Lazy Days (8 page)

You tell me. Maybe it can be combined with something else and I can make something of it.

In connection with the theatre?

That’s the plan.

What do you mean by Nazi bric-a-brac?

Nazi bric-a-brac. Which everyone has round here. Bader’s house is full of it.

So, in your opinion, the Baders are Nazis.

No.

But they’ve got Nazi bric-a-brac?

Yes. Or else… yes, they have.

But for them they’re primarily ornaments, don’t you think?

Naturally.

So they don’t realise they’ve got Nazi bric-a-brac?

I think they know. In their heart of hearts.

You’ve written REPAIR in capital letters?

Indeed.

And you’ve underlined it and there’s an arrow pointing to another word. What’s that you’ve got? Climate? China?

China.

So it says REPAIR CHINA?

Yes.

And what’s this here?

Suit.

Suit?

Yes.

I think Russia is a code word for Nigella.

Eh?

The same number of letters.

Now you’re really stretching it, Nina.

Don’t try and talk your way out of this. Russia and Nigella have the same number of letters. Explain that to me. Now I’m really curious.

There aren’t the same number of letters. Russia’s got six and Nigella’s got seven.

One two three four five six. One two three four five six seven. OK.

Do you think I really need to encode Nigella’s name?

Yes, I do. So Russia isn’t a code word then?

Come on now. I don’t write in code.

Don’t say ‘come on’.

So this is how much you’ve done in two weeks?

By and large. But all you can see is the tip of the iceberg. Beneath the surface there is cubic kilometre upon cubic kilometre of thought, invisible to the naked eye.

Bit thin, that one, Telemann.

It’s theatre.

I think it’s thin.

You don’t know what you’re talking about. This is the quint­essence of theatre. This is the stuff of which theatre is made.

It’s nothing, Telemann. It’s nothing.

It’s theatre.

No.

The truth is, Nina, that you have no conception of what theatre is. You would not recognise theatre if people danced naked in front of you yelling at you through megaphones that this was theatre.

I’m allergic to you, Telemann.

You don’t know what theatre is.

I’m allergic. Look! I come out in a rash when you talk.

You don’t know what theatre is.

I’m allergic to theatre.

Dad?

Mhm?

If we’d been elephants, we would have been five elephants.

Yes.

Crazy thought?

Yes, it is actually.

Imagine that!

Yes, good thinking, Berthold. Great.

Bader only eats eggs from hens that can see snow-capped mountains.

I see.

Schneeberg eggs.

Does he now.

Don’t you think that’s nice?

Yes, I do.

Charming even?

Absolutely. Shall we make love?

Not now.

Some other time?

Alright.

Are you coming with us to Zugspitze?

What, again?

Yes, Heidi’s been a bit upset because we didn’t take her along last time, so now all three of us are going. And Bader too, by the way.

Bader, too?

Yes.

I’ll stay here then.

OK.

I’ll stay here, have a smoke and think about the theatre.

Alright.

As soon as Nina and the kids are out of the house it is Telemann-time.

With some red wine and a notebook in his hand, he locks himself in the toilet and thinks about the theatre. Nina’s toothbrush whirrs away in the background. Notes have to be made. Bugger her. Nina would soon see who can make notes. How dare she comment on his notes in the first place! And what they mean. And how few of them there are. Ridiculous. What a cheek. What. A. Cheek.

Telemann! Are you in there?!

What?!

Open up!

I thought you’d gone!

We had gone, but Berthold needs to go to the loo!

Right!

Are you going to open the door?

No.

Why not?!

Because I’m on the loo!

Have you nearly finished then?

No.

What’s that sound I can hear?

Nothing.

What did you mean, nothing?!

There’s nothing making any noise in here!

Yes, there is!

No, there isn’t!

Is it my toothbrush?

No!

It must be. Let me in!

No!

Let me in!

The sound’s in your mind, Nina!

What?!

It’s the allergy playing you up. It’s all in your mind.

Berthold needs the loo.

Find another loo!

What did you say?!

I said find another loo!

Jesus Christ. Not even in the loo is Telemann-time respected. What’s this country coming to? Telemann thinks. What. Is. This. Country. Coming. To. He notes down the words, looks at them and can see they are good. There’s no doubt. He’s getting close to something approximating theatre. But what does that really mean? Because when he says country he doesn’t mean Germany, of course. Nor Norway. He means the family, no, the situation, or maybe even the state he is now. And the state the theatre is in now. And the state of the theatre in him now. The theatre in him. That’s getting closer. Where is this country going to? Could that be a title? Have we got a title here? Telemann clasps the notebook with shaking hands. This is real theatre. A country which isn’t a country but a cross between a state and a person. There can hardly be any doubt that this is theatre. Nothing less.

Well, Berthold’s wet his pants!

What?!

I’d just like to inform you that Berthold peed himself just as he was going into Bader’s toilet! So thank you very much!

OK! My pleasure! Have a nice walk!

Wonderful. Is it any wonder that the theatre is stagnating and having a hard time? In conditions like these it’s amazing that there is any decent theatre at all. But then it’s not supposed to be easy. Theatre has to be painful. That’s its primary function, to be painful. It has to be painful for the creator, the mediator and, not least, the receiver. If any element fails to be painful, it’s not theatre. Then it’s no more than a simple performance. Did it hurt? That should be the criterion for everyone leaving the theatre. The theatre should, as a matter of rule, pay people to stand outside and pose this question to those leaving the theatre. And beat the sinners up afterwards. That would get rid of the scum who come to drink white wine and show off their furs. Good riddance.

The toothbrush whirrs. Telemann presses the pen on the paper. He is afraid Nina will return once more. He looks at the door handle, drinks, listens, no, nothing, looks down at the paper. Anything? Are there any impulses on their way through the sensory system somewhere between the right places in the brain and the motor function of his fingers? It would certainly seem so, thinks Telemann. The pen will be forming letters, from what he can judge. In a short time. But which ones? Any fool can write letters, but which ones, and in which order? Telemann lowers his head towards the tip of the pen, something inside him braces itself, the ballpoint of the pen begins to roll, he writes. He is writing! The stage is bare and empty. That’s what he writes. Illuminated only by a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Right! But actually the stage is not completely empty. There is a kitchen unit on the stage, Telemann writes. The stage is empty, one might say, apart from a kitchen unit, or to be more precise, a kitchen island. And a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. That’s all. A woman comes onto the stage. Is she blonde? Dark-haired? She’s dark-haired. Writes Telemann. And buxom. Has she got any clothes on? Telemann thinks. Clothes? No clothes? What would be most faithful to the essence of the theatre, so to speak, to its true self? The answer comes to Telemann in a flash of absolute clarity, in which the theatre and Telemann are no longer two separate entities but one: THE WOMAN HAS NO CLOTHES ON. There is no alternative. Telemann feels he is approaching some kind of truth. Perhaps for the very first time in his career as a dramatist. The woman is naked and she opens a bottle of wine and pours herself a glass. Takes a hearty swig. Then she begins to busy herself rummaging through the cupboards. She gets down on all fours to reach the back of the cupboard. Where can the baking tin be? Where CAN it be? She has to stretch a bit more, her back arched, stretches, stretches, yes, there it is, get it out, onto the worktop, it has to be right on the other side of the island, a long way off, she bends over the worktop, has to get up on her toes to reach right across, stretches, stretches, on the tips of her toes, and a bit more, that’s it, the tin’s in the right position now. Writes Telemann. Then she has to go down on her knees again, she needs a bowl, a green plastic bowl, it has to go there, and then a ladle, also green, and into the fridge to get a chocolate mixture that has been cooling off, not much, just a little, it hasn’t set yet, it can still be shaped, but it isn’t runny, it just moves slowly, like lava, a bit faster than that though, Telemann writes, she stretches, back arched again, my, oh my, what a long way back the chocolate mixture is, she is almost there, stretches, there we are, onto the worktop with it. And now she needs something else, she rummages through the drawers, the cupboards, bends down, stretches, no, now she is hunting furiously, what is it she’s after? She can’t find it. Takes a despairing swig of wine. Looks disheartened. Writes Telemann. But now the theatre comes to an end. She is just standing there. We can’t have that. Something has to happen. Someone has to come. A man comes! A man comes onto the stage. Who is this man? He seems familiar. He looks like Telemann. He looks very much like Telemann. Very, very much like Telemann. Has the man got clothes on? No clothes on? Telemann is embarrassed. The man has got clothes on, he writes. Underpants. Quite a smart pair of underpants. Nothing else.

Hello there!

Hello to you, too! Sorry to burst in on you, but the door was open and so I thought I’d better see if there was anything I could help with.

You came just at the right time.

Oh, good.

I can’t find my tape measure.

You can’t find your tape measure?

I’ve looked high and low and can’t see it anywhere.

That’s annoying.

Yes, it is. You see I’m making some chocolate thingies which have to be 19 to 20 centimetres long, but how can I do that if I haven’t got a tape measure?

Mhm, that’s awkward. Do you want me to nip out and buy you a tape measure?

No.

OK.

I’d prefer it if we, that is you and me, work out how long 19 to 20 centimetres is.

I see.

At this point Telemann pauses. He sips some wine and keeps the wine in his mouth, washing it from side to side and rolling it around his tongue sceptically. What is this all about? he thinks. It started as theatre and was theatre for quite a while, but now he fears it is beginning to turn into something else. But the theatre has many faces. Vulgar ones, too. So maybe this is still theatre, even though it is not painful to write it. Presumably it will become painful in due course. Telemann swallows. At any rate stopping now does not seem to be an option. The material will no doubt head in a less vulgar direction soon.

Can you suggest how we can work out how long 19 to 20 centimetres is?

No… it… no.

You haven’t got something of about that length?

The woman looks at the man. Writes Telemann. Studies him. Then she looks down at the area covered by the scant underpants.

The man follows her gaze.

Have you?

Are you asking whether I know how long…?

Yes.

It’s a few years since I checked.

Yes, yes, but it doesn’t change.

No.

It’s not like your ears, or nose, which continue to grow throughout life.

No.

So if you knew before, you should know now.

Yes.

And how long was it before?

Last time I checked it was 19 to 20 centimetres.

Exactly the length these chocolate thingies I’m making should be! What a funny coincidence!

Yes. But I remember thinking it was difficult to know where to measure from.

I can well imagine that.

So depending on where I measured from it was sometimes 19 and sometimes 20 centimetres.

In an erect state?

Yes, it… certainly was.

Did you measure it from the very root, or what?

Yes, I suppose I must have done, but it’s not so easy to say where the root starts.

Let’s find out.

OK.

What’s your name by the way?

Nothing.

Haven’t you got a name?

I don’t think we need names.

Alright then. Who needs names? Look at me now.

OK.

I don’t quite know what you like, but if I stand like this, and a bit like this maybe, and put my hands here and lift them up like this, a bit towards you, and pout, does that have any effect?

Er… yes.

Goodness me! Mhm, nice. Well, I never. Would you mind if I hold it for a bit?

Not at all.

Now let me see… is it clean?

Yes, I think so.

Maybe we should give it a bit of a wash, just for safety’s sake. After all, we
are
cooking.

Yes.

Let’s just give it a rinse under the tap, there we go, and then I’ll press it into the cake mixture, like so… and a bit more… there we are!

Right.

Well, thanks a lot for your help.

No problem.

The woman is about to let go, but doesn’t after all. Writes Telemann. She looks at her hand and what it is holding. Her gaze meets his. And is this theatre? Or not? It’s still a bit too early to say. A swig of wine.

Hey, I just had a thought.

What do you mean?

Well, I was thinking that while I’m here, holding you, I can feel quite a frisson, I have to confess, after all I’m not made of stone, and there’s no great rush for the chocolate thingies, so…

Oh, yes?

Well, what about if I grip you a bit tighter and, for instance, begin to move my hand backwards and forwards?