Lazy Days Read online

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  Also by Erlend Loe

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  www.headofzeus.com

  (Unfortunately a small dog was hurt while I was working on this book, but it received treatment fairly quickly and is now doing well, all things considered.)

  Dear Angela & Helmut Bader

  We are a family with three kids (5, 8

  and 14 years) who are planning a holiday

  in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, and we saw

  your holiday house on the internet. We

  plan to arrive on the 30th of June and

  would like to stay until the first of

  August. Is the house available in this

  period (or close to it) and what is the

  price? We are looking forward to your

  answer.

  Yours sincerely

  Nina Telemann, with family

  Hello Telemann available yes the price

  65 Euro pro night, the children for free

  I know your Imail unfortunately do not

  read backwards to write it me please on

  English Yours sincerely Fam Bader

  Hello Fam Bader. We did not totally

  understand your last e-mail, but we are

  interested in renting the house. How

  should we pay you?

  Nina Telemann

  Hello Fam. Thank you for your Imail It

  makes us happy you by 1. july to remain

  wants. Our address reads Helmut and

  Angela Bader Ludwigstrasse 5, Mixing

  Part Churches. Our bank account: District savings

  bank mixing part churches Big Byladem 1

  gap iban/de xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx. We are

  pleased also you and wish you up to then

  a beautiful time. Fam Bader

  Hello again. We have now paid the

  deposit. The payment was made from my

  husband’s account. His name is Telemann.

  We and our children are looking forward

  to staying in your house. Do we go

  straight to the house or should we

  contact you somewhere else? We are not

  sure yet about what time we will arrive

  on first of july, but if you need to

  know you could perhaps give us a phone

  number so that we can send you an SMS or

  call you.

  Nina Telemann

  Hello Fam Telemann Thank you for your

  Imail They come on Wednesday to us to

  mixing part churches. They can drive directly to

  the holiday house, we live directly

  beside it. Here they get then the keys.

  Can they say to us when you approx in

  mix will arrive? None should be at home,

  call the Handyno. xxxxxxxxxxxxx. We look

  forward to you. Large Fam Bader

  Do you have to smoke in here?

  Yes.

  But the weather’s so nice outside.

  Darling, it might not have occurred to you, but here we are on holiday in Germany yet again, a country you adore but which I don’t, and this time, would you believe it, you have brought us to the very cradle of Nazism, and in return the deal is that I can smoke wherever I want.

  Not in the car.

  No, not in the car. But we’re not in the car now, are we.

  I don’t know how the Baders would feel about you smoking in their house.

  Do you mean Large Fam Bader?

  Stop it, will you. They must have written Grüsse, which means ‘Kind regards’, and the translation software changed it to ‘Large’, but the family isn’t large, there’s just the two of them, and actually I think she’s rather upset that they don’t have any children.

  What makes you think that?

  You sense that sort of thing.

  I think it’s just as well. Horror of horrors, imagine growing up in Mixing Part Churches.

  The town isn’t actually called Mixing Part Churches. And stop making fun of the translation software!

  Don’t you think it’s funny that the Baders don’t speak a word of English?

  No, I don’t.

  Not even a bit funny?

  No.

  Not even the fact that they don’t react to the soft­ware changing Garmisch-Partenkirchen to Mixing Part Churches?

  No. And it’s quite unreasonable of you to call this the cradle of Nazism.

  I agree it’s a little unreasonable, but it’s not so wide of the mark.

  There’s not one German alive today responsible for what happened back then.

  True enough.

  Are you intending to smoke when the children come in?

  Basically, yes.

  Nina Telemann. 43 years old. Teacher of Norwegian at advanced level. Short-sighted. Glasses four centimetres thick. Well, one centimetre. But that’s quite thick, too.

  Bror Telemann. 42 years old. Stage director at the National Theatre.

  Dreams of writing a play himself one day. A helluva good one. Which sets the standard. Excellent eyesight. Alcohol problems? Nooo. Not really.

  Do you think Mixing Part Churches is the type of place people lock up their kids, or others’ kids, in the cellar for twenty-four years and rape them three thousand times?

  That’s enough.

  No, but do you think so?

  Stop that now.

  For Christ’s sake, no harm speculating.

  Stop it.

  You don’t think this is a hub for that sort of practice then?

  No.

  So, those things don’t happen here?

  I don’t think so.

  So, we just let the kids run about on their own?

  I think so.

  Good.

  Mixing Part will tear us apart.

  What did you say?

  Nothing.

  You said something. I heard it.

  If you absolutely want to know I thought I was on my own, humming an old tune and without thinking I switched one word in the chorus to Mixing Part and that’s about all there is to it.

  Fine.

  Actually, it happens quite a lot, I think I’m on my own in a room and then it turns out you’re here, too. You’re a quiet sort, you are.

  So are you.

  You mean we’re both quiet sorts.

  Yes.

  Did you buy any red wine?

  It’s on the worktop in the kitchen.

  But, darling, this is German wine.

  I don’t like you calling me ‘darling’.

  I thought we loved each other.

  Of course we do.

  So what’s the problem?

  You say ‘darling’ when you’re annoyed, imagining that your on-the-surface friendly tone will give the impression that your aggression is subdued and under control. But the effect is quite the opposite. It has nothing to do with your love for me, even though you may think so.

  I want wine, Nina, not a discussion about you and me.

  The wine’s on the worktop.

  But this is German red wine.

  Yes. So?

  I can’t drink German red wine.

  Can’t you?

  No, I can’t.

  Why don’t you open the bottle and try it?

  No.

  Why not?

  Because I can’t.

  Alright. I still feel I’ve kept my end of the deal.

  When does the Lidl in Olympiastrasse close?

  No idea.

  I thought you adored this country and had its customs down pat.

  I do.

  But you don’t know when the Lidl in Olympiastrasse in Mixing Part Churches closes?

 
No, I don’t. And it’s not called Mixing Part Churches.

  Good night.

  Good night.

  Bror?

  Mhm?

  I know it’s a bit intimate and not something we normally talk about, but couldn’t you tell me about one of your sexual fantasies?

  No.

  Go on.

  Now, do you mean?

  Yes.

  No.

  Why not?

  I don’t want to.

  Do you think it’s embarrassing?

  No, not embarrassing exactly, but…

  Come on.

  I haven’t got any.

  What?

  I haven’t got any sexual fantasies.

  Everybody has.

  Not me.

  Of course you have.

  I haven’t.

  You used to have.

  Used to, yes.

  You’ve stopped having them then, have you?

  Yes.

  What do you think about then?

  I don’t know. All sorts of things. The theatre. Basically I think mostly about the theatre.

  Do you never look at me and sort of undress me with your eyes if I’m standing in a sexy pose, for example.

  Don’t think so.

  What about other women?

  No. I think about the theatre.

  What about Nigella?

  I’ve never thought about her in that way.

  Do you really mean that?

  Yeah.

  Telemann, you’re beginning to worry me.

  Oh yeah. Good night.

  Now I am worried.

  You’re so quiet today.

  I thought you said we were both quiet sorts.

  Yes, but today you’re especially quiet. Is there something the matter?

  I don’t think so.

  There is something the matter. What is it?

  I don’t know.

  Is it what we were talking about last night?

  No.

  I bet it is.

  I’m not thinking about what we talked about last night, Nina. I’m not.

  What are you thinking about then?

  I’m not sure. Theatre maybe.

  Rubbish. You’re not thinking about the theatre.

  OK.

  Do you want to tell me what you’re actually thinking?

  No.

  Not at all?

  No.

  I’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Telemann. Sorry, but now I really have to insist.

  Right.

  Is it about the play you want to write, but have never got going with, even though you claim to think about it all the time?

  No.

  Is it about me?

  No

  About the children?

  No.

  About Heidi? Are you annoyed because she plays so much tennis?

  Good God no. She can play as much tennis as she wants – at any rate so long as she’s fully aware it’s you pushing her and not me.

  I don’t think I’m pushing her.

  Are you kidding? You spend every minute buying sports gear and organising training sessions and com­petitions and diets.

  But she wants to get to the top, doesn’t she.

  Yes, that’s what she says. But where does this ambition come from, do you think?

  Actually it was you we were talking about. We were saying you were particularly quiet, and I was trying to find out why. Is it something to do with Germany?

  No.

  Not at all?

  No.

  Not about Bavaria being the cradle of Nazism?

  No.

  OK, I give up.

  Great.

  Just a mo. Has it got anything to do with Nigella? You’re not answering me, but I’m absolutely positive it’s about Nigella. It’s her, isn’t it. I know it is. You don’t need to say anything, Telemann, I can see it in your face.

  Nina is right. Telemann is thinking about Nigella Lawson. He doesn’t like to talk about this, but he thinks about her quite a lot.

  It started when Nina bought him Nigella Bites, a cookery book, a birthday present. He thanked her politely, thinking that when you start giving each other cookery books the relationship is on its last legs, but he didn’t say anything. On the contrary. Telemann has been good at receiving presents without revealing his disappointment ever since as a child he was given a weaving frame, and saw from his father’s eyes that he and Mum had had a battle over this, and Dad must have lost and Mum was on tenterhooks, and Telemann didn’t have the heart to disappoint her, so he thanked her warmly and wove all through the Christmas holiday. The whole point of presents, as Telemann understood it, lies in the bonds they create between the giver and the receiver, and as such presents have no inherent value. And, at first, he thought that Nigella Bites was just such a present. But, without knowing why, he carried on leafing through the book. He looked at recipes, photographs of food, as in all cookery books, and descriptions of what you have to do, but he also looked at the photographs of Nigella herself, taken while she was in the kitchen, bending over pots and pans, dressed in different outfits, sniffing at the ingredients, mixing, stirring, pouring, for example milk from one smallish bowl to a larger one, and putting things into her mouth or about to put things into her mouth. Sometimes her eyes are what could best be described as delectable; at others they are mischievous, cheeky even. When she is dressed in black she is slightly dangerous, someone a person like Telemann could never have approached or addressed, but when she is wearing that thin pale blue sweater of hers and holding, say, a dessert bowl of strawberries and cream in her left hand and a spoon in her right, her head slightly bowed, she is soft and almost vulnerable, and to all appearances in need of comfort from someone like Telemann.

  Moreover, he thinks Nigella is fascinatingly well-built. She has, for instance, got hips. And a bosom.

  I got talking to a woman in Lidl’s.

  Crikey, did you now, Telemann?

  Berthold and Sabine began to play with her kid and so I think she felt it would be only natural to say something.

  What did she say?

  She told me her name was Lisa and she was American. And then she went on about a fantastic castle that was supposed to be just like out of a fairy tale, breath-taking, by all accounts, and it is very near here.

  It’s called Neuschwanstein.

  Really? And she went on and on about how she had pushed her boyfriend to come to Europe to see this castle, but he only wanted to go to Mexico and they had almost split up over it, but then she had dug her heels in and they had travelled to Germany and both of them had been blown away by this castle and he had proposed to her there and then and later they had a photo of the castle on the wedding invitations and of course they had a wedding cake made in the shape of the castle and now they have two children and usually come here every alternate summer.

  Mhm.

  We have so much fun in Europe, she said that several times.

  Mhm.

  I think I’ll have to write that sentence down.

  Do that.

  I must do it before I forget it.

  Are you thinking of using it in the play?

  Possibly.

  Terrific. Are you going to meet her again, or what?

  I hardly think so.

  God, the battery in my toothbrush is flat again.

  That’s annoying

  Annoying? It’s useless. I only just bought it, you know.

  You’ll have to remember to charge it tonight.

  I do every night.

  Have you considered emailing Braun about it? I don’t think they should be allowed to get away with selling us sub-standard products.

  That’s right. Can we do that? Do you think they’ll answer?

  Of course they will. For companies like them customer care is paramount. There’ll be seven or eight of them sitting there, just waiting for your email, at this very moment.

  Once a day Telemann goes to the bathroom and sits on the toil
et for a long time. Not because he’s constipated, but because he thinks it’s good to sit alone and think about the theatre. He switches on Nina’s toothbrush and lets it run down to time himself. He thinks he is entitled to the half an hour or so it takes for the battery to go flat. Telemann-time is how he thinks of it. Or theatre-time. The one merges into the other. It’s not easy for an outsider to know where Telemann-time ends and theatre-time begins. Telemann doesn’t even know himself. It’s not so uncommon for him to think about the theatre so much that when the toothbrush stops whirring he forgets to put it back in the charger. It is left standing on the edge of the sink, run down and all alone.

  Telemann! Is there something wrong?

  Eh? No, no, I was dreaming. It was just a dream.

  What about?

  Nothing important.

  It must have been. Everything that happens to you is important to me.

  Do you mean that?

  Of course.

  Wow.

  Don’t you feel that way about me?

  Yes… yes I do, I just haven’t put it into, what shall I say, such a clear formulation, sort of.

  What were you dreaming about?

  About Charles Saatchi, if you absolutely have to know.

  Who’s Charles Saatchi?

  He’s just a rich Englishman who was born into a Jewish family in Baghdad, but then they moved to London when he was four. I don’t quite know why. Perhaps it wasn’t so easy to be a Jew in Baghdad. Anyway, he started a large advertis­ing agency with his brother and he also collects art.

  Why did you dream about him?

  I don’t know.

  What did you dream about then?

  It was like a house, a really magnificent house, you know the kind of London house with white bricks and several storeys, and it was by a rectangular park surrounded by the same expensive houses, and I wanted so much to see into the house. I felt there was someone inside who wanted me to go in. But then Charles Saatchi blocked the way. He was standing right in front of the door smiling one of those affluent smiles that said I might as well forget all about going inside, I wouldn’t be allowed in there in a thousand years, sort of, if you understand what I mean, that’s what his smile said, and I was so angry, I told him to wipe that grin off his face, but he just stood there and stood there and I could see there was nothing I could do, and I was frustrated and fed up, but he just smiled all the more.