Lazy Days (10 page)

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.

The doctor, I mean. Number 8.

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…?

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.

Do you understand the significance of that?

No, Telemann, what is it?

It means you should keep your mouth shut, Nina. Tightly shut. And what’s more, you can stuff Bader and his Schneeberg eggs, and the hens too for that matter, where the sun never shines. By the way, it’d be best to blind the hens first. Use a sharp instrument, jab it into their eyes, maybe it’s a bit difficult the first few times, but then you’ll get used to it, and after that you can serve Bader eggs from hens which once saw snow-capped mountains and now can’t see anything.

You’re sick, Telemann.

OK.

You’re sick.

True.

Dad?

Yes.

Nigella wasn’t on the wall when you moved in.

Wasn’t she?

No.

You mean I wrote it?

Yes.

You could well be right.

Are you in love with her?

It’s more complicated than that.

How do you mean?

It has facets and aspects that fourteen-year-olds might not understand.

Do you think she’s sexy?

I don’t wish to comment on that.

Why not?

It would be too superficial. When you’re young the world is black and white, but the older you get, the more shades and nuances you see.

Eh?

Appearance is just a façade, Heidi. You have to look behind and beyond it. Into the very stuff of life.

I think I’ll move back with Mum.

OK.

Don’t stop reading!

Meet me outside the Globe Theatre. July 28th. At five pm
. Telemann has never understood the difference between am and pm, but he can wait there early in the morning and in the afternoon, he thinks. No, not bloody likely. Not at five o’clock in the morning.
Let’s say half past nine. PM. And just as Shakespeare could see through people
(smart to mention Shakespeare)
I can see right through you. I know you are desperate. I know that your TV programmes and books are cries for help. You want someone to come and rescue you. I am that person.

And I hate art. No.

You know that beautiful feeling of being seen and understood? Prepare to live with that feeling for the rest of your life. Maybe you can wear that pale blue and green sweater of yours, the thin one, or whatever you want of course, but that sweater is nice. I just mentioned it in case you wonder what I like. But I like everything about you, so don’t worry. Here is a photograph of me, so that you can recognise me. I have been called handsome, but… so… I wonder what you think. Anyway, it is how we are on the inside that matters. I will be holding a punnet of strawberries (extremely pleased with this). If you want, I can move to London. No problem. Since I am a dramatist (big word, but still) I can work anywhere as long as there is an internet connection. Hell, I can even work without an internet connection. And I think that your kids and my kids will instantly like each other. Kids are kids. Aren’t they? And I like carbonara.

Perfect.

Hi, Nina, it’s me. Did I wake you up?

Yes.