Lazy Days Read online

  Golly. Yes, I can see how frustrating that must have been.

  Yes, it was.

  But you don’t know why you dreamt about him?

  Nope.

  Do you know anything more about him?

  Not really.

  But still your subconscious churns round, feeling that he’s some kind of threat?

  Mhm.

  Well, that’s very strange.

  Yes.

  I think this is exciting, Telemann. Now let’s do a bit more investigating.

  OK.

  Tell me more about him.

  I don’t know a lot more.

  Has he got any hobbies?

  Collecting art.

  Yes, you said that. Is he married?

  Eh, what?

  I asked if he was married.

  Err… I can’t remember.

  Think your voice went a bit funny there.

  I was just feeling tired.

  OK. Shall we go back to sleep then?

  If you like.

  Good night.

  Good night.

  Nina doesn’t know, but Charles Saatchi is married to Nigella, and Telemann would be the first to admit that he has problems accepting that. He thinks about Saatchi almost as much as he does about Nigella. Often when the nice thoughts about Nigella have got a hold and Telemann is really enjoying himself, such as when he is in the kitchen making her food, then the nasty thought of Saatchi creeps into the picture. It doesn’t push Nigella away completely but it merges with her and unnecessarily complicates and contaminates the moment. Once when Telemann was sitting on the sofa at home, thinking about the theatre, his thoughts turned to Nigella instead. He fetched his laptop, the one he primarily uses to note down ideas about plays, and searched for pictures of Nigella. He found a lot and spent a good, long time studying several of them. He wondered whether he dared to save a couple of them deep in the machine, but he didn’t. After a while he came across a photograph of Nigella and Charles Saatchi sitting in a car, presumably a classic London taxi, Telemann thought. He had never seen a photo of Nigella with Saatchi before and the image upset and bothered him to such a degree that he couldn’t think sensibly about the theatre for several days. It was a shock to see them together in a picture. Suddenly he realised that Nigella had entered the relation­ship voluntarily, of her own free will, fully aware of her actions, so to speak. Sitting there on the back seat, she is smiling, bedecked in rich, elegant apparel, with mauve sunglasses and matching shawl, over the black dress, and Saatchi is sitting beside her, not especially close, a fact that Telemann felt emphasises Saatchi’s proprietary relation­ship towards her. His posses­sion of her is so indis­putable that he doesn’t even need to sit close to her. From the moment Telemann saw this photo­graph a feeling of resentment grew inside him towards Charles Saatchi. To his wealth. To the damned secretiveness that surrounds him. To the fact that he never speaks to journalists. To his non-appearances at the opening of the art exhibitions he has himself organised. Even to the double ‘a’ in his name. The list of things about Saatchi that Telemann considers provocative is very long.

  Nina came into the room as Telemann was studying the photograph and he reacted by quickly closing the laptop.

  What was that?

  Nothing.

  Are you looking at porn?

  No.

  What are you doing then?

  I’m thinking about the theatre.

  And then you slam your laptop shut when I come into the room?

  Yes.

  Knowing that will make me suspicious?

  Yes. But sometimes when you’re thinking about the theatre you have to slam your laptop shut. That’s the way it is.

  Dad, what’s revolting minus one?

  I think you should go back to sleep, Berthold.

  Yes, but what is revolting minus one?

  What it is? I… don’t know. Actually it’s an impossibility.

  Typical of you, that is. You’re incredibly bad at doing calculations with words.

  You could be right. What’s the answer?

  The answer is the word that someone invented immedi­ately before revolting.

  And which word was that?

  I don’t know. But if I knew I would have the answer.

  OK, fine. Can you go back to sleep now?

  I think so.

  Sleep well then.

  Good night.

  Sometimes Telemann worries about his children. Heidi plays tennis for seven or eight hours a day and when she’s not playing tennis she’s thinking about tennis. In much the same way that Telemann thinks about the theatre, Heidi thinks about tennis. The difference is that while there’s an element of compulsiveness with Telemann’s thoughts about the theatre, a hint of desperation connected with some need to show the buggers what the theatre is capable of, Heidi’s thoughts about tennis are completely spontaneous. For instance, she speculates that if she can manage to extend her wrist fully her serve would be more powerful and the ball would be despatched towards her opponent at several more kilometres an hour. And then her mind turns to tennis wear. And equipment. The great thing about Heidi’s thinking about tennis, speculates Telemann, is that if she becomes good enough there will be money in it before long. And lots of money at that. Telemann would have no objection to Heidi dethroning Maria Sharapova, the Williams sisters and Jelena Jankovic. He wouldn’t at all mind living off Heidi, he has sometimes reflected, with apartments at home and abroad and long hotel stays, in Brazil perhaps, or Dubai, with a free bar and unlimited opportunity to think about the theatre.

  Highly unlikely there would be any money in Berthold, though. He’s a singularly withdrawn eight-year-old who lives in his own world and is not bothered that others cannot get through to him. Many years after most children have stopped saying strange, charming things Berthold continues to do so. Nina and Telemann exchange glances, sometimes several times a day, and Telemann wonders whether they will ever be able to turn him into a dynamic, viable individual. Sabine is younger and for the time being it is unclear which direction she will follow. But in good moments Telemann thinks he can see a spark in her, an inner tremor that might even lead her towards the theatre. If all went well she may end up doing something in the theatre, like her father, Telemann thinks.

  We’re very different, you and I.

  What makes you say that?

  I don’t know. Perhaps because we’re on holiday. Your brain takes charge and goes its own way. Isn’t it the same for you?

  No.

  But we’re different.

  We are indeed.

  You, for example, wear very thick glasses while I don’t wear glasses at all.

  Mhm.

  You use an electric toothbrush. I use a normal toothbrush.

  That’s true.

  You love anything German while I hate it. OK, maybe I don’t hate it but I certainly don’t love it. I’m sceptical. Sceptical’s the word.

  Thank you, I get the message. And you take oxidants the whole time while I’m more a fan of anti-oxidants.

  I think that’s because you’re a bit of a shallow person who thinks a lot about appearance and life expectancy and not much about things that really matter.

  And what may they be?

  I could mention quite a few.

  The theatre?

  Absolutely. That’s one. I will not deny that I consider the theatre to be one of the things that matter.

  Do you wish me to think about the theatre as well?

  Not at all. Yes, actually I do. Sometimes. Then we could talk. Have more of a meeting of the minds.

  After this short conversation Telemann goes out for a smoke. He could have smoked indoors, but he feels sure that Nina would have something to say if he did, and he doesn’t want the bother. The whole point of having a fag is to get a few minutes on your own without having to explain or justify yourself, without using any words at all, and while he’s smoking he strolls around Mixing Part Churches and passes a sausage stand and orders
and thereafter eats a big, big sausage, the largest he can find, full of oxidants, which immediately mount an attack on Telemann’s innards. But Telemann loves attacks. Attack is what it’s all about. Theatre is synonymous with attack. The mission of the theatre is to break down preconceptions. Above all else, to break down preconceptions. Telemann thinks.

  Telemann is lying on the sofa and doesn’t think much of the YouTube clip entitled Nigella Goes Shopping. She buys Italian-striped ribbons to tie around serviettes for the evening’s guests, to whom she will serve Calabrian lamb chops or whatever. He tries to work out why he reacts negatively to this. It worries him. Is he at the turning point in his relationship with Nigella? Is he going to lose her? In which case all he has left is the theatre, he muses.

  It could be that her being outside the home is what he finds disturbing. Nigella should be in the kitchen, Telemann believes, but he pulls up short, he doesn’t believe that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, he has never believed that, but something is wrong because he gets agitated at seeing her in a bric-a-brac shop. This is not Nigella as he knows her. It’s a different Nigella. Outside, he can hear Nina laughing and playing with Berthold and Sabine, some summer-type game, which no doubt involves rolling in the grass, the Nazi grass, Telemann thinks. Nazi grass! Christ. That’s theatre. He will have to make a note of it. Jumps up and writes something on a random newspaper lying about. NAZI GRASS! In capitals with an exclamation mark. But he has second thoughts, crosses out the exclamation mark. It looks stupid with the exclamation mark. Then it isn’t theatre. Just stupid.

  Telemann poured himself a glass of wine a short time ago while Nina and the kids were shopping and now he closes his eyes. Laughter from the garden. The usual screech of Bavarian yodelling in the background. The heat. He dozes off. And in the grey area between dozing and being awake he sees something, what’s that, he thinks, is it theatre, he hopes it is, it’s the perfect situation, he visualises how he will be able to tell journalists and theatre bosses for years to come how he was dozing in Mixing Part Churches when the idea for the monumental, pioneering play just came to him, because he was ready for it, because it was his turn, so to speak.

  But it turns out that it isn’t theatre. Telemann is slightly unsure what it is. It appears to be some kind of fantasy and Telemann is under the clear impression that it is going to be beneath his dignity, but he can’t stop himself, it is insistent. He’s in London and spills tea down his trousers in a café and scalds himself and feels a fool and a woman at the next table feels sorry for him and invites him to go with her, she lives just round the corner, and they enter a blue London door and go up a great long staircase and into a gigantic apartment and the woman asks Telemann to take off his trousers so that she can wash and dry them, and he takes off his trousers and she asks if he is hungry and he answers that he is, and she says she is quite good at singing and playing music but sadly bad at cooking, but she has a girlfriend who is really good at it, and she phones her girlfriend, and while she is talking on the phone Telemann notices that the house belongs to the one and only Kate Bush, but not the Kate Bush as she is today, this is Kate Bush as she was at the beginning of the Eighties, but he doesn’t mention the fact that he knows who she is, it is as if he instinctively knows that that will ruin the situation, so he keeps his trap shut, and Kate sits down at the piano and says she would like his opinion on a song she has just written, and then she sings Suspended in Gaffa, occasionally eyeing him, when the piano allows, with a glance Telemann thinks can only be one of great anticipation, and when the song draws to a close and Telemann gesticulates to say how fantastic the song was, Nigella surges through the door, carrying some cooking ingredients in bags and wearing that very thin turquoise blouse that Telemann is so fond of, and Kate explains the situation to Nigella, who immediately begins to whip cream for some quick comfort eating, but then she spills wine on her blouse and Kate wants to take it off to wash it, but Nigella doesn’t think it’s necessary, but Kate insists, and in the kerfuffle that ensues when the blouse has to come off, it so happens that some cream gets onto Kate’s clothes, so they have to come off too, and after some hesitation while the two women measure each another up, feeling conflicting emotions, they tear each other’s clothes off, like wild cats, and it isn’t long before they are standing naked and perhaps a tiny bit embarrassed, casting stolen glances at Telemann and Telemann’s organ, which is protruding majestically in a state of complete surprise over the edge of his underpant elastic, and Nigella grabs the cream and a bowl of strawberries together with a small saucepan of melted chocolate and takes Kate by the hand and approaches Telemann and…

  Telemann!

  Hmm?

  Telemann!

  What?

  Wake up!

  I am awake.

  Fine. Then you can pick up Heidi from the tennis courts.

  OK. I just need five minutes to… to come to my senses. I must have dozed off.

  Excuse me, but is that an erection I can see there?

  I don’t know.

  It’s fairly recognisable. Looks like one to me.

  Well, blow me down, now you mention it.

  How exciting. Maybe we should strike while the iron is hot?

  Aren’t I supposed to be picking up Heidi? And what about Berthold and Sabine?

  They’ve popped over to the Baders.

  OK. Well. I don’t know.

  You’re not normally so difficult to persuade.

  There are so many impressions to deal with at once. A little confusing.

  What were you dreaming about?

  I don’t remember.

  Was it about me?

  I think… maybe it was.

  Yes, because it wasn’t about the theatre, was it.

  No. This wasn’t theatre, I think. Even though it is not unknown for thinking about the theatre to give me erections

  Was it a fantasy… about me?

  The images are a bit vague but… yes, you could say that.

  How exciting. But you don’t feel like…

  Maybe not just at the moment.

  We’ll have to save it for later then.

  Yes. We can save that for another day.

  Jewish Cuisine? Goodness, what an original birthday present. Thank you very much.

  I think you should take a closer look at the title, Telemann.

  The Jews have probably got loads of food traditions I know nothing about, that probably Nigella knows nothing about.

  Read the title, Telemann.

  The… Jewish Question. A History of Anti-Semitism from Olden Times to the Present Day.

  Are you giving me a book about anti-Semitism?

  I thought you would like it.

  Right. Sure. I was just warming to the idea that this was some great tome about Jewish food, so I had to go through a readjustment phase. After all, food is much more pleasant than anti-Semitism.

  So you’re a little disappointed?

  A little. But I’m sure I’ll get used to it eventually. Thank you very, very much.

  You’re welcome. Aren’t I going to get a hug then?

  Yes.

  Many happy returns.

  Thanks.

  And then, unless I’m much mistaken, the children have some presents for you.

  Did they make them themselves, do you think?

  Yes.

  OK.

  This incident makes Telemann nervous. He’s afraid Nina has seen through his relationship with Nigella and realised he hates Charles Saatchi. Is the birthday present a subtle hint? It’s difficult to imagine that Nina could be so perspicacious, but who knows? We don’t really know anyone very well when it comes to the crunch. You can live with people for years without actually knowing what goes on inside their heads. It might transpire that they are living a parallel life to the one they apparently share with you. Some people even have children with their own child. Behind secret doors in the cellar. But they don’t show it. Here you have to make a sharp distinction between people and poli
tics whatever the circumstances, Telemann thinks. It’s not Jews as such he has problems with. Just Charles Saatchi. Nor has he got any problems with Israel as a nation. God forbid, he doesn’t want to be encumbered with any of that. Telemann loves Israel, he thinks. Well, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But giving anti-Semitism as a birthday present, that’s weird. Telemann reckons.

  Do we have to listen to this Teutonic music?

  Define ‘have to’.

  We seem to be listening to it every night.

  Don’t you like it?

  Nah. There’s so much longing in it. It gets tiresome after a while.

  Music is normally about longing.

  All this bloody longing.

  That’s your opinion.

  What are they all longing for?

  The completely normal things that people long for.

  Such as?

  Well, love, friends, family.

  Theatre?

  No, I don’t think they are longing for the theatre.

  I think they are.

  OK.

  I think that very often when people are longing for other things they are really longing for the theatre.

  Do you now?

  Yes.

  In a way you’ve formulated your own theory which states that whenever people long for things they are actually longing for the theatre.

  Yes.

  OK.

  They’re longing to sit in a dark auditorium with others to be told a story by living people that enables them to see themselves in a new light.

  OK.

  All this music and yoga and jogging… it’s just rubbish.

  Yes.

  It’s theatre they need.

  OK.

  Aren’t you coming with us, Telemann?

  I’d rather do some writing.

  It would do you good to see the mountains and fill your lungs with fresh air and re-charge your batteries. And your play won’t go anywhere.

  That’s just the problem. I have to get to grips with it.