Lazy Days (4 page)

A woman is sitting a few metres away from him in the stands. Telemann thinks she must be Heidi’s opponent’s mother. He thinks this because the woman watches the Russian tennis player all the time, and once in a while she lets out small cries and gesticulates with irritation. Actually she might equally well have been her coach, but she doesn’t look like how Russian tennis coaches look, in Telemann’s view. She’s in her thirties and dressed a little bit like an American First Lady. Skirt with matching jacket, that’s perhaps what they call a suit, Telemann thinks. Suits are in a way theatre. He makes a note of the word SUIT. The woman is attractive. No two ways about it. He looks at her and she notices him looking.

What are you writing?

Oh, nothing, really.

It must be something.

Yes. Well, sometimes I hope it will be theatre.

Wow. So you’re a theatre writer? A what’s it called now… a dramatist?

That’s a big word.

When we’re in Moscow we see a lot of theatre.

Oh yes?

A lot.

So your daughter is interested in other things than tennis, if it is your daughter, that is.

She is my daughter, yes, Anastasia.

Like the Tsar’s daughter.

I beg your pardon?

Your daughter’s name is the same as the youngest daughter of the Tsar that was… you know… with his family… in 1918?

Yes.

I’m sorry.

You’re sorry?

That they were killed so brutally, you know, even though something had to change… well… anyway. She’s a good tennis player.

Your daughter’s good, too.

Not as good as yours. But she’s OK.

She’s not angry enough. But I like her style.

Thank you. So your daughter
’
s angry?

Oh, yes, she’s angry alright.

How do you keep her angry?

I have my methods.

I see. And your husband?

What do you mean?

What I mean?… Is he a tennis player too? Is he in Mixing Part Churches?

Mixing Part Churches?

Oh, that’s what I call this place.

Right.

So, is your husband here?

No, no. Working.

So, he’s a working man?

Absolutely.

Is he… let me guess… something to do with oil? Gazprom? Is he an oligarch?

No, he’s not.

Uhuh.

And your wife?

Gone to Zugspitze.

OK.

So you see a lot of theatre?

My husband loves the theatre, Anastasia loves the theatre, I love the theatre.

Fantastic. What kind of theatre do you like?

Chekhov, Mayakovsky, Bulgakov, Shakespeare, but also modern stuff like Harold Pinter and Sarah Kane. We like everything. Do you know Sarah Kane?

Do I know Sarah Kane? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. Do you mind if I laugh?

Not at all.

Ha! Ha! Ha! Do I know Sarah Kane? I not only know her, I love her. She is pure theatre. I love Sarah Kane more than myself!

Really?

Yes.

You love her more than yourself?

Well… No… I got carried away. It was… I don’t know. I just felt like saying it. But I like her a lot.

I understand.

Thank you.

I think our daughters have finished now.

OK.

So maybe we’ll see each other some other time.

Yes. My name’s Telemann.

I’m Yelena.

How was Zugspitze?

Unbelievable. We saw the highest point in Germany.

OK.

And we could see deep into Austria, too.

Did you now? Did you see any massed military march past?

Oh, please.

Did you buy any Nazi bric-a-brac?

I don’t think that’s amusing, Telemann.

You’re right.

What about you?

What do you mean what about me?

Did you put pen to paper?

I made a note of four or five words.

Good.

No, it wasn’t good.

OK.

Do you know who Sarah Kane is?

What?

I asked you whether you knew who Sarah Kane is.

I don’t think so. Ought I to?

Let’s keep the ‘ought’s’ out of this. I’m only asking you if you know who she is or not.

I don’t know who she is.

OK.

Who is she?

Someone who wrote a handful of brutally truthful plays before she hanged herself at the age of twenty-eight.

My word.

Yes, amazing, isn’t it.

Goodness.

An hour later:

Why did you ask me whether I knew who that theatre person was?

I was just wondering.

I don’t think you were wondering in an acceptable way.

Maybe not.

You weren’t being curious.

Wasn’t I?

No. It was more a kind of test.

That wasn’t my intention.

Oh yes, it was. You were testing me.

No, I wasn’t.

You were trying to find out whether I was up to scratch.

I was just wondering, for Christ’s sake!

You were testing me.

Look here: I was thinking about her because I happened to be talking to someone earlier today and then I got curious as to whether you knew who she was, because if so we could maybe talk about her here too, together, you and I, in a way. I like talking about Sarah Kane. I’ve always known that. That it did me good.

Who were you talking to?

A Russian tennis mummy.

And she knew who this depressive theatre person was?

Yes.

Was she good-looking?

I don’t know.

You don’t know?

I’ve never seen her.

But you just said that you were talking to her.

Oh, you mean the Russian?

Of course.

Was
she
good-looking, you mean?

Yes.

I didn’t really notice.

Rubbish. Was she good-looking?

Yes.

You never play with me, Daddy.

Berthold, that’s not true.

Yes, it is.

No, it isn’t.

You’re always thinking about the theatre.

No, I’m not.

You are.

I admit that I think about the theatre a lot. I like theatre.

But you should like me more.

I like you, too. And we did play football today.

Only a few minutes, and anyway I don’t like football that much.

You don’t like football?

No.

But you should have told me.

I’m telling you now.

OK, then we’ll find something else to do. That suits me fine because I don’t like football, either.

Then you should have told me.

I’m telling you now. Just like you. But I really thought you loved football.

And that’s why you pretended you liked it, too.

I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s quite normal for parents to encourage their kids in whatever they like doing.

But I don’t like football, I said.

No, I thought you did.

Well, now you know.

Yes. OK. So we’ll find something else to amuse ourselves with. Any suggestions?

No. You decide.

OK. What shall we do now? Nope, I can’t think of anything. Oh, just a moment, what about writing a play together, you and I, from a child’s point of view?

No.

Don’t say no. We can have a go and if it’s boring we can find something else. That’s how you find out what you like and who you are.

No.

Don’t say no.

Listen to this, Telemann.

I’m all ears.

Sit down.

You want me to sit down?

Yes.

OK.

Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh, in allen Wipfeln spürest du kaum einen Hauch…

What does that mean?

It doesn’t matter much what it means.

It doesn’t matter?

Just listen now.

But what is it?

It’s Goethe.

Oh, yes.

Bader gave it to me.

Did he give you a poem?

Yes.

Crikey.

Listen.

OK.

Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh, in allen Wipfeln…

You’ve just read that.

You’ve got to hear it all together.

OK.

Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh, in allen Wipfeln spürest du kaum einen Hauch. Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde, warte nur, balde, ruhest du auch… Beautiful, isn’t it?

Yeah. Yeah. Great. Nice sound. But it’s a bit off-putting that I don’t understand what it means.

You shouldn’t be so focussed on what things mean.

Shouldn’t I?

No. The meaning is the most banal aspect of a text, Telemann.

Who says so?

I say so.

Oh yeah.

And Bader.

Does he say so, too?

Yes.

OK, but what does it mean?

It means that darkness has fallen over the mountains and there is peace everywhere. The birds are no longer singing, and in a while you too will be asleep.

Me?

Not you in particular, or, yes, you too, in a way. Whoever’s reading the poem. Or listening to it.

So that’s me.

Yes.

That I’ll be asleep soon, me, too?

Yes.

OK.

What do you think?

It sounds good.

It’s more than good, Telemann.

I suppose so.

I would even go so far as to assert that this is the reason why I love Germany.

Would you go that far?

Yes.

Right.

I want you to understand how good this is. Are you capable of sharing my passion?

Perhaps I wouldn’t go quite that far.

Some of the way though?

Yes.

But you’re still a bit sceptical?

A tiny bit.

Why?

Errr, Goethe was probably quite a fella, and it’s beautiful and it’s sonorous and rhythmic and all that, but did it stop them becoming Nazis, eh, Nina? And is it theatre? That’s what I keep asking myself. When you get down to the nitty gritty, is it theatre?

Nina, I’ve been thinking.

What about?

You read German and you speak German…

Yes?

But you don’t write German.

Well, I do, a bit.

But you don’t like to.

That’s true.

Why don’t you?

I don’t know.

Is it something to do with self-confidence?

Could be.

In which case is there something deeper underlying this?

And what might that be?

Could it be that you’re basically an insecure person?

I don’t think so.

Do you consider yourself self-confident?

Yes, fairly.

I notice you are always shilly-shallying

That’s not how I see it.

There, you did it again.

Did I?

You shilly-shallied.

No, I didn’t.

Yes, you did, and that makes me begin to wonder if that’s what attracts you to all this German stuff.

Eh?

You’re insecure. Germany’s insecure. And that’s why you appeal to each other.

Honestly, Telemann!

Germany’s been cowed. It’s had to take being held in contempt. It’s had to walk around with its back broken for more than sixty years. And you’ve had it a bit like that inside yourself.

Now, please, give me a break.

You should go to the theatre more.

You what?

Insecure people can learn a lot by going to the theatre.

What?

Germany should go to the theatre, too.

I mean, I ask you.

You should go to the theatre, both of you.

Nina, I’ve begun to make a list of the people we know who’ve had cancer. Do you want to see?

Could do.

I’ve divided them into three columns.

OK.

Those who have died, those who have survived and those where it remains to be seen whether they pull through or not.

I see.

It’s not a simple task, if that’s what you’re thinking.

That’s not what I’m thinking.

First of all, it’s emotionally challenging, and secondly it’s not so easy to remember all of them. The whole lot of them seem to have had cancer.

Mhm. A lot have anyway.

All of them.

No, Telemann, not all of them.

Cancer is theatre, too.

Is it?

Oh, yes, too true. There’s not much that is more akin to theatre than cancer.

In other words, it means a lot to you to make lists of this kind.

It’s extremely important, Nina. And it’s high time, too. It can’t wait.

I got on really well with the Baders on the trip to Zugspitze.

Oh, yes. With both of them?

Yes, actually. But maybe especially well with him.

OK.

He’s a teacher.

Same as you?

Yes.

How nice.

And he thinks I’m good at German.

I do, too.

He said that at first he thought I came from some­where around Berlin. He would never have guessed I was Nor­wegian. He said.

He said that, did he?

And he’s coming for lunch today.

Today?

I forgot to tell you.

OK. No problem. I’ll sort something out.

Great. But I don’t think you should talk about the war.

What? Not even the attempted assassination on Hitler?

No.

But that was the resistance movement who did that?

I don’t want that. And nothing at all about the Nazis.

Oh.

Nothing about what happened between 1939 and 1945, anywhere in the world.

What about the First World War?

No.

German unification and the formation of the German Reich in 1871?

No.

The Berlin Wall?

I think not.

But you don’t want me to be completely silent, do you?

No.

Can I talk about the theatre?

Preferably not.

Food?

Food’s fine. And I think you should tell them some­thing, a story maybe, preferably something funny that doesn’t of­fend any nationality or any individual, and it would be an advan­tage if it was new to me.

Telemann trawls the town in search of orange blossom water. The Lidl in Olympiastrasse hasn’t got it. He looks for some immigrant shops, but it’s difficult to find one. Who the hell would emigrate to Mixing Part Churches? In the end, however, he finds a Turkish grocery and his orange blossom water. He is going to make some Arab pancakes with orange blossom syrup. That will give the Baders something to think about, he reckons. They will be expecting pork knuckle and sauerkraut, or maybe something so ur-Norwegian as boiled cod, but they will be getting Arab pancakes with orange blossom syrup. Telemann has to smile. And for dessert it is going to be caramelised pineapple with hot chocolate sauce. Nigella, all of it. Incidentally, it is several days since he has thought about her. The daydream about Nigella and Kate Bush was a heady mix. There has been a lot to process. Just accepting that he is so primitive has come at a cost. I’ve never seen myself that way, Telemann reflects. I think I’m like so, but if I give free rein to my feelings it is quite clear I am quite a different person. I’ve never come face to face with myself. That’s why I never get going with my theatre work. Not knowing myself is an obstacle. Honesty is the word that suddenly comes to Telemann’s mind. In every respect. If I am primitive I have to dare to be primitive lock, stock and barrel. If anyone gets hurt they will have to get hurt. Dishonest theatre is poor theatre. Telemann stops at this point. The bag with the orange blossom water is dangling limply from his clenched fist. He has been struck by a great truth, he believes, in the main street of Mixing Part Churches, slap, bang in the middle of the morning. Honesty is always the best policy. He has to be a hundred per cent honest. To Nina, to the kids, to the Baders and to himself. It is myself I have never met, Sarah Kane once wrote, Telemann remembers. And now he is thinking on those lines himself. He is thinking like a theatre person. Theatre thoughts. At last. Bloody hell. This is going to be theatre.