Lazy Days (2 page)

Nina is right. Telemann is thinking about Nigella Lawson. He doesn’t like to talk about this, but he thinks about her quite a lot.

It started when Nina bought him
Nigella Bites
, a cookery book, a birthday present. He thanked her politely, thinking that when you start giving each other cookery books the relationship is on its last legs, but he didn’t say anything. On the contrary. Telemann has been good at receiving presents without revealing his disappointment ever since as a child he was given a weaving frame, and saw from his father’s eyes that he and Mum had had a battle over this, and Dad must have lost and Mum was on tenterhooks, and Telemann didn’t have the heart to disappoint her, so he thanked her warmly and wove all through the Christmas holiday. The whole point of presents, as Telemann understood it, lies in the bonds they create between the giver and the receiver, and as such presents have no inherent value. And, at first, he thought that
Nigella Bites
was just such a present. But, without knowing why, he carried on leafing through the book. He looked at recipes, photographs of food, as in all cookery books, and descriptions of what you have to do, but he also looked at the photographs of Nigella herself, taken while she was in the kitchen, bending over pots and pans, dressed in different outfits, sniffing at the ingredients, mixing, stirring, pouring, for example milk from one smallish bowl to a larger one, and putting things into her mouth or about to put things into her mouth. Sometimes her eyes are what could best be described as delectable; at others they are mischievous, cheeky even. When she is dressed in black she is slightly dangerous, someone a person like Telemann could never have approached or addressed, but when she is wearing that thin pale blue sweater of hers and holding, say, a dessert bowl of strawberries and cream in her left hand and a spoon in her right, her head slightly bowed, she is soft and almost vulnerable, and to all appearances in need of comfort from someone like Telemann.

Moreover, he thinks Nigella is fascinatingly well-built. She has, for instance, got hips. And a bosom.

I got talking to a woman in Lidl’s.

Crikey, did you now, Telemann?

Berthold and Sabine began to play with her kid and so I think she felt it would be only natural to say something.

What did she say?

She told me her name was Lisa and she was American. And then she went on about a fantastic castle that was supposed to be just like out of a fairy tale, breath-taking, by all accounts, and it is very near here.

It’s called Neuschwanstein.

Really? And she went on and on about how she had pushed her boyfriend to come to Europe to see this castle, but he only wanted to go to Mexico and they had almost split up over it, but then she had dug her heels in and they had travelled to Germany and both of them had been blown away by this castle and he had proposed to her there and then and later they had a photo of the castle on the wedding invitations and of course they had a wedding cake made in the shape of the castle and now they have two children and usually come here every alternate summer.

Mhm.

We have so much fun in Europe, she said that several times.

Mhm.

I think I’ll have to write that sentence down.

Do that.

I must do it before I forget it.

Are you thinking of using it in the play?

Possibly.

Terrific. Are you going to meet her again, or what?

I hardly think so.

God, the battery in my toothbrush is flat again.

That’s annoying

Annoying? It’s useless. I only just bought it, you know.

You’ll have to remember to charge it tonight.

I do every night.

Have you considered emailing Braun about it? I don’t think they should be allowed to get away with selling us sub-standard products.

That’s right. Can we do that? Do you think they’ll answer?

Of course they will. For companies like them customer care is paramount. There’ll be seven or eight of them sitting there, just waiting for your email, at this very moment.

Once a day Telemann goes to the bathroom and sits on the toilet for a long time. Not because he’s constipated, but because he thinks it’s good to sit alone and think about the theatre. He switches on Nina’s toothbrush and lets it run down to time himself. He thinks he is entitled to the half an hour or so it takes for the battery to go flat. Telemann-time is how he thinks of it. Or theatre-time. The one merges into the other. It’s not easy for an outsider to know where Telemann-time ends and theatre-time begins. Telemann doesn’t even know himself. It’s not so uncommon for him to think about the theatre so much that when the toothbrush stops whirring he forgets to put it back in the charger. It is left standing on the edge of the sink, run down and all alone.

Telemann! Is there something wrong?

Eh? No, no, I was dreaming. It was just a dream.

What about?

Nothing important.

It must have been. Everything that happens to you is important to me.

Do you mean that?

Of course.

Wow.

Don’t you feel that way about me?

Yes… yes I do, I just haven’t put it into, what shall I say, such a clear formulation, sort of.

What were you dreaming about?

About Charles Saatchi, if you absolutely have to know.

Who’s Charles Saatchi?

He’s just a rich Englishman who was born into a Jewish family in Baghdad, but then they moved to London when he was four. I don’t quite know why. Perhaps it wasn’t so easy to be a Jew in Baghdad. Anyway, he started a large advertis­ing agency with his brother and he also collects art.

Why did you dream about him?

I don’t know.

What did you dream about then?

It was like a house, a really magnificent house, you know the kind of London house with white bricks and several storeys, and it was by a rectangular park surrounded by the same expensive houses, and I wanted so much to see into the house. I felt there was someone inside who wanted me to go in. But then Charles Saatchi blocked the way. He was standing right in front of the door smiling one of those affluent smiles that said I might as well forget all about going inside, I wouldn’t be allowed in there in a thousand years, sort of, if you understand what I mean, that’s what his smile said, and I was so angry, I told him to wipe that grin off his face, but he just stood there and stood there and I could see there was nothing I could do, and I was frustrated and fed up, but he just smiled all the more.

Golly. Yes, I can see how frustrating that must have been.

Yes, it was.

But you don’t know why you dreamt about him?

Nope.

Do you know anything more about him?

Not really.

But still your subconscious churns round, feeling that he’s some kind of threat?

Mhm.

Well, that’s very strange.

Yes.

I think this is exciting, Telemann. Now let’s do a bit more investigating.

OK.

Tell me more about him.

I don’t know a lot more.

Has he got any hobbies?

Collecting art.

Yes, you said that. Is he married?

Eh, what?

I asked if he was married.

Err… I can’t remember.

Think your voice went a bit funny there.

I was just feeling tired.

OK. Shall we go back to sleep then?

If you like.

Good night.

Good night.

Nina doesn’t know, but Charles Saatchi is married to Nigella, and Telemann would be the first to admit that he has problems accepting that. He thinks about Saatchi almost as much as he does about Nigella. Often when the nice thoughts about Nigella have got a hold and Telemann is really enjoying himself, such as when he is in the kitchen making her food, then the nasty thought of Saatchi creeps into the picture. It doesn’t push Nigella away completely but it merges with her and unnecessarily complicates and contaminates the moment. Once when Telemann was sitting on the sofa at home, thinking about the theatre, his thoughts turned to Nigella instead. He fetched his laptop, the one he primarily uses to note down ideas about plays, and searched for pictures of Nigella. He found a lot and spent a good, long time studying several of them. He wondered whether he dared to save a couple of them deep in the machine, but he didn’t. After a while he came across a photograph of Nigella and Charles Saatchi sitting in a car, presumably a classic London taxi, Telemann thought. He had never seen a photo of Nigella with Saatchi before and the image upset and bothered him to such a degree that he couldn’t think sensibly about the theatre for several days. It was a shock to see them together in a picture. Suddenly he realised that Nigella had entered the relation­ship voluntarily, of her own free will, fully aware of her actions, so to speak. Sitting there on the back seat, she is smiling, bedecked in rich, elegant apparel, with mauve sunglasses and matching shawl, over the black dress, and Saatchi is sitting beside her, not especially close, a fact that Telemann felt emphasises Saatchi’s proprietary relation­ship towards her. His posses­sion of her is so indis­putable that he doesn’t even need to sit close to her. From the moment Telemann saw this photo­graph a feeling of resentment grew inside him towards Charles Saatchi. To his wealth. To the damned secretiveness that surrounds him. To the fact that he never speaks to journalists. To his non-appearances at the opening of the art exhibitions he has himself organised. Even to the double ‘a’ in his name. The list of things about Saatchi that Telemann considers provocative is very long.

Nina came into the room as Telemann was studying the photograph and he reacted by quickly closing the laptop.

What was that?

Nothing.

Are you looking at porn?

No.

What are you doing then?

I’m thinking about the theatre.

And then you slam your laptop shut when I come into the room?

Yes.

Knowing that will make me suspicious?

Yes. But sometimes when you’re thinking about the theatre you have to slam your laptop shut. That’s the way it is.

Dad, what’s revolting minus one?

I think you should go back to sleep, Berthold.

Yes, but what is revolting minus one?

What it is? I… don’t know. Actually it’s an impossibility.

Typical of you, that is. You’re incredibly bad at doing calculations with words.

You could be right. What’s the answer?

The answer is the word that someone invented immedi­ately before revolting.

And which word was that?

I don’t know. But if I knew I would have the answer.

OK, fine. Can you go back to sleep now?

I think so.

Sleep well then.

Good night.

Sometimes Telemann worries about his children. Heidi plays tennis for seven or eight hours a day and when she’s not playing tennis she’s thinking about tennis. In much the same way that Telemann thinks about the theatre, Heidi thinks about tennis. The difference is that while there’s an element of compulsiveness with Telemann’s thoughts about the theatre, a hint of desperation connected with some need to show the buggers what the theatre is capable of, Heidi’s thoughts about tennis are completely spontaneous. For instance, she speculates that if she can manage to extend her wrist fully her serve would be more powerful and the ball would be despatched towards her opponent at several more kilometres an hour. And then her mind turns to tennis wear. And equipment. The great thing about Heidi’s thinking about tennis, speculates Telemann, is that if she becomes good enough there will be money in it before long. And lots of money at that. Telemann would have no objection to Heidi dethroning Maria Sharapova, the Williams sisters and Jelena Jankovic. He wouldn’t at all mind living off Heidi, he has sometimes reflected, with apartments at home and abroad and long hotel stays, in Brazil perhaps, or Dubai, with a free bar and unlimited opportunity to think about the theatre.

Highly unlikely there would be any money in Berthold, though. He’s a singularly withdrawn eight-year-old who lives in his own world and is not bothered that others cannot get through to him. Many years after most children have stopped saying strange, charming things Berthold continues to do so. Nina and Telemann exchange glances, sometimes several times a day, and Telemann wonders whether they will ever be able to turn him into a dynamic, viable individual. Sabine is younger and for the time being it is unclear which direction she will follow. But in good moments Telemann thinks he can see a spark in her, an inner tremor that might even lead her towards the theatre. If all went well she may end up doing something in the theatre, like her father, Telemann thinks.

We’re very different, you and I.

What makes you say that?

I don’t know. Perhaps because we’re on holiday. Your brain takes charge and goes its own way. Isn’t it the same for you?

No.

But we’re different.

We are indeed.

You, for example, wear very thick glasses while I don’t wear glasses at all.

Mhm.

You use an electric toothbrush. I use a normal toothbrush.

That’s true.

You love anything German while I hate it. OK, maybe I don’t hate it but I certainly don’t love it. I’m sceptical. Sceptical’s the word.

Thank you, I get the message. And you take oxidants the whole time while I’m more a fan of anti-oxidants.

I think that’s because you’re a bit of a shallow person who thinks a lot about appearance and life expectancy and not much about things that really matter.

And what may they be?

I could mention quite a few.

The theatre?

Absolutely. That’s one. I will not deny that I consider the theatre to be one of the things that matter.

Do you wish me to think about the theatre as well?

Not at all. Yes, actually I do. Sometimes. Then we could talk. Have more of a meeting of the minds.

After this short conversation Telemann goes out for a smoke. He could have smoked indoors, but he feels sure that Nina would have something to say if he did, and he doesn’t want the bother. The whole point of having a fag is to get a few minutes on your own without having to explain or justify yourself, without using any words at all, and while he’s smoking he strolls around Mixing Part Churches and passes a sausage stand and orders and thereafter eats a big, big sausage, the largest he can find, full of oxidants, which immediately mount an attack on Telemann’s innards. But Telemann loves attacks. Attack is what it’s all about. Theatre is synonymous with attack. The mission of the theatre is to break down preconceptions. Above all else, to break down preconceptions. Telemann thinks.