October 21, Thursday morning
I had swapped shift with a colleague so that I could go to the party, and now I'm sitting at the kitchen table, hungover and in love. There is only one sensible thing to do. I have to break up and venture out into loneliness, a thought that is both tempting and frightening.
Her name is Angela and she studies at the Stockholm School of Economics. I had met her by chance a couple of weeks ago when I visited the school’s library looking for new books on China's economy. We only spoke briefly, but something made me return several times, hoping to bump into her again. I remembered from our first meeting that she dressed discreetly and wore light makeup. It was as if she didn't want to draw too much attention.
At the party, I hardly recognized her. She wore a slender black outfit and had her long dark hair out. I felt shy and awkward when our eyes met, but was relieved when she smiled friendly and said hello.
I went to the bar for a glass of wine and talked to a couple of my fellow students, but my mind was elsewhere. I followed her with my eyes, carefully so she wouldn't see it. It was only after a second glass of wine that I found the the courage to ask her to dance. “Sure,” she said and we danced for a while and continued to talk afterwards. She said that her father works for Ericsson, and that her mother came from Argentina. They had met at the Swedish-Argentinean Chamber of Commerce's Christmas party in Buenos Aires, where they married and had her before moving to Sweden in 1965. Her father got a god job at the head office at Telefonplan and her mother began to work as a Spanish teacher, but she died of cancer five years ago. Here she took a break. I didn't know what to say. I was touched and felt tearful.
This is dangerous, dangerous, I thought, and told myself that she probably thinks I'm nice, but that’s it. She also mentioned her boyfriend, but was it a serious relationship? I thought it is best for everyone if I forget the whole thing and put my heart back in the freezer. If you let it thaw, it will just start bleeding.
I walked along Sveavägen towards Sergels Torg after the party. Just before crossing Kungsgatan I see a young girl, maybe 15 years old. She is wearing tight jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket. When she sees me, she comes over and asks for Kungsgatan. She is drunk and the mascara has smeared around her eyes. I point to the street she came from. She turns around and follows me towards Kungsgatan. She says that she is going to McDonald's and suggests that I follow her. Devilish thoughts flit by, but I decline. I have other things to do, I say. She suggests that we meet tomorrow night. I say no. She turns off towards McDonald's. Fifteen years old. A quarter to one on a Wednesday night in Stockholm. Poor child.
I went down to the subway to wait for my train. Thinking about what to do? Write a letter?
"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife", but she is not married.... yet?
And how should I tell Cecilia about this? It went as she predicted. I would fall for someone else.
Ouch!
All rational arguments point in one direction. Forget it!
But this is anything but rational. It is love!
07.45
Cecilia had already left for work when I woke up.
I was wondering if I should send Angela a bunch of red roses - or maybe it says more if it's just one? How will my studies go? I'm already jealous of her boyfriend. What does he look like? Why does this make me feel so silly?
Thursday evening.
I wrote a letter to explain what had happened and put it on the kitchen table before I left for work.
Cecilia,As you have noticed, I have been a bit out of sorts lately. Today it is even worse. I have fallen in love, and not just a little. You predicted that it would happen and it did. But what you didn't predict was that it would be an unhappy love. The person in question already has a boyfriend, but they are not married or living together. So there's one of those straws that love always hangs out in abundance, one of those treacherous straws that make adults and wise and rational people weak and ridiculous.You are right about love, it exists — even if you can live without it.What should you and I do now? Give each other freedom — and insecurity.It will be hard, but what else can one do?I can't pretend that things are the same as they used to be.That would be dishonest.Johan
October 22, 02.15
She called me at work. She was upset and had been crying. She could hardly speak and said that her mind had gone in a completely different direction than mine. Although she didn't intend to at first, she went to her French course after work.
I called her again around ten o'clock. By then she was calm, but we avoided talking about the letter. When I got home, there was a long letter on the kitchen table. It was moving and honest. I ask myself what kind of person I am, but...
She is ready to fight to keep me. She loves me. I didn't think so. Now it's getting really hard. But still — she needs real love — something I can't give her. All I gave her was gray theory, politeness and abstract humanism.
What makes the thing even harder is that I really am in love with Angela. I love her, I want to marry her and have children with her.
A temporary madness?
Also: Who says that she wants me? She already has a boyfriend.
Cecilia and I have been together for seven years. It's hard to break up.
Am I the one who turns up the wick on the flame that consumes me?
Friday morning, 06.40
Cecilia just left for work. She was devastated. She cried a lot last night. Is it out of a broken heart only, or out of fear of being alone as well?
She must feel terrible about being abandoned and the fact that I do what I do after seven years. I feel terribly bad for her, but that doesn't help her. She wants to conquer my love. Was I not a criminal when I got together with her that night, after reasoning with myself?
When it comes to Angela, I don't reason.
I am on fire.
What should I do?
October 23, Saturday
Cecilia and I are not saying much today. She mourns and hopes.
I live in my own world where a woman rules, knowing nothing about her power.
October 28
The letter was in my left inside pocket, and behind it my heart was beating full of hope. I had carried it for a week and had it with me when I took the bus to work. It contained my declaration of love.
I sat at the Domus cafeteria and wrote a long poem to her that I loved so much, and now it was time to let the bomb explode, come what may.
The letter was a leap into the unknown. It was born out of love’s madness — its unbridled intoxication — which made me do things I would normally never have dared to do. And I was so happy walking alone through the city, enjoying its beauty. The day before, I had walked along Norr Mälarstrand from the north end of the Västerbron bridge all the way to the City Hall where the naked bronze statues dance in front of Riddarfjärden. I ran across the footbridge to Riddarholmen and felt like Alain Delon in Blow Up. It was as if my energy knew no bounds, as if I was dancing on clouds. I slipped past the old stone houses and rushed up the gangway to the outdoor café on the aft deck of the Mälardrottningen, where I sat down and read my poem again over a cup of coffee. It described an emotional desert, spoke of dreams, flattered, got close, too close, and projected a future, a vision that I wanted to share with her.
I was helplessly and heedlessly in love. That's why I wrote it, and put it in an envelope addressed to her. For a while I went back and forth in my mind, but it was as if I no longer had a choice. I had to take the chance, I had to take the risk.
On Tuesday, I mailed the letter. It was on Hornsgatan. I was on my way to work, and there was a mailbox at the bus stop. It must have taken fifteen minutes before I was able to lift the lid. It was as if my hands took charge and put the letter in the box without waiting for me. It was as if my heart stopped, and time froze as I inserted the letter through the open slot. I moved as if in a trance and felt totally exhausted as the lid slammed shut.
Then the bus arrived and I got on. It was full, so there was standing room only, but that didn't matter. There was no turning back now. I had done it. All doubts were gone. I placed myself naked in the middle of the square. Here I am! I love you! I love you! I want to share my life with you! My passion was public.
And I was scared.
I was going to call her and ask her not to open the letter that was on the way, that we should meet and talk instead. But I didn't call. I couldn't, or I didn't want to. I wanted to defy my own cowardice.
Once at the newspaper, I took the elevator to the third floor, greeted the front page editor, the news editor, the janitor and my colleagues, and walked over to my seat in the newsroom. It was a quiet day. No major news. The news editor came over with a page outline and said "you can do page eleven." The ad space was marked as usual and the top third of the page was open for editorial material. After half an hour he came back with two texts typed on the paper's blue manuscript sheets. I edited them, corrected misspellings, deleted unnecessary repetitions, added headlines and subheadings, and then handed the edited texts to the news editor who skimmed them, nodded, gave me an appreciative look over his reading glasses that balanced on the tip of his nose, turned around and handed the manuscript to the janitor, who stuffed it into a tube and sent it off to the typesetting room by tube mail.
The countryside edition was finished at 7:30 and the night editorial team went down to the dining room for dinner. Normally I would have done the same, but this evening I wasn't the least bit hungry. I walked over to the deserted feature desk and sat down in a chair. I sat there with my pulse racing and feeling like Raskolnikov. I already regretted my action, but there was nothing I could do about it. I told myself that I had no alternative, that I must find certainty at all costs, that I had to know if there was the slightest chance. If not, I might as well find out now. I didn't want to suffer any more. I was stuck. I was passion’s prisoner.
The letter was my hope.
November 1, midnight
A time of confusion. We haven't made love in two weeks. Last Saturday night she wanted to, but I didn't (for the first time since we met.)
When I got home, there was a note on the kitchen table. Attached to the note was a P.S.
"Angela called at lunch (I assume it was her, she didn't say her name)."
I felt a shock go through my body.
What if she calls again?!
What should I say? I was shaking inside.
I poured large glass of cognac and finished it. Had a sandwich and poured another glass. I put on my new Mikael Wiehe album and laid down on the carpet in the living room with my legs on the armchair. I lay there listening, waiting for the alcohol to kick in. Eventually it did. I felt calmer and safer. But no one called.
She came home around seven. A bit earlier I had figured out who had called while I was doing the dishes. It was ML from the newspaper who wanted to talk to me about a job at the suburban newspaper! Slowly the tension I felt was reduced. It was all over.
She had also calmed down during the week. In the beginning she was desperate, but now she patiently waited.
We almost became reunited the other day, which made me doubt my feelings. I haven't seen or heard from Angela since the party. Is that why my feelings of love have more or less evaporated? Was it love, or was I just randy, but was it then right of me to write love letters?
I took the editing job at the suburban edition. I thought it would be fun, but after the first day, it looks boring as hell!
To hell with... what?
Where is my great passion today (the word love feels foreign today, the letter I wrote frightens me, gravity points its finger at me)?
Holy shit! What a fucking fall season.
Black asphalt and dreary rain.
November 2
I worked eleven hours on my second day at the suburban paper. There was a lot to do, but it was fun to lay out so many pages, including the front page.
November 5, Friday
We made love on Wednesday night. It was the first time in three weeks. This morning we made love again. She took the initiative both times, and it was like she gave it all to win me back.
But now I am thinking about Angela again. Again — what is love? I spent four hours at the Stockholm School of Economics, sitting in the library, hoping that she would have an errand there, but it was in vain. Afterwards, I worked 16-02.00.
November 7
Now is the darkest time of the year. It is cold and windy, but beautiful when the sun shines, as it did today. I left for the city around ten and brought my Walkman and camera. I wanted to enjoy the twilight and started at Slussen. Took photos in the direction of City Hall and Norr Mälarstrand and then descended to Västerlånggatan in the Old Town which I followed to Hemlins’ bookstore where I bought a book.
I turned right before the Norrbro bridge and took photos of the small fishing boats with their hanging circular nets idling in front of Strömparterren. On the other side of Strömmen, the evening light caressed the Opera House. I walked over Strömbron and north along Kungsträdgården while swapping the Jacques Brel cassette for Schubert's Unfinished symphony.
I watched the skaters at the ice rink for a moment before moving on to Norrmalmstorg and the Royal Dramatic Theater.
Strolled with Schubert on Strandvägen where the old turn-of-the-century bourgeois houses flexed their newly renovated facades while the sun sank towards the horizon. The Royal Palace, Storkyrkan, and Katarina Church on the Southern Heights stood out in contrast to the copper-red sky. In the foreground one could see the masts of the old fishing boats and sailing ships. The tree-lined walkway along Strandvägen was empty, and the trees naked. I took more photos, of the sunset and the silhouettes of the boats. All the while Schubert squeezed my inner self.
Halfway across the bridge to the Djurgården park, I stopped and used the railing as support so that I could take pictures with a long exposure time. The sky was deep red near the horizon, and the water black with a silver glare from the street lights. Along the Nybro quay in the distance one could see the steamboat ferries. Darkness had set in, but the facade of the Nordic Museum was illuminated.
The lanterns were lit and naked tree branches grasped for the sky. Over by Gröna Lund I saw that the Djurgården ferry was in and about to leave so I hurried aboard. I turned the cassette over and turned up the volume on the Unfinished symphony while we set off towards Slussen. The short trip gave me an almost ecstatic feel as I stood at the front of the boat looking at the Old Town with its leaning houses and medieval churches while I listened to Schubert. Having arrived, I resumed the walk along Västerlånggatan, but now heading towards the subway station.
November 8, Monday
I am ashamed of my letter. Not only that I sent it, but also its content. What right did I have to intrude and "speak" so intimately?
Took the subway to the University at nine to drop off some books (my alibi) and to catch a glimpse of her. (She's taking a course at Frescati.) At the Old Town subway station, I catch a glimpse of someone who surely was her. I was not quite sure, but it was very likely her. The train had stopped and I was sitting by a window facing the platform. Suddenly I see a girl who for a moment sees me. There was something there. But she has a black scarf wrapped over her face, so only her eyes are visible. A cold wind is blowing through the station. Immediately after the eye contact, which only lasted a thousandth of a second, she changes her mind and enters the next subway car. She had a gray coat on, similar to the one I’ve seen her wear before.
Hypothesis: She saw me and did not want to risk meeting me, i.e., she not only rejects me, but she is also angry. She despises me for my letter.
What should I do?
I can't call.
I can't write.
I cannot explain.
Should I apologize, show remorse — but wouldn't that just make me even more intrusive and ridiculous??!!
November 9, Tuesday
It's grinding, grinding, grinding. The letter, the cursed letter. Did I do the right thing? Should I take it back? What should I say?
Angela,I apologize for my letter. Not because it was untrue — it wasn't — but because I let my emotions run away with me beyond reason. Sure, falling in love makes you a fool — but there are other people too ....I cannot see that it was wrong in itself to somehow express my love, but the circumstances ought to have given me pause, to hold back and so on.I was selfish and stupid, selfish because I only followed my own inclinations, stupid since I thereby could only fail.
...
No, that would be pathetic.
November 12, Friday
Three days at work without working more than a couple of hours after lunch today. Kafka! Instead, I spent time on my paper.
November 16, Tuesday
In five days I will be 29.
I read about the Orpheus myth in Ord & Bild. They had an interesting article by Johan Cullberg. Also read an article on Cupid and Psyche by Irene Matthies.
I recognize things in the article about Orpheus, but I don't recognize myself. I don't feel the desire for the mother. Maybe because my mother always worked and my father stayed at home. But what if the separation happened at the age of two or three?
In that case, I don't know.
However, I do recognize the defeat Orpheus experiences when his power turns out to be limited.
Is that why defeat in love is so upsetting, why it tears you apart?
I wanted to see The End of the Rainbow at a place called Studio. It's a cabaret about rock and roll that's been getting good reviews. Called Carl. No time. Called Bjorn. No time. Called Bosse. No one answered. Well, then I’ll go alone, I said to myself as I left the newspaper just after eight. It was cold and rainy, just a light rain, but it made the night gloomy. I took the bus and subway to S:t Eriksplan, passed by the club, which would not open until fifteen minutes later. Checked out the menu. Quite expensive. Continued towards Odenplan on slippery, wet and black streets. I walked without an umbrella along one side of the Vasa Park. I had my red corduroy jacket and a brown machine-knitted hat, model Cuckoo's Nest.
Why did I skip the cabaret? For several reasons, but the most important was probably my fear of entering a place alone. Humiliating. Plus, I should see the show together with Cecilia. It is too expensive to go there twice, and we are both relatively broke.
Instead, I kept walking this miserable November night, enjoying the torment of loneliness. Took the subway from Odenplan to the Old Town where I walked around with no other intention than to do it on a rainy November night. Then the subway back to Vårholmen.
Why these meaningless walks? These dark wanderings.
To mourn? To punish myself for my feelings?
I do not know. I'm in some respects slipping away from myself. Emotionally, I am stunned, as so often in the past. Unleashing your emotions leaves you unhappy in the end.
Is it just my destiny, or is it the impossibility of love? Is love a lie, like communism? A goal that attracts and always eludes man. That leads to suffering. Maybe I can't love since I can't hate?
I am depressed — I don't know how deeply, but I know that a part of me wants to be depressed. Or is it just the simple fact that I want her to know about my sadness? A decent person can hardly be in love.
That is one reason why I despite everything can’t condemn my love letter. I want to cry, but I cannot. I can't muster enough credibility with myself in my self-pity.
I've told Cecilia that next year I'll be 30, and before that I have to take off, have a breakthrough, write my first novel, or whatever. I have to step up, try my wings.
What fucking hubris! Is it just this damned sublimation of my sex drive? Fucking Freud!
November 17, Wednesday
A quiet shift at work. Read 30 pages of part two of Leif Johansen's Lectures on Macroeconomic Planning.
My work actually finished at six, but I left at half past four. Met Cecilia at quarter to six to see The End of the Rainbow.
November 22
I'm 29. Four days left to work.
November 23, 02.00
I worked until a quarter to one. Got a ride home with a reporter. Once home, I looked at the slides I took a couple of weeks ago. A couple of cool shots taken from the Djurgården ferry with 4 seconds exposure time.
November 24, Wednesday
The day before the last at the paper. Then follows more financial uncertainty, but also more time for writing my paper.
November 29.
Monday night. I wake up with an urge to pee.
Finished reading Klas Östergren's Fantomerna. A good book, better than Gentlemen. It has a goodportrait of the father, and the son's maturation in relation to his father's death.
Cecilia reads 150 pages in 50 minutes and finds it slow going. I take two hours for the same number of pages. It's depressing for me.
The night before last she asked me if I would rather live alone. I replied that I didn't know, that I was torn between the desire to be a bachelor and being with her.
We saw Alice in Wonderland (a boring version) and then went to the Old Town. It didn’t snow, but a cold rain fell and the temperature was just above zero degrees Celsius. We walked around in the alleys, had mulled wine at the First Advent-market on Stortorget.
I keep thinking that we will meet Angela (and possibly her boyfriend) when we are in the city. The thought both attracts and scares me.
Cecilia confessed an attraction to Lelle that she has had for two years.
Everyone seems to be drawn to others, those we don't have.
I had found out that Amartya Sen was going to give a talk about "Liberty and Social Welfare" at the economics department and went there. It was a brilliant lecture held at a furious pace. Not even Assar Lindbeck managed to come up with any critique in the subsequent discussion! Professor Erik Lundberg seemed more sympathetic to Sen's ideas.
The conclusion of the lecture: Kant lives!
November 30, Tuesday
"You understand that we can't be together. I have Tomas."
I think that's what she said when we — by chance! — bumped into each other. Before the meeting, my fire had become almost manageable. I was reasonable and rational during our conversation, but afterwards... Oh, she was so beautiful and fine. Why should fate be so cruel to me?
Shouldn't I be sensible? But I want to fight for my love.
Why didn't I fight?! Why didn't I ask more questions? Why not the question?!!!
And what about Cecilia? She must suffer. I hurt her so much.
What an ordeal to observe my love for another at such close quarters.
I would like to wish that ....
I want her.
Selfish, yes!
Indefensible — certainly.
Impossible — very likely.
December 1
I filed for unemployment compensation. Had a headache the entire night. Took two pills at 6:30 in the morning and went swimming. The headache was gone when I returned.
I’m still in love. I would have proposed immediately if it hadn't risked compromising the credibility of my letter. Should I separate with Cecilia? Is my love credible otherwise?
December 2, Tuesday morning
In the subway, on the way to the University.
Cecilia said she had decided that we should separate, but we decided to wait until the New Year.
Some key variables unknown to me: Is she interested in me, i.e., would she want me if she didn't have her boyfriend? Do I have any chance if I ask her to marry me? Can I wait? (It sounds cynical, speculating on the misfortune of others!) But if I have zero chance — what to do then?
In that case, I want to be alone, to sublimate it all, and transform the power of love into research and poetry.
But most of all, I desire the impossible.
In the past, I could have entered a monastery.
Tuesday evening
If I hadn't met her on Tuesday, then maybe the love could have been dispelled as an illusion. I could have told myself that what I loved was probably just an fantasy image. But then we met. And she was so honest and nice to me. That’s why my unrequited love cannot disappear.
I bought a new book called Falling In Love and Loving by the Milan professor Francesco Alberoni. It is a wonderful book that hits the spot. I’m thinking of giving it to her when I have finished it. Something tells me that she has a bit of a soft spot for me after all. I don't know how long she and her boyfriend have been together, but it's a couple of years at least. Why aren't they married, or living together? Or are they? Shit! They can't be.
December 3
If I succeed, then I have made the first real enemy of my life, her boyfriend. If he loves her, which he must, then he will hate the person who took his woman from him. Do I even have the right to try? I feel like a predator on someone else's turf. Two males with death in their eyes, but it is the female who has the power of life and death.
"If you want to avoid falling in love — wrote Stendhal — you must act immediately, in the very first moments, later it may be too late. Anyone who does not want to fall in love must immediately crush the first seed of attraction: ..." (Alberoni, Falling in Love and Loving, p 128-129)
December 4
And then we ended up taking the same course which was given at the Stockholm School of Economics.
She took off her red coat and underneath she had a white blouse. I saw her necklace and got a glimpse of her neck between her collarbones. We talked matter-of-factly and somewhat rhapsodically about "the whole thing" as if it were something far away, something that had passed.
We talked about her term paper, which she had finished, about work, and politics, but in general terms.
We parted ways, and I went back to the school’s library, but I couldn’t concentrate, so I took the subway to the library at the Foreign Policy Institute in the Old Town. That's where I finally found peace of mind. I sat there, reading about China until half past four when I went to the Music Cafe at Kungshallen where I was to meet Cecilia at five.
I didn't think it would show that something had happened before I told her, but she said that it was obvious from far away. She knew right away that I had met Angela.
December 5
I revised my second letter to Angela for a third time, but have not sent it yet.
Heaven and hell! I am falling into hell, but I don't want to admit it. I’m searching my memory for any hint of ambiguity in her answer to me. She said that I must understand why we couldn't be together. I felt like a student caught in the act. We went for a coffee and I fumbled at the cash register and did not know how much I had left and how much I had received back. She noticed that, but was kind and did not let me know that she saw it.
"…we realize all too soon that X still doesn’t love us… We raise the terrible renting sword to divide ourselves from him or her, but most of our strength goes into self-inflicted wounds; metaphorically-speaking, we chop off our hands when they begin to reach for the other, and we blind our eyes to keep them from searching for the other everywhere."
(Alberoni, Falling in Love and Loving, p 160)“We are left feeling numb. We desire nothing. We lose touch with that marvelous metaphysical dimension to existence that was ours when we were in love, and return to the superficial world of appearances. Nothing has meaning; everything seems worthless. We go through the motions, copy other people’s gestures, feel what little we manage to ‘learn to feel,’ and speak empty words. In short, we enter a phase of bleak apathy.” (p 161)
December 6
Since you don't want my soul, I will sell it.
When I see her, I don't see her. When I talk to her, I say nothing. In her presence I become blind, deaf and dumb.
Today, I met her. It was around ten o'clock and I had been reading at the Stockholm School of Economics library. I took breaks every now and then in the hope that she would appear and suddenly I saw her. There she was coming up the stairs in her red coat. She was surrounded by men, classmates from business administration. I called her name and she came over and said hello. I asked if we wanted to have lunch with me, but she said that she was going to have lunch with her classmates.
She asked me how I was doing.
I wanted to answer with a question: Is there no hope for me?
But I took half a step backwards, gritted my teeth and looked at the ground while shaking my head and saying something about it being bad.
She understood right away, but was probably a bit surprised (the last time I saw her, it seemed like the worst was over.) She looked like she felt pity (which I don't want, I want her love.)
She asked about my relationship with Cecilia:
"We are going to separate," I said.
"Do you want to?" she asked.
"Yes."
I don’t remember when, but suddenly she put her hand on my wrist, pressed lightly and said:
"But Johan, we can still be friends!"
Shaking inside I answered "sure."
A lover is knocked to the ground when the one he loves wants to be his friend. It is cruel and yet the lover is always prepared to say 'yes'.
She promised to come up and visit me at the library one day.
Tuesday passed.
Wednesday passed.
Thursday passed.
She did not show. Perhaps she wants to spare me the pain.
Today I must go to the unemployment office and report, so I didn't make it to the library, but on Monday I will sit there and wait for her, for her to torment me, to be kind, speak gently, look tenderly, and listen understandingly, for her to increase my sadness, for her to destroy me through kindness.
If only I could see her.
I don't know what I love. Who is it?
What does she look like? How does her voice sound?
What does she think about life? What does she think of me? It is as if love is a thing totally contained within myself, as if only I exist. But then, how can I know anything? If she rejects me, my feelings are useless. Then I am nobody, just a pawn in the game.
What's wrong with me? I don't think she would want me, even if she didn't have her boyfriend. Then, who am I?
December 14
Where in Dante's hierarchical hell is there a niche for kind and meaningless fools, useless in battle and love? Where should I go?
December 15
I worked on the paper. Otherwise, I'm depressed. The library is closed now. There is no longer any place where I can hope to meet her. Powerless, I am driven towards the realization of defeat.
December 17
I received another letter from Cecilia. It was painful to read, and I feel like a pig.
For my beloved Johan!
Rest assured that I understand and sympathize with your anguish. If anyone, I know the pain of not getting the one you love. Suffering hurts, but perhaps it has a purpose.
It is seven years since we moved in together. Seven years. Like all couples, we have loved and argued, but perhaps most of all, we have been friends. Neither of us desired to give up our freedom, but expected instead the other person to change, but that's hardly how you build and develop a relationship.I realize that you want to escape from what you now see as imprisonment, but I believe in our relationship and want to try to save and improve our relationship. The choice is yours and you have made it clear that you do not want to continue, even if you do not succeed in winning the person you now love. But if that love is hopeless, there is the alternative that we find our way back to each other. I'm not just saying this for selfish reasons. I believe that it would be best for you too, and that we could repair the damage and find a way forward.I realize that it may take time, and I am willing to wait. I am patient and I believe in us. There is so much that we have in common, even though we never fell head over heels for each other. Can't we have both companionship and love? I have been thinking about this in the two months since you first told me about your crush and I am convinced of it. Your passionate dreams of total freedom have turned out to be of no value after all. Your letter came as a shock and forced me to rethink my life and our relationship. I have also had dreams, but felt safe because we were together. I want us to continue, to continue living together, traveling, discussing, taking long walks and going to the theater together and who knows, seeing you as the father of our children. Loneliness doesn't scare me, but the idea of living and growing old without you seems like a nightmare.In a way, I admire you for your courage and boldness, but when you're flying too close to the sun, you're likely to crash. Be careful with your life, and ours. As I said, I am willing to wait because I believe in us.
Cecilia
December 21, Tuesday
Cecilia flew to Gävle to spend Christmas with her parents. I followed her to the airport and on the way home I mailed two short poems as a Christmas greeting to Angela. I forgot to sign the letter, but she can hardly doubt who sent it.
December 27, Monday
I am about to explode. My heart is asking me to call Angela and suggest a meeting. Likewise, it is another day of betrayal of this cursed heart. But I back off, not wanting to intrude and disturb. Or is this just a pretext? She doesn’t love me. This is the truth that I fear will be revealed if I call. That's why my pulse shot up to 140 when I tried to call her at work last Monday.
Do I really love her? Or is she my Beatrice? Is her rejection the prerequisite for the intoxication and trauma of my infatuation?
Cecilia loves me. She showers me with proofs of love so that I can hardly breathe. If only she had done so before I fell in love with Angela, whom I so rarely see. But chance brought us together in the Old Town on the Saturday before Christmas. I turned my face away so that she did not see me as she passed us. Cecilia understood and got her first glimpse of the one who against her will had conquered her boyfriend's heart.
December 28, Tuesday
I had hoped to receive a Christmas card in response, but got nothing, and I dare not call. My heart is pounding. I want to cry over my misfortune. Should I forget her and return to Cecilia? It would be reasonable, but not my heart’s desire. Against whom would it be right? Is it right to give a lover your body, but not your heart fully?!
I keep working on my paper and struggle with my emotions. I want to give up, but then the fire starts up again. Should I suddenly realize that it was much about nothing....
December 31, Friday and New Year's Eve
On Wednesday, I wasted four hours moping because I couldn't bring myself to call her at work. Doubts crossed my mind from time to time. Do I really know what I want? I looked around the apartment. Do I really want to break up this home?
On Thursday, I got up early. I read. Reflected on my "model" of China. Cecilia was off. By the way, we had seen Garp at the movies the night before. A lovely movie.
I couldn't call her when Cecilia was home. Anxiety began to grip me around ten — as always. I have this idea that I must call at this time to ask if she wants to have lunch with me in the city.
I went to the city at half past ten. Planned to call her from the library at eleven. But a lady in a light-colored fur coat was hogging the pay phone. Eventually I had to go to Kulturhuset and call from there. An older man was talking on the other pay phone. His final words before hanging up was:
"This is a love affair."
He too, I thought.
I collected myself and dialed her work number.
Busy!
My heart rate had now risen significantly.
I dialed the number again, but hung up.
Then I called again and was connected.
"Angela," she replied.
"Good day, good day!" I said stupidly, trying to make a joke out of it.
Silence on the other line.
"Can't you hear who it is?"
"No."
"Oh," it's Johan.
"Well, hello."
And so we were talking. I was nervous and my voice was tense.
My idea for a lunch meeting didn’t work, since she was going away, but she kept talking. She thanked me for my letter, and said it was kind of me to send the poems. (I didn't understand — and still don't — why she used the word kind.)
"It was for selfish reasons," I said.
A bum with a Coke in his fist approached the second pay phone. He looked at me, grinning. He began talking to me and thought it sounded interesting what he had heard me say. No sooner had I gotten rid of him than three Italian guys came up and wanted to call. I explained the situation to Angela, who said she still had to get back to work.
We said that we could get together at another time. I hung up the phone feeling much better. What am I supposed to think? Is she so naive that she doesn't realize that I still want her? Or is she encouraging me because she might want me?
January 6, 1983
On New Year's Eve I wrote a new love poem.
On Monday, I called her and suggested we have lunch in town. She was positive but was booked all week and suggested that she will call me instead. I was hesitant but could only say yes. On Tuesday, I sent her the poem I wrote on New Year's Eve plus a letter suggesting I invite her to dinner.
Cecilia and I agreed that evening that we would separate.
It’s Twelfth Night, I expect her to call because of the letter, but she doesn't call. Why not? Doesn't she know what she wants? Is there any hope? I was hoping.
She called after lunch. Her voice was cold and firm. It was a no, a definite and unequivocal no. She said she didn't want me to write any more letters or call her. She said she had thought we could be friends.
She was correct. I promised not to write any more. I had written to get clarity since I did not know. Now I knew.
Maybe we can become friends later, we said. Now I'm sitting here. Ashamed and feeling empty. The whole story seems at once so meaningless.
Love without a Compass is the second part of draft novel with the working title Shifting Passions.
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