my mind.
Naturally, I did nothing of the kind. We were twenty meters below the surface of the water, it was her fifteenth dive, I was her trainer, and the responsibility was mine. The cuttlefish got bored and swam off. Three butterfly rays hovered close to the ocean floor in the middle distance. Theo would have been ecstatic.
All my adult life I’d considered myself a person with little capacity for love. Occasionally I’d gaze at Antje’s face and think that she was really nice-looking. At such times, I felt happy that she was with me. Those brief moments were the peaks of my emotional life. Love, on the other hand, the kind of love that ruined entire families, incited wars, or drove the lovelorn to suicide—I knew a love like that only from the movies. The very idea seemed foreign to me. It was as though I was missing the organ whose function was to engender such a love. And so for a long time I’d believed there was something wrong with me. During my university days, I’d invested a lot of effort in trying to fall in love. That led to sex. But I was too honest to mistake horniness for true romance.
One day after Antje and I had been living together for some years, I heard Don Draper, an ad executive in the television series Mad Men , say to a woman, “What you call love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons.” From then on, things got better for me. From then on, I stopped feeling deficient. I consideredlove a mixture of social convention and psychosomatic response. I believed people like Antje felt love because they were assured on all sides that it had to be. Antje had started saying “I love you” to me the first time we slept together. Eventually I learned to reply, “Love you too.” I’d simply decided to call a longtime, functioning companionship “love.” And I was even relatively sure that Antje and I meant the same thing.
Up until the moment when I embraced the statuesque, neoprene-wrapped Jola on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean. Until she clung to me. Until she thrust one hand between my thighs and grasped me hard, trying to overcome the barrier of the diving suit by brute force. Nothing like Antje’s girlish shyness when, once a week, she’d start to stroke the back of my neck. She usually came up behind me when I was sitting on the couch or at the computer and rubbed my neck and tickled my ears with little begging touches until I took hold of her wrists and kissed her purely in self-defense. When we kissed, she’d stick just the tip of her tongue between her teeth and lick my lips instead of properly opening her mouth. She’d giggle and slap her flip-flops on the floor extra loud when she ran ahead of me to the bedroom. She’d always want to lie on her back, because that was the only way she could come.
Thanks to Jola, it suddenly seemed obvious that my lack of belief in love had been the only reason I’d never left Antje. Antje was like the practical, convenient wardrobe we’d bought when we moved into the Residencia, a provisional solution that was stillstanding in the same place years later because it had proved itself useful and provided no immediate reasons for being discarded. When it came to not providing reasons, Antje was an artist.
By contrast, I wanted Jola so badly I almost lost consciousness. Even in the chilly waters of the Atlantic, I thought I could feel the warmth she was putting out. As if her body was filled with hot liquid. She pulled my head to her and gestured upward with one thumb. I nodded, even though I really didn’t want to ascend to the surface. In this underwater world, which wasn’t made for mankind, we belonged together.
As a conservative diver, I prescribed a slow ascent. When eight minutes were up, I was helping Jola clamber out of the water. I insisted on our carrying the equipment to the van at once. One behind the other, we climbed up the steep path to the top of the cliff. The offshore wind had freshened a little. Jola’s face showed
Naturally, I did nothing of the kind. We were twenty meters below the surface of the water, it was her fifteenth dive, I was her trainer, and the responsibility was mine. The cuttlefish got bored and swam off. Three butterfly rays hovered close to the ocean floor in the middle distance. Theo would have been ecstatic.
All my adult life I’d considered myself a person with little capacity for love. Occasionally I’d gaze at Antje’s face and think that she was really nice-looking. At such times, I felt happy that she was with me. Those brief moments were the peaks of my emotional life. Love, on the other hand, the kind of love that ruined entire families, incited wars, or drove the lovelorn to suicide—I knew a love like that only from the movies. The very idea seemed foreign to me. It was as though I was missing the organ whose function was to engender such a love. And so for a long time I’d believed there was something wrong with me. During my university days, I’d invested a lot of effort in trying to fall in love. That led to sex. But I was too honest to mistake horniness for true romance.
One day after Antje and I had been living together for some years, I heard Don Draper, an ad executive in the television series Mad Men , say to a woman, “What you call love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons.” From then on, things got better for me. From then on, I stopped feeling deficient. I consideredlove a mixture of social convention and psychosomatic response. I believed people like Antje felt love because they were assured on all sides that it had to be. Antje had started saying “I love you” to me the first time we slept together. Eventually I learned to reply, “Love you too.” I’d simply decided to call a longtime, functioning companionship “love.” And I was even relatively sure that Antje and I meant the same thing.
Up until the moment when I embraced the statuesque, neoprene-wrapped Jola on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean. Until she clung to me. Until she thrust one hand between my thighs and grasped me hard, trying to overcome the barrier of the diving suit by brute force. Nothing like Antje’s girlish shyness when, once a week, she’d start to stroke the back of my neck. She usually came up behind me when I was sitting on the couch or at the computer and rubbed my neck and tickled my ears with little begging touches until I took hold of her wrists and kissed her purely in self-defense. When we kissed, she’d stick just the tip of her tongue between her teeth and lick my lips instead of properly opening her mouth. She’d giggle and slap her flip-flops on the floor extra loud when she ran ahead of me to the bedroom. She’d always want to lie on her back, because that was the only way she could come.
Thanks to Jola, it suddenly seemed obvious that my lack of belief in love had been the only reason I’d never left Antje. Antje was like the practical, convenient wardrobe we’d bought when we moved into the Residencia, a provisional solution that was stillstanding in the same place years later because it had proved itself useful and provided no immediate reasons for being discarded. When it came to not providing reasons, Antje was an artist.
By contrast, I wanted Jola so badly I almost lost consciousness. Even in the chilly waters of the Atlantic, I thought I could feel the warmth she was putting out. As if her body was filled with hot liquid. She pulled my head to her and gestured upward with one thumb. I nodded, even though I really didn’t want to ascend to the surface. In this underwater world, which wasn’t made for mankind, we belonged together.
As a conservative diver, I prescribed a slow ascent. When eight minutes were up, I was helping Jola clamber out of the water. I insisted on our carrying the equipment to the van at once. One behind the other, we climbed up the steep path to the top of the cliff. The offshore wind had freshened a little. Jola’s face showed
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