Lazy Days

  Come on.

  The Baders are coming, too.

  For crying out loud.

  Nina and Berthold and Sabine want to take the cable car to the top of Zugspitze with the Baders.

  Telemann sits down to reflect on the theatre. He thinks about the theatre for five minutes, ten minutes, he thinks about the theatre for fifteen wonderful minutes. Then Heidi wants him to go to tennis practice with her.

  I don’t know about that. I was thinking of doing a spot of work.

  But you never come to the training.

  That’s not quite true.

  When was the last time you came then?

  It was… well, it was some time last winter, I suppose.

  And what season are we in now?

  OK; Jesus Christ, then I’ll go with you. But I demand the right to let my mind wander on occasion and to take a few notes.

  No worries.

  Fine.

  Telemann takes a seat in the stands with a pen and a pad he found in the house. He lights a cigarette and closes his eyes, but a groundsman comes and says/tells him that all the court area is a smoke-free zone and has been so for two years. Europe’s going to pot, Telemann thinks. And European theatre too.

  Telemann watches Heidi playing against a Russian girl. She is good. The Russian, that is. Telemann reflects that in Russia talented youngsters are spotted at three or four years of age and nurtured and nurtured, probably to such an extent that they have no life outside of it. So when at the age of eighteen or twenty they prove not to be the best in the world after all, their lives are in ruins. Heidi is from a different culture and can fall back on a number of things. If all goes well. A couple of things anyway. But having something to fall back on is cowardly nonetheless, Telemann reflects. If you don’t have anything to fall back on you become rampant, ruthless, dangerous. That’s what people should aim at. In both tennis and in the theatre. Telemann is approaching that good state where the brain takes off and ideas are born. He can feel it. He takes his pen from his pocket and wants to jot down some notes about Russia and groundsmen and risk-taking, this is theatre, all this is potential theatre, but at the top of the pad, in block letters, in an irritating light blue colour, he sees an idiotic logo: HAPPY TIME. That’s no bloody good. You can’t write theatre on a page that says HAPPY TIME. Typical of the Baders to have a pad like this lying about in the house they rent out. In the thickest swathe of Nazism and incest, there is this atrocious predilection for schmaltz. This region has the world’s worst ornaments. Telemann feels sick to the stomach and takes a deep breath to regain some kind of equilibrium. He feels an urge to jot this down, too. About the knick-knacks. The fact that the ornaments must have been here before Nazism. Thus ornaments are dangerous. But he must have another pad. He shouts down to Heidi, who becomes distracted and loses a point.

  I need another pad!

  What?

  I have to get another pad. Can’t write on this!

  OK.

  Telemann leaves the courts and walks toward the town centre smoking. He flings the HAPPY TIME pad, demon­stratively and provocatively, to the ground. Several passers-by are taken aback and eye one another and think we don’t want this kind of behaviour going on round here. A woman picks up the pad. She is pleasantly surprised to find it is a pristine writing pad. And moreover HAPPY TIME was written on every sheet. Perfect. She thinks. For correspondence. Fancy throwing this away. Heavens above.

  Telemann discovers a book shop and sees a classic notebook. A handy size with rounded corners. An elastic band to keep it closed during transport. A whole host of artists and writers have used the same type according to a poster in the shop. Apollinaire, Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Hemingway and many others. Well, these people did not primarily write plays, Telemann thinks. They mostly scribbled down bits and bobs, and some of them did drawings. Presumably they didn’t have it in them to write plays. Anyone can draw, even children. And turning out droll tales is no big deal either, not to mention writing poems, Jeez! Telemann has to laugh. No, theatre is something very different. It’s not for your average Joe. But the notebook will have to do. At least there’s nothing in blue letters on every page. In fact, they are completely blank. Not even lines. That’s good. Lines are not theatre. Empty, blank pages are theatre. A void. A scream in the void. A scream from the bowels of the earth: Angst! Angst! Now that’s what Telemann calls theatre.

  Back in the stand Telemann writes several things in his new notebook. Russia, he writes, ringing the word, he continues with ruthlessness, smoking laws, Nazi ornaments, maybe he could have a groundsman as a protagonist, why not, they wear smart clothes, they have a job that easily lends itself to symbolism, such as clearing up, repairing what has been destroyed. REPAIRING, Telemann writes, in capital letters underlining the word and allowing the line to continue and become an arrow pointing to another word he hasn’t written yet, what could that be now, CLIMATE? He writes CLIMATE, but has second thoughts, climate is boring, it is fundamentally boring, he crosses out the L and turns it into an H, scrubs the final two letters, changes the M to an N, and ends up with CHINA. Repair China? Is that theatre? Telemann spends a long time pondering. Then he smiles. It certainly is.

  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, Bulga
kov, 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 th
eatre?

  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.