Lazy Days Page 8
Good.
Are you still seeing Bader?
Hey, this call is getting expensive.
Yes.
See you then.
Yes. Bye.
Hi, it’s me again.
Hi.
I was thinking we could have something to eat together.
We’ve already eaten.
OK… so all of you… have eaten?
Yes.
In that case, I’ll go down Bahnhofstrasse and find a takeaway.
Yes.
There’s a big choice.
I’m sure there is.
And then I’ll carry on writing.
Do that.
I’m making a lot of headway.
Good.
Bye then.
Bye.
Hi, it’s me again.
I’m on my way out to get the kids.
That’s exactly what I wanted to talk about.
Oh yes?
They don’t want to.
They don’t want to?
No.
Have you been…?
It’s Heidi. She’s very upset you’ve moved out.
Course she is. I take it you’ve explained the reason to them?
No. I don’t think she needs to know anything.
Whoa there, Nina. Come onnn!
Don’t say ‘come on’.
So you want to make it seem as if I’m the problem, since it’s me who’s moved out?
All I’m saying is that the children don’t want to stay with you.
This is heading for the law courts.
Pull yourself together, Telemann.
And you know me. I’m not the type to give up easily. You can just dream about joint custody. I’m going to have the lot. Full custody. Just me. And you can see them every second weekend and every third Wednesday.
Calm down.
Calm down yourself.
Give them a bit of time. They have to get used to the situation. This is a long-term process.
I’m very sceptical about processes.
Yes, but it’s a process nonetheless.
I hate processes.
Telemann, what about meeting, all five of us?
I didn’t think the kids wanted to see me.
I’ve been speaking to them.
OK.
They need to see that you and I can talk.
I see.
And that we’re still friends.
Right.
I suggest dinner.
Dinner’s fine.
On neutral ground.
We’re in Mixing Part Churches, remember. How neutral can it be?
You know what I mean.
I know what you mean.
Mum needs a bit of time to herself. And that’s why I moved out.
Why time to yourself, Mum? And why did Dad move out and not you?
Tell her why, Nina.
I need time to think, Heidi.
Can’t you think when Dad’s around?
No.
Why not? I can think when Dad’s around.
Good for you, Heidi.
This is not something you can understand at your age. It isn’t meant for your ears anyway.
So I should accept the fact that you spend your time apart?
Actually, yes.
Weird.
Good, I think I’ll have the pheasant.
You would.
What do you mean?
The pheasant costs three times as much as the other dishes, Nina. It even says so on the menu. Look here. Surcharge for pheasant.
You do understand some German then?
Yes, I understand some German, and if I know you, and I do, then you’re going to take it for granted the pheasant surcharge will be split between the two of us, even though I’m only having a sausage or two with sauerkraut, costing six euros.
We are a family after all.
I’m not going to pay any pheasant surcharge. Forget it.
Telemann, pull yourself together.
Me pull myself together? I’m not bloody paying the pheasant surcharge!
I think you should move back with us, Dad.
I AM NOT PAYING ANY BLOODY PHEASANT SURCHARGE!
It’s me.
Hi.
Sorry I lost my temper.
Yes.
It’s not easy.
No.
Can you sleep?
I sleep well. How about you?
I don’t sleep so well.
So what do you do?
I think about the theatre, and then I go out into Bahnhofstrasse and drink beer.
OK.
And I write as well.
You’ve been talking about doing some writing for ages.
Yes.
Good that something positive is coming out of this.
Yes. Are you seeing Bader?
Hey, this is getting expensive.
OK.
Good night.
Good night.
Telemann isn’t writing. He says he’s writing, but he isn’t. Everything has come to a halt for him. In fact, he finds being separated tough. He considers it theatre. All sudden changes are theatre. But he doesn’t put it into practice. Instead he drinks beer and thinks about Nigella and at half past three in the morning he makes her chocolate honey cake (Divide the marzipan into 6 even pieces and shape them into fat, sausage-like bees’ bodies, slightly tapered at the ends). He has put on seven kilos in as many days.
And then he masturbates. Quite a lot actually. Not something he goes around advertising, but nor is he ashamed of it. He thinks masturbation is theatre. In a way. All suppressed feelings are or can be theatre, thinks Telemann. It always begins with him reading through the start of his play. In an act of almost perfect self-delusion he plans to go through the text, editing and refining. But then he loses control. The buxom woman on the stage steals his thoughts and tragically his good intentions go up in smoke. Time after time. There is much, much more of it than many would consider seemly for a person of Telemann’s age.
He wished some of the animal energy that clearly resides in him could be used on the theatre. Such accursed luck. It is exactly what the theatre needs. The animal. The uncontrollable beast. Which sleeps when it is tired, and eats when it is hungry, and breeds when the urge makes itself felt, and which, if it is prevented from doing any of these things, goes on the attack, straight for the jugular.
Telemann’s theatre, for the hundredth time, shouldn’t be about how the family restricts the individual or proclaim that technology alienates man or that beneath the bourgeois surface lurk indescribable perversions. Telemann’s theatre is to be pure energy. None of that clever stuff. Just energy. Dangerous energy. Come hell or high water.
Ring ring.
Hi, it’s me.
Hi.
What are you doing?
I’m writing.
Good.
And then I was wondering whether to nip down to the bierstube. They’ve got a Nazi quiz every Wednesday.
You’re so childish.
Certainly am.
I hate it.
Hate is a strong word.
It’s the manner in which you are childish that I am allergic to.
Do you think so?
Yes.
OK. What are you doing?
I’ve just put the children to bed.
OK… and… have you…?
Don’t ask about Bader.
OK.
My doctor needs a sample of your skin.
What?
He says he can develop a vaccine so that I can tolerate you better.
Does he?
Yes. But he needs a few molecules or something from you.
Do you feel a need to tolerate me then?
Yes, I do. We’re bound to have a lot to do with each other for many more years to come.
But have you… are you?
Don’t ask about Bader.
OK.
He’s in Hindenburgstrasse.
OK.
OK.
Doktor Engels.
I see. Is he a young doctor?
No.
Old?
Yes, basically.
You don’t know if he’s had any experience of selection procedures?
Grow up!
Because, if so, I’m a bit dubious.
Seriously, Telemann.
Was there any Nazi memorabilia in his surgery?
Telemann!
It’s five o’clock in the morning and Telemann is reading Nigella’s Feast. She writes that she knows you can frighten men off by cooking for them, but still reckons there is no harm done with a frisky plate of pasta she and the lucky man can gorge on in the middle of the night. She has taken the idea from Nora Ephron’s book Heartburn, she says. The first time a man and a woman spend the night together, after a few hours of lovemaking, spaghetti alla carbonara fits the bill perfectly, and if there’s any left, there’s nothing like working up an appetite. What a dizzying thought, Telemann thinks.
He reads the extract once, twice, he reads it three and four and five times, picking out bits of the text and examining every single statement from several different angles. He deconstructs the text, in fact, just like in his student days, he remembers, but quickly decides that reminiscing must be jettisoned. Reminiscing is theatre, true enough, but it is old-fashioned theatre, out with it. Telemann is drunk. And has just eaten about 30 chocolate caramel crispy cakes that an inner female voice ordered him to make a couple of hours ago. He stirred the cornflakes in the chocolate mixture with the spatula until they were all well covered. It was only with the greatest difficulty that he managed to let them stand in the fridge on a little tray or a big plate for at least an hour. Meanwhile he got stuck into some alcohol and ordered Heartburn from Amazon.
There are three particular aspects of Nigella’s carbonara recipe that he seizes on. First of all, there was the bit about guzzling the food in bed. And then the bit about him staying at yours all night. And finally the bit about working up an appetite afterwards. There was nothing else; the latter could only be interpreted as an absolutely shamelessly undisguised invitation. First of all, they keep at it until three o’clock and then Nigella disappears into the kitchen for half an hour and returns with a giant pan of spaghetti carbonara. Then they’re at it again. And then the leftovers have to be eaten. And after that what else can they do but carry on. It’s a never-ending cycle of copulation and carbonara. Bang, bang, bang. Off she goes, into the kitchen, carbonara, carbonara, bang, bang. Fantastic. How many times has this happened? How many all-night first dates has she had? Two? One for each husband? But what about her earlier relationships? Bloody hell! It must have happened 30 or 40 times. Telemann is sure of this. He paces the floor of the tiny room in Bahnhofstrasse. And what about Saatchi? Jews don’t eat bacon. At least not usual Jews. But maybe Saatchi is a bit different. Perhaps that was what she fell for. That he is an unusual Jew. That must have made the situation extra exciting for both of them. Yuk! The dirty bugger!
Telemann opens another bottle of wine.
Pen and paper. After all, an old-fashioned letter makes a greater impression than an email. Not to mention a text message. A letter has to be taken seriously.
How can I say this to you?
My darling, where to start?
Please read this!
Please read this, Nigella, please!
I am not just another fan. Please continue reading.
Meet me outside Wembley Stadium at five o’clock on August 1st. (Wembley? So stupid but where else could he suggest? He ought to have travelled to London a lot more, but of course Nina always wanted to go to Nazi Germany. Sod it!) I am a Norwegian dramatist (big word, I know), a few years younger than yourself. A few years younger than your pretty self? Jesus! But age is his strongest suit. In addition to the theatre. Nigella needs a younger man. It is on her mind day and night. But she’s caught. She can’t say so without hurting Saatchi’s feelings. He’s more than sixteen years older than her. A difference of that kind is exciting when the man is thirty-five or forty, but not when he is getting on for seventy. Nigella wants out. Maybe she also wants more children. I am fertile and can easily give you children. One child? Two? It’s up to you. When is it that women can’t have any more children? Hm.
Maybe I should be more forthright: I can save you from Saatchi. Please continue to read! I know that you hate your husband. That’s OK. Don’t be ashamed. Let the hatred embrace you (Can you say that?) I am love. Hell, no. Thank you for the music. Music? She’ll understand that I’m talking about food. Music as a metaphor for food. Why not? She must be ravenous for metaphors after living with such a dry old stick as Saatchi.
Dearest Nigella. Thank you for the music. That’s a perfect start. Please continue reading. I can save you. 4 ever.
Ding dong.
What?
Ding dong.
Who’s that?
Who do you think?
It’s not the most convenient time.
Hurry up, Telemann. We’re all here.
Oh, alright.
Are you going to open up?
OK.
Hi.
What a mess you look!
Do I?
Hi, Dad.
Hi, Heidi.
Hi.
Hi Berthold.
Hi Dad.
Hi Sabine.
What are you doing?
Not a lot.
Didn’t you sleep last night?
Not quite sure. Maybe I didn’t.
Weren’t we supposed to be going to Zugspitze?
Again?
The children want to show you it.
Do they really?
Yes.
We’ve already talked about this, Telemann.
Have we?
We talked about it last night.
Was it an OK conversation?
Fairly.
Good. You must excuse the mess. I think I’ve got some chocolate caramel crispy cakes for you. And maybe some carbonara, over there on the bedside table.
We’ve just had breakfast.
Yes, of course.
Dad?
Yes.
Why does it say Nigella on the wall?
It… it… was there before I arrived. The rent’s cheap, you know, furnished… and… you see, with writing on the wall. I think it’s some kind of German custom or habit. Is that not so, Nina? They write on the walls quite a lot down here, don’t they?
What?
Make of it what you will. It’s probably been there since the war.
Are you coming or what?
Erm, maybe you should go without me. So I can think about the theatre and get some sleep?
I think you should come with us. What’s this?
It’s theatre.
Looks like a letter to me.
But it’s theatre.
I think it’s a letter.
It’s theatre.
I see.
What about Bader?
What about him?
Is he going to Zugspitze?
No.
OK.
Are you coming, Dad?
Maybe.
Fantastic view.
It is, isn’t it.
Certainly is. Absolutely fantastic. View.
Look, Dad!
Yeah, fantastic.
There’s Austria.
Wow, is that what it looks like?
It looks like a wonderful country.
Take it easy, Telemann.
I’m hungry. Do you think they’ve got a Fritzl Schnitzel by the cable car station?
Get a grip!
Me get a grip?
Yes.
Me get a grip?
Yes.
You need to get a grip.
I’ll get a grip as well.
You mean we should both get a grip?
Yes.
So the next question is: how’s it going with you and Ba…?
&nb
sp; Don’t.
Don’t what?
Not in front of the children.
What are you two going on about?
Nothing, Heidi.
Do you think I’m stupid?
No.
We just want you to concentrate on your tennis. If you’re focussed you might beat Anastasia later today.
I’ll never beat her.
What a negative attitude.
That’s got shit-all to do with you.
Of course you’ll beat her.
No, I won’t.
If you have mental poise you’ll beat her.
And I won’t have unless you tell me what’s going on.
No.
That only makes me twice as keen to know what’s going on.
I quite understand.
This is something only grown-ups can understand, Heidi. Dad and I want to keep it to ourselves and you should respect that.
You can tell me, Dad, can’t you?
I’m actually wondering whether I should.
Don’t!
Go on, Dad.
If I do, it’s to teach Heidi that mental poise is overrated. Which players lose their mental poise is of very little interest. Take John McEnroe, for example. Zero poise and still the best. Mental poise in the theatre is death. It’s death.
See, Mum.
Now I’m going to tell her.
No, don’t!
Heidi, your mother is having a relationship with Bader. That’s the bottom line.
Yukky!
Yes, it is, isn’t it. Horrible, don’t you think?
I just can’t believe you told her!
Yuk.
I can’t believe it!
But did they… did they…?
You can bet your life they did. A couple of dozen times. Presumably more. Who knows?
Yuk.
I agree.
I’m lost for words, Telemann.
Same here. Fantastic view. Austria and all that. What a country!
Hi, it’s me.
Hi.
Heidi’s on her way over to you.
Is she?
She doesn’t want to be with me any more.
OK.
Is that all you’ve got to say?
Basically, yes. I understand her. I don’t want to live with you, either.
Look, now I think you’re getting… you’re getting…
I think you should keep quiet.
You think I should keep quiet?
Yes, how did the tennis match go?
Heidi won.