
Emmi
Seven minutes later
Re: ???
Thanks! Now I can sleep peacefully.
Leo
The next day
Subject: Getting to know each other
Dear Leo,
I’m going to leave out the “Leike” from now on. And you can leave out the “Rothner.” I thoroughly enjoyed the emails you sent yesterday—I read them several times. I want to pay you a compliment. Isn’t it exciting that you can get involved with someone you don’t know, someone you’ve never set eyes on and probably never will, someone you expect nothing from, of whom you can’t be sure that you’ll ever get anything halfway adequate in return? That’s very unusual in a man, and that’s what I like about you. I just wanted to tell you that up front. Now, a few points:
1) You have a full-on Christmas-round-robin-email psychosis! Where did you pick that up? You obviously find it deeply offensive when people say “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” Fine, I promise I’ll never, ever say it again. I’m amazed, by the way, that you think you can deduce my age from the way I say “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.” If I’d said “Merry Xmas and a Cool Yule,” would you have thought I was ten years younger?
