Lazy Days Read online

  Stop saying that.

  What?

  Stop saying I don’t know.

  But what if I don’t know?

  You know very well. It’s just a way of cutting short the conversation so that you can carry on with your own thoughts.

  OK.

  So what made you think of sideboards and ferns?

  I’ve seen numerous photos of theatre people with fern sideboards. Actors, directors, playwrights.

  The whole caboodle had one. Darwin did, too.

  Darwin?

  Yeah.

  I didn’t think he had anything to do with the theatre. Depends on the eye of the beholder. The theory of evolution is theatre too, in a way.

  And in a way it isn’t.

  Yes, indeed. You have to keep your mind open.

  But you still think that sideboards, ferns and theatre-thoughts go hand in hand.

  I think one presupposes the other.

  So ferns and sideboards cannot be separated from theatre-thoughts?

  And vice versa.

  Vice versa?

  That’s the way it is. It all suddenly seems so obvious. Fancy my never seeing the connection before now. Crazy.

  But it’s quite a radical idea.

  Quite possibly.

  So you consider yourself a radical?

  That could be the case. But I can’t wait for my next birthday.

  Can you not?

  Every minute theatre-thoughts in my head are going to waste.

  That must be absolutely intolerable.

  Yes, I’m glad you understand me. Would you have any objection to my acquiring a sideboard with ferns at my own expense?

  Not at all.

  Do you think there are any here in Mixing Part Churches?

  It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.

  Telemann!

  Hm?

  You’re talking in your sleep.

  What?

  You’re keeping me awake.

  Was I talking?

  Yes.

  What did I say?

  What do you think?

  I don’t know.

  Stop saying you don’t know.

  I don’t know what I said. As I was asleep.

  You were talking about another woman.

  Was I?

  Yes.

  Which one?

  You didn’t say. But you were going to save her. You said you were going to save her.

  Did I say that?

  Yes.

  It was you.

  No, it wasn’t.

  Yes, it was. Surely I would know best what I was dreaming.

  Were you going to save me?

  Yes, someone had kidnapped you.

  Who?

  The Germans.

  Which Germans?

  I think it was theatre people. I didn’t like them. And then they kidnapped you. And then I saved you.

  Crikey. How heroic of you.

  It was the least I could do.

  Shall we get a few more hours’ sleep?

  Yes, let’s.

  After this Telemann lies awake. He feels it was a close shave. He can’t go on like this. Should he suggest that Nina and he have separate rooms? In which case it would have to be well planned so that she doesn’t take it amiss. He will have to put the blame on theatre. Beset by his thoughts, day and night, he has to be able to switch on the light and take notes, write, not to mention being able to talk out loud to himself, or laugh, maybe even cry, at any time. And he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s never been the type to enjoy disturbing others. Nina knows that. And she knows that he’s helped other playwrights for years. Saved their bacon even. Without ever asking to be credited. He’s hidden his light under a bushel. In a word. He has had enough of that. He was going to write the pants off them. Too bloody true. They think they can write plays, but the stuff he was going to write… Lord-a-mercy.

  Telemann rests his fists on his chest and thrusts them into the air. He does it several times and says Ah! He says AH! He says Theatre. He says THEATRE! He says AH! THEATRE! And he says Sod’em! Sod’em! THEATRE! AH!

  What do you think you’re doing?

  Nothing.

  Lying there and punching the air?

  Not any more.

  But that’s what you were doing?

  Yes.

  Should I be worried?

  I don’t think so.

  You’re still the same person?

  More or less.

  What was that you were saying as you punched the air?

  Nothing.

  Don’t say nothing. I heard you saying something.

  It was nothing important.

  I think it was important.

  I said theatre.

  Theatre?

  Yes.

  You really like the theatre, Telemann, don’t you.

  Yes, I do.

  You love the theatre.

  Yes.

  When are you going to start writing?

  Very soon.

  Nina, something’s just occurred to me.

  Yes?

  We haven’t made love for some time

  Haven’t we?

  No.

  Right.

  In my opinion, if this were a really good holiday we would have already done it a few times.

  So you don’t think it’s a good holiday?

  No, no, I do.

  But not really good?

  No.

  How many times would we have had to do it?

  A couple of dozen.

  That many?

  Actually, yes.

  I think the holiday is fine as it is.

  Yes, it is fine. But if were to be mega-fine.

  You have to be careful not to place excessive demands on life.

  I don’t think that’s an excessive demand.

  It’s easy to be disappointed if you make too many demands.

  I don’t make so many demands.

  You’ll have to learn to love things closer to home, Telemann.

  For me, being in bed with you is being close to home.

  Rubbish.

  What about doing it now?

  Doing what?

  What we’ve just been talking about.

  Were we talking about something?

  Yes.

  Oh, that. That’s not a good idea.

  Yes, it is.

  No, it isn’t.

  Yes, it is.

  I don’t think it is.

  Why not?

  Telemann… I don’t like to have to say this, but…

  But what?

  I think I’m becoming allergic.

  Allergic?

  Yes.

  To what?

  To you.

  What?

  I’m afraid I’m developing a kind of allergy to you.

  What do you mean?

  Last week when you stroked me a bit before we fell asleep I got a rash right down the back of my thigh, and in the last few days my skin has become irritated where you touched me. Here, for instance, where you put your hand last night, here on my arm, when you said you thought my glasses were nice despite the lenses being quite thick, and touched my arm, in a way as if to emphasise the friendly nature of what you said.

  Oh?

  It’s irritated all over. Can you see?

  This is madness, Nina.

  Madness to some maybe. These things happen, it’s the way of the world.

  Don’t you like me any more?

  It’s not a question of liking or not liking. My body is trying to tell me something.

  And you’re listening?

  My body knows.

  Are you sure of that?

  Oh, yes, Telemann. The body knows. Yours does too.

  Mine’s trying to tell me we should make love a couple of dozen times.

  That’s of no interest to my body.

  So what it’s trying to tell you then?

  I don’t know.

  But it doesn’t sound too promising for our relati
onship, to say the least.

  No, agreed.

  Maybe it’s because I didn’t wash my hands carefully enough after cooking. Nigella uses lots of spices which are sometimes rather exotic. Maybe your skin reacts to external contact with them.

  It’s not that, Telemann, it’s you.

  How can you be sure of that?

  I just can.

  No, you can’t.

  Anyway it’s her fault.

  Eh?

  Nigella’s.

  Eh?

  She’s stuffed your head with crazy ideas.

  Eh?

  It’s her fault.

  Are you jealous of Nigella?

  No. I just don’t like her.

  Is it because she has big breasts, and is always happy and hungry?

  I think you want to be free of me, and Nigella has made your body produce some substance which pushes me away from you.

  Eh?

  That’s what I believe.

  There’s no way I can get Nigella.

  Ha! So that means you do want to have her.

  Wanting her can be many things. That’s not how life works.

  You want to have her!

  Of course I want her on one level. But that has nothing to do with the real world. If I hadn’t been married to you, but fancy-free and attractive in Nigella’s eyes and she had knocked on my door and had offered herself I would not have said no, I have to admit, then I would have gone for it, ho ho, but that is not a scenario that I visualise or have any intention of trying to bring to fruition.

  You’re kidding yourself.

  No, I’m not.

  Yes, you are.

  Come on, Nina.

  Stop saying ‘come on’. It’s a form of bossiness. It’s patronising.

  What?

  Don’t say ‘come on’.

  I’ll say what I like. Nigella lives in Eaton Square in London, in a house worth maybe 70 million. She’s one of the world’s most famous TV chefs, and on top of that she’s married to one of the richest men in Britain. You and I, on the other hand, are here, in southern Germany, in Bavaria, the cradle of Nazism…

  Don’t say the cradle of Nazism.

  I’ll bloody well say what I like. If I want to say ‘come on’, I’ll say ‘come on’. If I want to say the cradle of Nazism, I’ll say the cradle of Nazism.

  I think you should show some respect for what I think you shouldn’t say.

  Will you let me finish?

  Alright.

  What I was in the middle of saying was that we, you and I, are fairly ordinary people, you’re a teacher and I’m a theatre person…

  You’re a theatre director, Telemann, that’s what you are.

  That’s right, but I’m trying to… yes, well, the point nonetheless is that neither you nor I lives in a dream world, on the contrary we work quite hard, live in a normal house, have three kids and at this moment we’re on holiday and when I ask you to make love you give me this crazy tale about irritated skin and Nigella causing me to produce substances that push you away from me. I’m here, Nina! With you! In Mixing Part Churches!

  It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.

  Come on! Do you realise what you’re saying?

  Don’t say ‘come on’.

  But do you realise what you’re saying?

  Of course I realise what I’m saying.

  This is absolutely insane. I’m not going to leave you, you know that.

  Yes, you are. That’s what you want. You walk around lost in thought and when I ask you something you always say you’re thinking about the theatre.

  But that’s what I am thinking.

  No, you’re not.

  Yes, I am.

  Let me see what you’ve written!

  Eh?

  Let me see what you’ve written this holiday!

  But…

  No buts!

  I haven’t written that much.

  Let me see!

  I think a lot. And then I delve deeper. And then I might make a note of some idea or other and add some more abstract concept. And as I normally work a lot with other people’s material, I rarely get a chance to consider my own stuff, but that’s what I’m doing here. I’m thinking about the theatre all day long. For example, just before we began this discussion or conversation or whatever you want to call it, what do you reckon I was thinking about?

  Theatre?

  Spot on. There you go.

  I want to see what you’ve written!

  What’s Russia supposed to mean?

  It’s just a note, Nina.

  Yes, but why Russia?

  What it means?

  Yes.

  It’s hard to talk about.

  Try.

  It means nothing.

  Nothing?

  Yes, nothing.

  So why did you make a note of it?

  I don’t know. It’s intuition at work.

  What’s the point of it?

  You tell me. Maybe it can be combined with something else and I can make something of it.

  In connection with the theatre?

  That’s the plan.

  What do you mean by Nazi bric-a-brac?

  Nazi bric-a-brac. Which everyone has round here. Bader’s house is full of it.

  So, in your opinion, the Baders are Nazis.

  No.

  But they’ve got Nazi bric-a-brac?

  Yes. Or else… yes, they have.

  But for them they’re primarily ornaments, don’t you think?

  Naturally.

  So they don’t realise they’ve got Nazi bric-a-brac?

  I think they know. In their heart of hearts.

  You’ve written REPAIR in capital letters?

  Indeed.

  And you’ve underlined it and there’s an arrow pointing to another word. What’s that you’ve got? Climate? China?

  China.

  So it says REPAIR CHINA?

  Yes.

  And what’s this here?

  Suit.

  Suit?

  Yes.

  I think Russia is a code word for Nigella.

  Eh?

  The same number of letters.

  Now you’re really stretching it, Nina.

  Don’t try and talk your way out of this. Russia and Nigella have the same number of letters. Explain that to me. Now I’m really curious.

  There aren’t the same number of letters. Russia’s got six and Nigella’s got seven.

  One two three four five six. One two three four five six seven. OK.

  Do you think I really need to encode Nigella’s name?

  Yes, I do. So Russia isn’t a code word then?

  Come on now. I don’t write in code.

  Don’t say ‘come on’.

  So this is how much you’ve done in two weeks?

  By and large. But all you can see is the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the surface there is cubic kilometre upon cubic kilometre of thought, invisible to the naked eye.

  Bit thin, that one, Telemann.

  It’s theatre.

  I think it’s thin.

  You don’t know what you’re talking about. This is the quint­essence of theatre. This is the stuff of which theatre is made.

  It’s nothing, Telemann. It’s nothing.

  It’s theatre.

  No.

  The truth is, Nina, that you have no conception of what theatre is. You would not recognise theatre if people danced naked in front of you yelling at you through megaphones that this was theatre.

  I’m allergic to you, Telemann.

  You don’t know what theatre is.

  I’m allergic. Look! I come out in a rash when you talk.

  You don’t know what theatre is.

  I’m allergic to theatre.

  Dad?

  Mhm?

  If we’d been elephants, we would have been five elephants.

  Yes.

  Crazy thought?

  Yes, it is actually.

  Imagine that!

&nb
sp; Yes, good thinking, Berthold. Great.

  Bader only eats eggs from hens that can see snow-capped mountains.

  I see.

  Schneeberg eggs.

  Does he now.

  Don’t you think that’s nice?

  Yes, I do.

  Charming even?

  Absolutely. Shall we make love?

  Not now.

  Some other time?

  Alright.

  Are you coming with us to Zugspitze?

  What, again?

  Yes, Heidi’s been a bit upset because we didn’t take her along last time, so now all three of us are going. And Bader too, by the way.

  Bader, too?

  Yes.

  I’ll stay here then.

  OK.

  I’ll stay here, have a smoke and think about the theatre.

  Alright.

  As soon as Nina and the kids are out of the house it is Telemann-time.

  With some red wine and a notebook in his hand, he locks himself in the toilet and thinks about the theatre. Nina’s toothbrush whirrs away in the background. Notes have to be made. Bugger her. Nina would soon see who can make notes. How dare she comment on his notes in the first place! And what they mean. And how few of them there are. Ridiculous. What a cheek. What. A. Cheek.

  Telemann! Are you in there?!

  What?!

  Open up!

  I thought you’d gone!

  We had gone, but Berthold needs to go to the loo!

  Right!

  Are you going to open the door?

  No.

  Why not?!

  Because I’m on the loo!

  Have you nearly finished then?

  No.

  What’s that sound I can hear?

  Nothing.

  What did you mean, nothing?!

  There’s nothing making any noise in here!

  Yes, there is!

  No, there isn’t!

  Is it my toothbrush?

  No!

  It must be. Let me in!

  No!

  Let me in!

  The sound’s in your mind, Nina!

  What?!

  It’s the allergy playing you up. It’s all in your mind.

  Berthold needs the loo.

  Find another loo!

  What did you say?!

  I said find another loo!

  Jesus Christ. Not even in the loo is Telemann-time respected. What’s this country coming to? Telemann thinks. What. Is. This. Country. Coming. To. He notes down the words, looks at them and can see they are good. There’s no doubt. He’s getting close to something approximating theatre. But what does that really mean? Because when he says country he doesn’t mean Germany, of course. Nor Norway. He means the family, no, the situation, or maybe even the state he is now. And the state the theatre is in now. And the state of the theatre in him now. The theatre in him. That’s getting closer. Where is this country going to? Could that be a title? Have we got a title here? Telemann clasps the notebook with shaking hands. This is real theatre. A country which isn’t a country but a cross between a state and a person. There can hardly be any doubt that this is theatre. Nothing less.