Lazy Days Page 7
Well, Berthold’s wet his pants!
What?!
I’d just like to inform you that Berthold peed himself just as he was going into Bader’s toilet! So thank you very much!
OK! My pleasure! Have a nice walk!
Wonderful. Is it any wonder that the theatre is stagnating and having a hard time? In conditions like these it’s amazing that there is any decent theatre at all. But then it’s not supposed to be easy. Theatre has to be painful. That’s its primary function, to be painful. It has to be painful for the creator, the mediator and, not least, the receiver. If any element fails to be painful, it’s not theatre. Then it’s no more than a simple performance. Did it hurt? That should be the criterion for everyone leaving the theatre. The theatre should, as a matter of rule, pay people to stand outside and pose this question to those leaving the theatre. And beat the sinners up afterwards. That would get rid of the scum who come to drink white wine and show off their furs. Good riddance.
The toothbrush whirrs. Telemann presses the pen on the paper. He is afraid Nina will return once more. He looks at the door handle, drinks, listens, no, nothing, looks down at the paper. Anything? Are there any impulses on their way through the sensory system somewhere between the right places in the brain and the motor function of his fingers? It would certainly seem so, thinks Telemann. The pen will be forming letters, from what he can judge. In a short time. But which ones? Any fool can write letters, but which ones, and in which order? Telemann lowers his head towards the tip of the pen, something inside him braces itself, the ballpoint of the pen begins to roll, he writes. He is writing! The stage is bare and empty. That’s what he writes. Illuminated only by a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Right! But actually the stage is not completely empty. There is a kitchen unit on the stage, Telemann writes. The stage is empty, one might say, apart from a kitchen unit, or to be more precise, a kitchen island. And a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. That’s all. A woman comes onto the stage. Is she blonde? Dark-haired? She’s dark-haired. Writes Telemann. And buxom. Has she got any clothes on? Telemann thinks. Clothes? No clothes? What would be most faithful to the essence of the theatre, so to speak, to its true self? The answer comes to Telemann in a flash of absolute clarity, in which the theatre and Telemann are no longer two separate entities but one: THE WOMAN HAS NO CLOTHES ON. There is no alternative. Telemann feels he is approaching some kind of truth. Perhaps for the very first time in his career as a dramatist. The woman is naked and she opens a bottle of wine and pours herself a glass. Takes a hearty swig. Then she begins to busy herself rummaging through the cupboards. She gets down on all fours to reach the back of the cupboard. Where can the baking tin be? Where CAN it be? She has to stretch a bit more, her back arched, stretches, stretches, yes, there it is, get it out, onto the worktop, it has to be right on the other side of the island, a long way off, she bends over the worktop, has to get up on her toes to reach right across, stretches, stretches, on the tips of her toes, and a bit more, that’s it, the tin’s in the right position now. Writes Telemann. Then she has to go down on her knees again, she needs a bowl, a green plastic bowl, it has to go there, and then a ladle, also green, and into the fridge to get a chocolate mixture that has been cooling off, not much, just a little, it hasn’t set yet, it can still be shaped, but it isn’t runny, it just moves slowly, like lava, a bit faster than that though, Telemann writes, she stretches, back arched again, my, oh my, what a long way back the chocolate mixture is, she is almost there, stretches, there we are, onto the worktop with it. And now she needs something else, she rummages through the drawers, the cupboards, bends down, stretches, no, now she is hunting furiously, what is it she’s after? She can’t find it. Takes a despairing swig of wine. Looks disheartened. Writes Telemann. But now the theatre comes to an end. She is just standing there. We can’t have that. Something has to happen. Someone has to come. A man comes! A man comes onto the stage. Who is this man? He seems familiar. He looks like Telemann. He looks very much like Telemann. Very, very much like Telemann. Has the man got clothes on? No clothes on? Telemann is embarrassed. The man has got clothes on, he writes. Underpants. Quite a smart pair of underpants. Nothing else.
Hello there!
Hello to you, too! Sorry to burst in on you, but the door was open and so I thought I’d better see if there was anything I could help with.
You came just at the right time.
Oh, good.
I can’t find my tape measure.
You can’t find your tape measure?
I’ve looked high and low and can’t see it anywhere.
That’s annoying.
Yes, it is. You see I’m making some chocolate thingies which have to be 19 to 20 centimetres long, but how can I do that if I haven’t got a tape measure?
Mhm, that’s awkward. Do you want me to nip out and buy you a tape measure?
No.
OK.
I’d prefer it if we, that is you and me, work out how long 19 to 20 centimetres is.
I see.
At this point Telemann pauses. He sips some wine and keeps the wine in his mouth, washing it from side to side and rolling it around his tongue sceptically. What is this all about? he thinks. It started as theatre and was theatre for quite a while, but now he fears it is beginning to turn into something else. But the theatre has many faces. Vulgar ones, too. So maybe this is still theatre, even though it is not painful to write it. Presumably it will become painful in due course. Telemann swallows. At any rate stopping now does not seem to be an option. The material will no doubt head in a less vulgar direction soon.
Can you suggest how we can work out how long 19 to 20 centimetres is?
No… it… no.
You haven’t got something of about that length?
The woman looks at the man. Writes Telemann. Studies him. Then she looks down at the area covered by the scant underpants.
The man follows her gaze.
Have you?
Are you asking whether I know how long…?
Yes.
It’s a few years since I checked.
Yes, yes, but it doesn’t change.
No.
It’s not like your ears, or nose, which continue to grow throughout life.
No.
So if you knew before, you should know now.
Yes.
And how long was it before?
Last time I checked it was 19 to 20 centimetres.
Exactly the length these chocolate thingies I’m making should be! What a funny coincidence!
Yes. But I remember thinking it was difficult to know where to measure from.
I can well imagine that.
So depending on where I measured from it was sometimes 19 and sometimes 20 centimetres.
In an erect state?
Yes, it… certainly was.
Did you measure it from the very root, or what?
Yes, I suppose I must have done, but it’s not so easy to say where the root starts.
Let’s find out.
OK.
What’s your name by the way?
Nothing.
Haven’t you got a name?
I don’t think we need names.
Alright then. Who needs names? Look at me now.
OK.
I don’t quite know what you like, but if I stand like this, and a bit like this maybe, and put my hands here and lift them up like this, a bit towards you, and pout, does that have any effect?
Er… yes.
Goodness me! Mhm, nice. Well, I never. Would you mind if I hold it for a bit?
Not at all.
Now let me see… is it clean?
Yes, I think so.
Maybe we should give it a bit of a wash, just for safety’s sake. After all, we are cooking.
Yes.
Let’s just give it a rinse under the tap, there we go, and then I’ll press it into the cake mixture, like so… and a bit more… there we are!
Right.
Well, thanks a lot
for your help.
No problem.
The woman is about to let go, but doesn’t after all. Writes Telemann. She looks at her hand and what it is holding. Her gaze meets his. And is this theatre? Or not? It’s still a bit too early to say. A swig of wine.
Hey, I just had a thought.
What do you mean?
Well, I was thinking that while I’m here, holding you, I can feel quite a frisson, I have to confess, after all I’m not made of stone, and there’s no great rush for the chocolate thingies, so…
Oh, yes?
Well, what about if I grip you a bit tighter and, for instance, begin to move my hand backwards and forwards?
And?
Like this.
Yes.
Do you like it?
Yes, it’s nice.
You like it?
Yes.
And what if I kneel down?
Why not?
Can you see that my head is now more or less at the same height as… well… a part of your anatomy?
Yes.
How do you feel about that?
I think it’s OK.
You think it’s OK?
Yes.
I love putting things in my mouth, you know.
Yes.
I can’t help myself.
Oh, yes.
And later I might scrabble onto the worktop on all fours.
I see.
How do you feel about that?
Sounds good.
Alternatively I can lie on my back.
Yes.
And then there’s the cake mix.
Yes.
You can spread it all over and… am I beginning to talk too much?
A little bit maybe… since you ask.
Shall we just take things as they come?
I think so.
OK, then we’ll just take our time.
But what about your husband?
My husband?
Yes.
Forget about him.
He’s not going to come home any minute, is he?
Nononono. He’s an art collector.
OK.
From dawn to dusk.
Oh, right.
He doesn’t care anyway.
Are you sure?
He’s not interested in real life.
OK.
That’s enough about him.
Right.
Shall we get going then?
Yes, let’s.
Are you ready?
I’m ready.
Telemann?!
Telemann!!
Are you still in there?
Open the door!
Telemann!!!
German, German, German, German, German, German, German?
German, German, German, German, German, Telemann, German, German, German, German.
German, German?
Bang! Bang!
German, German, German, German, German, German, German, German, German, Krankenhaus?
Where am I?
Hi, Telemann! Good to see you’ve come round.
What happened?
We’ll come to that later. Just rest for now.
German, German, German?
What is she saying?
She’s asking if you’re hungry.
No.
German.
Why am I in hospital?
Shall we leave that for later?
No.
Alright. You… had a turn.
What kind of a turn?
We had to force the bathroom door open.
I see.
You were lying on the floor with your pants round your knees.
Right.
My toothbrush was soiled with one of your… body fluids.
Was it?
Yes.
Sorry about that.
Yes.
I apologise.
Yes.
I’ll buy you a new toothbrush.
Don’t worry about it.
A new head at any rate.
Fine.
I’ll do it today.
Thanks. Looked like you had been through the works.
It began with theatre.
Yes, I saw that.
Did you read it?
Yes.
Was it theatre?
To start with.
And then it stopped being theatre?
You could say that. The doctor says you had a minor stroke.
A stroke?
Yes. A transient ischaemic attack.
Thank you, I know what a TIA is.
The doctor says it can happen to anyone under great stress.
OK.
You seem to be alright again now though. You can come home. But the doctor says you should stop smoking.
No.
Yes, that’s what he says.
You shouldn’t listen to doctors.
Of course not.
I’m quite proud of the fact that I had a TIA.
Are you?
TIA is theatre.
Mhmm.
Nina?
Yes.
Come over here. I’ve got a surprise for you.
Have you?
Here you are.
What is it? Oh, a new toothbrush head.
Five of them actually.
So I see. Thanks a lot.
The least I could do.
Correct.
Do you think you’ll be able to put what happened behind you?
Yes, I think so.
Good.
Were you thinking about her?
About whom?
Nigella.
I might have been. But it was theatre in a way. At least for quite a time. I wasn’t myself. I was playing a role. That’s what you do in theatre. You play roles.
I think you were yourself.
Do you?
Yes.
OK.
What’s this watch doing on my bedside table?
Which watch?
This Nazi watch.
I don’t know.
Oh. It’s not a present from you to me?
No.
OK.
Why do you call it a Nazi watch?
Because it’s very accurate and also the style’s a bit fancy.
I see.
But what’s it doing here?
Perhaps it’s Bader’s.
Bader’s?
Maybe.
Are you trying to say that Bader’s personal belongings are on my bedside table?
That’s how it would seem.
How come?
Goodness knows.
Has he been in here?
I think he said something about checking the central heating boiler.
But that’s in the cellar.
Yes.
And, not only that, it’s summer.
You’re right.
This doesn’t make sense.
No.
Have you got anything to tell me?
Yes and no.
WHAT! Have you been to bed with Bader?
I suppose so.
Behind my back?
It was difficult to do it in any other way.
How incredibly brazen of you.
Do you think so?
Yes, I do.
Right.
Doing it is bad enough in the first place, but to do it with that blockhead Bader is really outrageous.
I can understand how you feel.
And you did it here?
Mostly.
Mostly? For crying out loud! Several times?
One thing led to another.
How many times?
I don’t know.
How many?
Maybe seven.
Seven times?
Or maybe closer to a dozen. Or could be a bit more than that.
Are we talking a couple of dozen?
I think we are.
Bloody hell, Nina, I’ll never get over you sleeping with Bader.
No. Just take the time you need.
But Ba
der? That dirty old bugger?
He’s not much older than us.
Yes, he is.
Suppose so. But age is not so important when it comes to the crunch.
What is important then?
I don’t know. We… Bader and I… speak the same language.
The same shit language!
Now, now, Telemann.
Nazi language!
Now, now.
What are you thinking about, Telemann?
What I’m thinking?
Yes.
I’m thinking you should go to hell.
I can see you’re hurt.
Hurt? Go to hell!
It’s not possible.
It’s not possible?
No.
Because?
Because hell doesn’t exist. It’s just a word.
I don’t want to see you. That’s what it means.
OK. Never again? Or just for a while? Or what?
Have you finished with Bader?
Maybe not quite.
WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?
I don’t know.
WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?
I’ll have to work it out. I need some time alone to examine my feelings.
For Christ’s sake, Nina, you’re not seventeen any more, are you.
Maybe I am. In a way, I think we’re all seventeen, and what’s wrong with that?
I don’t want to listen to this. I’m moving out.
You’re moving out?
I’ll find a room in the centre of the town.
Now, in the middle of the holiday?
Yes.
What about the children?
We’ll have to have them a few days each, just like everyone else.
Who’s going to have the car?
You.
Hi, me here.
Hi.
How are you?
OK. What about you?
Not so bad. What are you and the kids doing?
We’re watching Heidi training. How about you?
I’m writing.
Good.
Yes.
Are you getting on OK in Bahnhofstrasse?
Fine. There’s lots going on here. Bahnhofstrasse is never quiet. Or almost never.