Authors: Erlend Loe
Such as?
I don’t want to say.
You don’t want to say?
No.
Nina!
Yes? What is it?
I just made contact with my reptile brain.
What?
My reptile brain.
Oh yes?
It was quite extraordinary, almost unreal, but at the same time quite real, if you see what I mean, like theatre.
Was it now?
Do you want to hear any more?
If you like.
I was thinking about the theatre, as usual, in fact I was just on the point of making a note about something I thought should be made a note of when I became aware of some movement at the edge of my field of vision.
Go on.
My brain immediately transmitted chemical signals left, right and centre, I don’t know what they’re called, but I’ve heard about serotonin and dopamine and adrenalin, so it’s conceivable that some of these chemicals were involved in this case, too. I could feel it in my backbone, and in my forehead, a kind of stabbing, hot impulse, and my muscles tensed, I felt I was about to wave an arm, the left one, I think, and also about to panic.
Heavens.
Do you know what the movement I saw was?
No.
It was the end of a tea bag, where there was no tea, the end with the paper tag with Lipton written on it, or in this case: Teekanne Liebesfrucht.
Really.
The paper tag was swaying to and fro beside the cup. My brain must have imagined it was a poisonous spider and was preparing itself to kill it. It was a matter of life and death, you see.
Goodness.
It or me, it was.
How dramatic.
It was, wasn’t it? It was theatre at its best. Forgive me for repeating myself. It was just as good as theatre.
Golly.
I need to come to terms with all this, Nina. Do you mind if I go for a little walk on my own?
Not at all.
I’d like a sideboard.
I see.
With a fern leaf carving on it.
Well, you’ve just had your birthday.
Yes, I know, but I’m just telling you, so that there’s no need to ask next time you’re buying me a present.
Fine.
The sideboard should be about this high and the fern leaf shouldn’t be too small.
I see.
And I want it on the right of my desk at home, in front of the window.
What made you think of that?
I don’t know.
Stop saying that.
What?
Stop saying I don’t know.
But what if I don’t know?
You know very well. It’s just a way of cutting short the conversation so that you can carry on with your own thoughts.
OK.
So what made you think of sideboards and ferns?
I’ve seen numerous photos of theatre people with fern sideboards. Actors, directors, playwrights.
The whole caboodle had one. Darwin did, too.
Darwin?
Yeah.
I didn’t think he had anything to do with the theatre. Depends on the eye of the beholder. The theory of evolution is theatre too, in a way.
And in a way it isn’t.
Yes, indeed. You have to keep your mind open.
But you still think that sideboards, ferns and theatre-thoughts go hand in hand.
I think one presupposes the other.
So ferns and sideboards cannot be separated from theatre-thoughts?
And vice versa.
Vice versa?
That’s the way it is. It all suddenly seems so obvious. Fancy my never seeing the connection before now. Crazy.
But it’s quite a radical idea.
Quite possibly.
So you consider yourself a radical?
That could be the case. But I can’t wait for my next birthday.
Can you not?
Every minute theatre-thoughts in my head are going to waste.
That must be absolutely intolerable.
Yes, I’m glad you understand me. Would you have any objection to my acquiring a sideboard with ferns at my own expense?
Not at all.
Do you think there are any here in Mixing Part Churches?
It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.
Telemann!
Hm?
You’re talking in your sleep.
What?
You’re keeping me awake.
Was I talking?
Yes.
What did I say?
What do you think?
I don’t know.
Stop saying you don’t know.
I don’t know what I said. As I was asleep.
You were talking about another woman.
Was I?
Yes.
Which one?
You didn’t say. But you were going to save her. You said you were going to save her.
Did I say that?
Yes.
It was you.
No, it wasn’t.
Yes, it was. Surely I would know best what I was dreaming.
Were you going to save me?
Yes, someone had kidnapped you.
Who?
The Germans.
Which Germans?
I think it was theatre people. I didn’t like them. And then they kidnapped you. And then I saved you.
Crikey. How heroic of you.
It was the least I could do.
Shall we get a few more hours’ sleep?
Yes, let’s.
After this Telemann lies awake. He feels it was a close shave. He can’t go on like this. Should he suggest that Nina and he have separate rooms? In which case it would have to be well planned so that she doesn’t take it amiss. He will have to put the blame on theatre. Beset by his thoughts, day and night, he has to be able to switch on the light and take notes, write, not to mention being able to talk out loud to himself, or laugh, maybe even cry, at any time. And he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s never been the type to enjoy disturbing others. Nina knows that. And she knows that he’s helped other playwrights for years. Saved their bacon even. Without ever asking to be credited. He’s hidden his light under a bushel. In a word. He has had enough of that. He was going to write the pants off them. Too bloody true. They think they can write plays, but the stuff he was going to write… Lord-a-mercy.
Telemann rests his fists on his chest and thrusts them into the air. He does it several times and says Ah! He says AH! He says Theatre. He says THEATRE! He says AH! THEATRE! And he says Sod’em! Sod’em! THEATRE! AH!
What do you think you’re doing?
Nothing.
Lying there and punching the air?
Not any more.
But that’s what you were doing?
Yes.
Should I be worried?
I don’t think so.
You’re still the same person?
More or less.
What was that you were saying as you punched the air?
Nothing.
Don’t say nothing. I heard you saying something.
It was nothing important.
I think it was important.
I said theatre.
Theatre?
Yes.
You really like the theatre, Telemann, don’t you.
Yes, I do.
You love the theatre.
Yes.
When are you going to start writing?
Very soon.
Nina, something’s just occurred to me.
Yes?
We haven’t made love for some time
Haven’t we?
No.
Right.
In my opinion, if this were a really good holiday we would have already done it a few times.
So you don’t think it’s a good holiday?
No, no, I do.
But not really good?
No.
How many times would we have had to do it?
A couple of dozen.
That many?
Actually, yes.
I think the holiday is fine as it is.
Yes, it is fine. But if were to be mega-fine.
You have to be careful not to place excessive demands on life.
I don’t think that’s an excessive demand.
It’s easy to be disappointed if you make too many demands.
I don’t make so many demands.
You’ll have to learn to love things closer to home, Telemann.
For me, being in bed with you is being close to home.
Rubbish.
What about doing it now?
Doing what?
What we’ve just been talking about.
Were we talking about something?
Yes.
Oh, that. That’s not a good idea.
Yes, it is.
No, it isn’t.
Yes, it is.
I don’t think it is.
Why not?
Telemann… I don’t like to have to say this, but…
But what?
I think I’m becoming allergic.
Allergic?
Yes.
To what?
To you.
What?
I’m afraid I’m developing a kind of allergy to you.
What do you mean?
Last week when you stroked me a bit before we fell asleep I got a rash right down the back of my thigh, and in the last few days my skin has become irritated where you touched me. Here, for instance, where you put your hand last night, here on my arm, when you said you thought my glasses were nice despite the lenses being quite thick, and touched my arm, in a way as if to emphasise the friendly nature of what you said.
Oh?
It’s irritated all over. Can you see?
This is madness, Nina.
Madness to some maybe. These things happen, it’s the way of the world.
Don’t you like me any more?
It’s not a question of liking or not liking. My body is trying to tell me something.
And you’re listening?
My body knows.
Are you sure of that?
Oh, yes, Telemann. The body knows. Yours does too.
Mine’s trying to tell me we should make love a couple of dozen times.
That’s of no interest to my body.
So what it’s trying to tell you then?
I don’t know.
But it doesn’t sound too promising for our relationship, to say the least.
No, agreed.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t wash my hands carefully enough after cooking. Nigella uses lots of spices which are sometimes rather exotic. Maybe your skin reacts to external contact with them.
It’s not that, Telemann, it’s you.
How can you be sure of that?
I just can.
No, you can’t.
Anyway it’s her fault.
Eh?
Nigella’s.
Eh?
She’s stuffed your head with crazy ideas.
Eh?
It’s her fault.
Are you jealous of Nigella?
No. I just don’t like her.
Is it because she has big breasts, and is always happy and hungry?
I think you want to be free of me, and Nigella has made your body produce some substance which pushes me away from you.
Eh?
That’s what I believe.
There’s no way I can get Nigella.
Ha! So that means you do want to have her.
Wanting her can be many things. That’s not how life works.
You want to have her!
Of course I want her on one level. But that has nothing to do with the real world. If I hadn’t been married to you, but fancy-free and attractive in Nigella’s eyes and she had knocked on my door and had offered herself I would not have said no, I have to admit, then I would have gone for it, ho ho, but that is not a scenario that I visualise or have any intention of trying to bring to fruition.
You’re kidding yourself.
No, I’m not.
Yes, you are.
Come on, Nina.
Stop saying ‘come on’. It’s a form of bossiness. It’s patronising.
What?
Don’t say ‘come on’.
I’ll say what I like. Nigella lives in Eaton Square in London, in a house worth maybe 70 million. She’s one of the world’s most famous TV chefs, and on top of that she’s married to one of the richest men in Britain. You and I, on the other hand, are here, in southern Germany, in Bavaria, the cradle of Nazism…
Don’t say the cradle of Nazism.
I’ll bloody well say what I like. If I want to say ‘come on’, I’ll say ‘come on’. If I want to say the cradle of Nazism, I’ll say the cradle of Nazism.
I think you should show some respect for what I think you shouldn’t say.
Will you let me finish?
Alright.
What I was in the middle of saying was that we, you and I, are fairly ordinary people, you’re a teacher and I’m a theatre person…
You’re a theatre director, Telemann, that’s what you are.
That’s right, but I’m trying to… yes, well, the point nonetheless is that neither you nor I lives in a dream world, on the contrary we work quite hard, live in a normal house, have three kids and at this moment we’re on holiday and when I ask you to make love you give me this crazy tale about irritated skin and Nigella causing me to produce substances that push you away from me. I’m here, Nina! With you! In Mixing Part Churches!
It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.
Come on! Do you realise what you’re saying?
Don’t say ‘come on’.
But do you realise what you’re saying?
Of course I realise what I’m saying.
This is absolutely insane. I’m not going to leave you, you know that.
Yes, you are. That’s what you want. You walk around lost in thought and when I ask you something you always say you’re thinking about the theatre.
But that’s what I
am
thinking.
No, you’re not.
Yes, I am.
Let me see what you’ve written!
Eh?
Let me see what you’ve written this holiday!
But…
No buts!
I haven’t written that much.
Let me see!
I think a lot. And then I delve deeper. And then I might make a note of some idea or other and add some more abstract concept. And as I normally work a lot with other people’s material, I rarely get a chance to consider my own stuff, but that’s what I’m doing here. I’m thinking about the theatre all day long. For example, just before we began this discussion or conversation or whatever you want to call it, what do you reckon I was thinking about?
Theatre?
Spot on. There you go.
I want to see what you’ve written!
What’s Russia supposed to mean?
It’s just a note, Nina.
Yes, but why Russia?
What it means?
Yes.
It’s hard to talk about.
Try.
It means nothing.
Nothing?
Yes, nothing.
So why did you make a note of it?
I don’t know. It’s intuition at work.
What’s the point of it?