Lazy Days

  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.

  What did he say?

  Herr Bader says that the caramelised pineapples are very good and he was wondering if he might be so bold as to take one more.

  Help yourself.

  What did you say just now?

  I’m just saying to the Baders that you’re going to tell us a story and that I’m a bit curious because I haven’t heard it before.

  Hm. It’s nothing much. It’s just something that happened to me in April. An accident.

  An accident?

  Yes, a minor one.

  And you haven’t told me about it?

  No.

  Why not?

  I think I repressed the whole incident.

  But now you’ve remembered it?

  Yes.

  OK. Fire away.

  Will you translate as I talk or shall I stop now and then?

  I’ll translate as you talk.

  OK. It happened when you were at a seminar. I can’t quite remember where you were…

  I was at Voksenåsen.

  Voksenåsen?

  Yes, that place up in Holmenkollåsen that Norway ceded to Sweden after the war.

  I thought we weren’t going to talk about the war.

  We’re not.

  OK. Anyway it happened while you were there.

  Alright.

  What was that you said?

  I was just explaining to them that the story itself hasn’t begun yet.

  I’m starting now.

  Great.

  So you were at the seminar and I had taken Heidi to tennis and was on my way to pick up Berthold and Sabine, who were visiting friends, and I was driving towards Skøyen, and I was about to turn off a smaller road onto a bigger one, and a cyclist came up on the right, on the pave­ment, and there was loads of snow, and it was dark too, and the cyclist braked hard as I approached, not very fast, I have to emphasise that, I was driving extremely slowly and carefully. As usual. The cyclist hit his front brake too hard and went over the handlebars, he did a sort of somersault and landed beside the car with a thump. I sat in the car without moving for several seconds and when I didn’t hear any more I slowly drove around the corner and stopped, and then I waited. I must have been a bit shocked, it didn’t occur to me to get out of the car and see what had happened. I could see in the rear-view mirror the cyclist had got to his feet and was walking towards me. So I leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. I asked him how he was and he said he thought he was alright. Then he said I had driven over his arm.

  You drove over his arm?

  Evidently. I could see that his forearm was a little bit flat, but he was moving his fingers as normal, and he was smiling too, even though it might have been a slightly strained smile.

  What happened?

  I asked whether he wanted me to take him anywhere, but he didn’t. So then I wished him a speedy recovery and drove off.

  You drove off?

  Yeah.

  And you didn’t give it another thought?

  No. But it’s been on my mind recently.

  So that’s why you’ve been a bit distracted, is it?

  I don’t think so. But I don’t consider that the crash was my fault. He was totally to blame. Where I went wrong was to drive around the corner, not to stop at once, because that’s when I must have driven over his arm… What was that he said?

  Herr Bader says you shouldn’t have driven around the corner.

  I just said that. What’s he saying now?

  He says you should have stopped at once, as soon as the cyclist drove into the car and you should have got out to see what had happened.

  Tell Herr Bader that in my opinion he should mind his own business.

  I’m not saying that.

  Tell him!

  No.

  What did you say just now?

  I said that you said we’re grateful that they accepted our invitation and that you and your wife, me that is, thank them for allowing us to rent this wonderful house.

  Bloody hell, I can see I’ll have to learn German.

  Yes, do.

  What are they saying now?

  They’re thanking us for the nice food and the pleasant company and the interesting story you’ve just told them.

  The pleasure was all f
ucking ours.

  It’s not very nice to think that you keep things hidden from me.

  I don’t keep things hidden.

  You drive over people’s arms without telling me. That’s… not very nice. It worries me.

  I thought it was horrible, so I repressed it. I haven’t thought about it since it happened.

  And then it suddenly, like, came back to you?

  Yes.

  Why?

  Because you asked me to tell you a story you hadn’t heard before. That’s quite an ask, but I took your request seriously and that was what I came up with.

  Is there anything else?

  What do you mean anything else?

  Other things you haven’t told me?

  I don’t think so.

  You don’t think so?

  No, I don’t think so.

  No other accidents, large or small?

  No.

  You haven’t killed anyone?

  No.

  But you’re not absolutely sure?

  What do you mean?

  If you think it was so horrible to drive over a cyclist’s arm it’s so much more horrible to take someone’s life and then I assume you would have it repressed it all the more.

  You’re quite right.

  But no bells are ringing?

  Now I think you’re going too far, Nina.

  I also think it’s strange of you to tell us about driving over a cyclist’s arm when we have guests from abroad to dinner. You’re not just representing yourself, Telemann, you’re an ambassador me as well, and in a way, your country. Now the Baders no doubt think that Norwegians are out of their minds.

  Fine. Next time I’ll tell a different story.

  If there is a next time.

  What do you mean?

  I don’t know.

  What are you on about now?

  I’m just saying that you make me insecure, Telemann. I’m not sure that you can distinguish between fiction and reality in ways other adults can follow.

  Now I have no idea what you mean.

  You live in a world where recollection and fantasy sometimes merge, but this is not theatre, Telemann, this is us, it’s you and me and our children on holiday and we’re trying to talk to other people, but thanks to you it went off the rails, it ended in a scene, and you might know what’s in your own head, but those around you have no idea.

  Is that a big problem?

  Yes, I think it is.

  But it did happen. The cyclist actually hit the car and I drove over his arm.

  Right.

  His arm was a bit flat afterwards.

  OK, good night.

  Good night.

  What on earth are you up to?

  I’m making breakfast.

  It looks more like dinner.

  But it’s breakfast.

  You’re going to have dinner for breakfast?

  No. I’m having breakfast.

  But it looks like dinner.

  Now you’re beginning to grate, Nina.

  What?

  You won’t like me saying so and I would like you to observe that I am not raising my voice or straining it when I say this, but if an unbiased outsider had been listening to what you just said I would not have blamed them for thinking you were a very conventional and boring person.

  Are you saying I’m a boring person?

  I feel uncomfortable about having to justify myself in this way. We’re on holiday. We have no plans. When I woke up I lay in bed, happily thinking about the theatre, and then I got hungry and now here I am, making Three Fishes with Three-Herb Salsa, because I’m keen to see what it tastes like. What time of the day it might be and the conventions regarding what it is usual to eat for breakfast are of no interest to me.

  You don’t think it is off-putting that Nigella is in the process of putting food into her mouth in this picture?

  No.

  So Nigella is not boring?

  I don’t know.

  But what do you think?

  I don’t think she’s boring.

  I’m not boring, either.

  Of course not.

  But you just said I was.

  What I said was that you could easily be mistaken for a boring person.

  Because I think it’s strange to have dinner for breakfast?

  Yes.

  Whereas you are an interesting person?

  I didn’t say that.

  But I think you believe that.

  I may be a little more open than you. A little more bound­less. Maybe.

  Maybe I don’t think there’s any point in being boundless.

  Perhaps you’re right.

  Exactly.

  Let’s leave it like that then.

  Yes.

  Would you like to try some?

  No.

  Later?

  Maybe.

  For dinner?

  Possibly.

  Did you know that there are actually two towns?

  Er… no.

  That’s what Bader just told me.

  Did he now?

  Garmisch was originally one town and Partenkirchen another.

  Really?

  And then they were merged before the Winter Olympics in 1936.

  I see.

  But the locals were against it.

  OK.

  Hitler just decided.

  Hitler would.

  And today many tourists call the town just Garmisch, but it’s unfortunate because that annoys those living in Partenkirchen, according to Bader.

  And which bit are we in now?

  Partenkirchen.

  So Bader is annoyed?

  Must be a little.

  Did you console him?

  At least I spoke with a calm, warm voice.

  Good. But as long as we call it Mixing Part Churches we elegantly avoid the whole problem.

  I think you should stop saying that.

  I will not.

  This is about identity and self-respect. You don’t mock that.

  I do.

  What if the Germans called Oslo some stupid name?

  They’re welcome to. Sometimes I feel like doing the same myself.

  I’ll have to make a note of that by the way. Have you got any suggestions?

  No.

  Have you got a pen?

  No.

  Telemann?

  Yes.

  Are you aware that whenever you smoke a fag you shorten your life by eleven minutes?

  I wasn’t, no.

  But that’s the truth of the matter.

  OK.

  What do you think when you hear that?

  I don’t know. Eleven minutes is not the end of the world.

  No, but if you add all the cigarettes you’ve smoked it amounts to months and years.

  You can’t think like that.

  Can’t you?

  No. A pack of ten makes a hundred and eleven minutes. That corresponds to quite a long film or, for example, one of the short performances we often put on in the Malersal in the National Theatre.

  What do you mean?

  There are many films and plays that are not worth seeing, so you can say that if I begin to skip the ones I know won’t give me anything, and that is most of them, it more or less evens itself out.

  Are you being serious?

  Of course I am.

  Sometimes I wonder if you’re all there.

  I certainly am. I’ve got a lot of opinions about you too, but I keep them to myself.

  Have you?

  Yes.

  Such as?

  I don’t wish to comment.

  I think that’s cowardly of you.

  I don’t think you’ve thought this through well enough, Nina.

  I want to know what you think about me.

  No comment.

  But you love me?

  Yes, of course.

  Are you asleep?

  What?

  I was asking if you were asleep.

  What do you th
ink?

  May I say something?

  I suppose so.

  I was thinking about what we were saying earlier today.

  Mhm?

  I think it’s important that we say what we think about each other, and that should go for everything, at any time.

  You’re not afraid of it getting too brutal?

  If it does, so be it.

  When shall we start then?

  Now, right now.

  OK. I think, for example, it’s a bit irritating to be kept awake like this, just when I was dropping off.

  But this is important.

  Yes, but there’s always tomorrow morning. And nothing’s going to happen between us before then anyway.

  You mean I should have waited?

  Yes.

  Turn left.

  Sure?

  According to the map the castle should be a few kilo­metres away.

  What does that scowl mean?

  I’m a tiny bit annoyed.

  What about?

  I find the way you drive irritating.

  Just today or always?

  Always.

  I don’t think it is.

  Yes, it is. First, you spend too long in first gear, then you’re too long in second, and if the wipers are on and it stops raining you don’t turn them off. You simply don’t notice that the wipers are churning away for no reason, and not only that, you remove the ignition key far too quickly when you stop. The key gets bent like that.

  It doesn’t look bent to me.

  No.

  You’re wrong then.

  No, I’m not. I straighten the key when you’re not looking.

  For my sake, you mean.

  Yes, or rather, I don’t really know why. I just don’t want the key to be bent.

  It gets on my nerves that you don’t know why.

  You were the one who wanted us to be frank and open.

  You’re right.

  I thought that was how you wanted things to be.

  Yes, but maybe not when the children can hear.

  Right. So in other words what I just said was a little bit OK and a little bit not OK.

  Yes.

  But a good start nonetheless.

  Yes. By the way, I think you should start using a tooth­pick.

  What?

  There’s something peculiar about your teeth which causes food to get stuck in the gaps. It’s disgusting. I really have to force myself to kiss you. And that’s not all.