Lazy Days (9 page)

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 Bader? 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.

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.