Do you understand the significance of that?
No, Telemann, what is it?
It means you should keep your mouth shut, Nina. Tightly shut. And what’s more, you can stuff Bader and his Schneeberg eggs, and the hens too for that matter, where the sun never shines. By the way, it’d be best to blind the hens first. Use a sharp instrument, jab it into their eyes, maybe it’s a bit difficult the first few times, but then you’ll get used to it, and after that you can serve Bader eggs from hens which once saw snow-capped mountains and now can’t see anything.
You’re sick, Telemann.
OK.
You’re sick.
True.
Dad?
Yes.
Nigella wasn’t on the wall when you moved in.
Wasn’t she?
No.
You mean I wrote it?
Yes.
You could well be right.
Are you in love with her?
It’s more complicated than that.
How do you mean?
It has facets and aspects that fourteen-year-olds might not understand.
Do you think she’s sexy?
I don’t wish to comment on that.
Why not?
It would be too superficial. When you’re young the world is black and white, but the older you get, the more shades and nuances you see.
Eh?
Appearance is just a façade, Heidi. You have to look behind and beyond it. Into the very stuff of life.
I think I’ll move back with Mum.
OK.
Don’t stop reading!
Meet me outside the Globe Theatre. July 28th. At five pm. Telemann has never understood the difference between am and pm, but he can wait there early in the morning and in the afternoon, he thinks. No, not bloody likely. Not at five o’clock in the morning. Let’s say half past nine. PM. And just as Shakespeare could see through people (smart to mention Shakespeare) I can see right through you. I know you are desperate. I know that your TV programmes and books are cries for help. You want someone to come and rescue you. I am that person.
And I hate art. No.
You know that beautiful feeling of being seen and understood? Prepare to live with that feeling for the rest of your life. Maybe you can wear that pale blue and green sweater of yours, the thin one, or whatever you want of course, but that sweater is nice. I just mentioned it in case you wonder what I like. But I like everything about you, so don’t worry. Here is a photograph of me, so that you can recognise me. I have been called handsome, but… so… I wonder what you think. Anyway, it is how we are on the inside that matters. I will be holding a punnet of strawberries (extremely pleased with this). If you want, I can move to London. No problem. Since I am a dramatist (big word, but still) I can work anywhere as long as there is an internet connection. Hell, I can even work without an internet connection. And I think that your kids and my kids will instantly like each other. Kids are kids. Aren’t they? And I like carbonara.
Perfect.
Hi, Nina, it’s me. Did I wake you up?
Yes.
Good. How do you say ‘stamp’ in German?
It’s four o’clock in the morning, Telemann.
I know.
Can we talk later?
No.
How do you say ‘stamp’?
Briefmarke.
Thank you.
Are you going to send a letter now?
Work that one out for yourself. Thank you again.
Hi.
Hello there, princess.
Have you come to see the match?
Yes.
Have you been waiting long?
I didn’t know exactly when you would be playing, but I haven’t got much else on… so this… was just very nice. I’ve been thinking about the theatre.
I don’t know if you’re allowed to drink here.
Nor me.
How fat you’ve got, Dad.
No, I haven’t.
Yes, you have.
Anyway, as opposed to what you believe, we need fat. Especially if people, like me, are working in the theatre. The brain is one big lump of fat. If you starve yourself you can’t write theatre.
But when your waistline starts expanding maybe it’s a sign you’re eating too much.
That’s just a myth. As I said, you have to learn to analyse and see things at a deeper level. Otherwise you will continue to be easy prey to sensational journalism. You have to see behind the façade, Heidi. Behind. And behind again. As far into and behind as at all possible. You’re missing the boat. While you play tennis other fourteen-year-olds are beginning to see behind the façade. Soon you’ll be seriously behind. You’ll be standing there with your pockets full of tennis balls wondering where it all went wrong.
Mum says you’re depressed.
I’m sure she does.
Are you?
Far from it.
Sure?
Course I’m sure. Mum says so many strange things. Don’t listen to her.
Shouldn’t I?
Absolutely not. The trick is to pretend you’re listening but not to take any notice of what she says.
OK.
That’s the best advice I can give you.
Thank you.
You need to break free, Heidi.
Do you think so?
There’s no doubt about it. And to help you on your way I can tell you something about her you don’t know.
Go on then.
You know how she usually spends quite a long time in the bathroom in the morning?
Yes.
And just as much time in the bathroom before she goes to bed.
Yes.
What do you think she’s up to?
I thought she was putting her face on and taking it off.
Well, there’s something else she does.
What’s that?
She puts things up her bum.
What?
She likes to put things up her bum.
What sort of things?
Any old small object. Batteries, marbles, once there was even a golf ball.
Yuk.
There are all sorts in this world. Some like one thing, others like something else. Your mother puts things up her bum. You have to accept that.
How disgusting!
Yeah, well, it took me a few years to get used to it, but now I don’t think about it much any more.
But it’s awful!
I don’t think you should be so hasty to judge her, Heidi. Give it some thought for a couple of days. Let it sink in. And by the way I don’t think you should tell her you know. She’ll only deny it and then we’re back where we started. Oh well. Now you know at least. So you can keep it in mind.
COME ON, HEIDI! BEAT THE HELL OUT OF IT! YEAH, THAT’S THE WAY! UNSTOPPABLE! TERRIFIC! SERVE DOWN THE LINE!
Maybe you could calm down a little?
Am I making too much noise?
Yes.
And what makes that any of your business?
I just think we should let our daughters get on with the game.
Do you know what I think?
No.
I think you don’t like it when my daughter beats your daughter.
And I think you’ve put on some weight.
Yes, but I don’t think she cares.
Who?
The man she’s married to now was quite fat when they met. But she still married him.
Who?
The art collector. I’m not even close to being as fat as him, so I don’t think she’d have any objection to marrying me, either.
Have you been drinking?
Although marriage is not really what I’m after.
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Is your husband fat?
I’m not going to answer that.
I think he’s fat.
Whatever.
I think he’s huge. And you could do with a bit more fat on you, too. You have a nice face, but some mo
re fat here wouldn’t go amiss. And maybe around here.
Get your hands off me.
And if I don’t?
I’ll call security.
Right. Call the Nazi security.
You’re insane.
FANTASTIC, HEIDI! BLOODY TERRIFIC! HEIDI! HEIDI! HEIDI! HEIDI! HEIDI!
Hello?
What on earth has got into you?
What’s got into me?
Heidi says you were drunk at the tennis match.
I totally reject that allegation.
And then you said I liked putting things up my bum.
It’s difficult to hear what you’re saying, Nina.
There are limits.
Poor connection, pip-pip-pip-achtung-achtung.
Seriously, Telemann!
Nina, this is getting expensive.
Telemann!
Hi, it’s me.
Hi.
What a strange dialling tone!
Oh yes.
As if you were in a different country.
A different country?
Yes.
Which country might that be?
I’ve no idea.
In a way, Germany’s a different country.
Yes. But you’re not in a different, different country, are you?
Oh no. I’m in Bahnhofstrasse, as usual. That’s where I live.
Telemann, I think we need to meet, just you and me, to talk things over.
Can’t.
Why not?
I’m… working.
Can’t you squeeze in a meeting?
No. I’m so deep into the play, I am the play, so to speak, and that fills my world.
So I don’t exist?
In a way, no.
But I do exist, Telemann.
Of course, of course. But there are different layers here. As in the theatre. Layer upon layer.
Train approaching Paddington Station! Paddington! Platform on the right hand side!
What was that?
What was what?
Paddington?
What about Paddington?
Are you in London?
How can I be in London?
You are in London!
This is getting expensive, Nina.
What are you doing in London?
Where can you buy strawberries in this town? And where the hell is the Shakespeare Theatre? Nigella is probably already waiting there. She can’t let this chance slip. Last night she said her goodbyes. Saatchi, the little whiner, must have started crying and had to be consoled and patted to sleep. Keep the house, she said. Bloody hell. Telemann laughs. What’s the use of fame and fortune when you lose the love of your life? Nothing. It’s theatre. Merciless. Then she dashed off in her thin blue sweater and has been wandering around in the town in a state of suspense ever since. She is filled with expectation. Her body is shaking uncontrollably. Convulsions. A new start. Whoever would have imagined this would happen to me, she thinks, to little old me! There’s a fruit store. Strawberries! Please! Here. Thanks. Tube. Change at Baker Street, then to Bond Street, Green Park, Westminster, God, it’s getting late, Waterloo and off at London Bridge. And out. Out! Where is this Globe? There! There! But where’s Nigella? Isn’t she here? Is that possible? Telemann paces up and down. Eating strawberries. That must mean the wrangling has gone on all night. Saatchi wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t accept the defeat. He is nothing without her. I can’t go on without you! You have to! Nooooo! Stay here a little longer. Does he hit her? Does Saatchi become violent? Heavens above. Saatchi hits her. Telemann has no time to lose. Run, run, run. Look at the map, look at the map, what a complicated town. Excuse me, where is Eaton Square? Thanks. Waterloo, Westminster, change trains, on to St James’ Park, off at Victoria. More running. What impressive houses. Which number is hers? Is it this one? Ding dong. Wait. Blink. Yes? Nigella? Over there, sir. Thanks. You’re welcome. Run. Ding dong. Yes? Tell her Telemann is here. The lady is not to be disturbed, sir. Is he beating her? I beg your pardon? Is he beating her? Goodbye, sir. Thank you, sir. Door bangs. Shit. Saatchi has got the butler on his side. Good cop, bad cop. One is pleasant with her to get her to talk, the other one beats her. Telemann hides in the bushes. Jumps as high as he can to see through the windows. Did he see her hair? She’s alive! Nigella! Thank God, she’s alive. Merciful God! Nigella! Nigella!
Hello, sir.
I’m glad you came, Officers. Saatchi’s beating her.
Will you please leave the premises, sir?
You must arrest the Jew!
Come with us, sir.
Please arrest the Jew!
We won’t ask you nicely again, sir.
Hi.
Hi.
Shall we meet?
I thought you were working.
Yes, I was, but now I’ve put it aside for a bit.
I see.
Where would you like to meet?
It’s you who wants us to meet.
Yes, but a few days ago it was you who wanted to meet.
So now you’re ringing me because you think I want to meet you?
Yes.
But it’s not very important for you to meet?
I wouldn’t say that. We can meet.
If you don’t want to meet me, then there’s no point!
Nina?… Nina?
Hi, it’s me again.
Yes?
We got off on the wrong foot before. I want to meet you. I need to meet you.
OK.
What about just going to the cinema?
Fine by me.
If Heidi can look after the other two, we could go to Munich and see a film.
What kind of film?
I can see here that the arts cinema in Munich is showing a Hungarian film tonight.
Uhuh?
Satan’s Tango.
That’s a strange title.
Yes.
Be a bit like the old days. Just you and me. In the cinema.
Yes.
This is great, Nina. Us two, driving from Mixing Part Churches to Munich to see a film. I like that.
It’s not called Mixing Part Churches.
Yes, it is.
Maybe we should take it in turns to drive?
No way. I’ve had a few beers.
What were you doing in London?
I haven’t been to London.
Can’t you just come clean?
I‘ve just been writing. Theatre.
I heard on the phone that you were on a train.
No, you didn’t!
Telemann!
I was listening to The Sounds of London.
The Sounds of London?
A CD I bought in Bahnhofstrasse.
It makes me sick to think you can lie to me without the slightest compunction.
If we begin to compare lies you won’t come out of this very well, Nina.
It makes me sick.
You’re not the only one.
I beg your pardon.
Who feels sick.
But it really makes me sick.
Same here.
How long does this film last?
Seven and a half hours.
Are you kidding?
No.
But it’s already revolting. Fat, miserable people wandering around in the mud and rain doing God knows what. And that little girl torturing the cat.
Yes. And later on she kills the cat and herself, too.
Have you seen this film before?
Yep. And when she’s dead there’s a helluva long scene which, time-wise, actually precedes the scene where the girl dies, where they dance and drink in the café while a beardy talks about something a person called Jerimias said.
You’re sick in the head!
You need to see this, Nina.
No, I don’t.
Yes, you do. Nothing comes close to this. It’s theatre. Even if it’s a film.
You’re sick, Telemann!
Maybe. But that’s exactly what the film’s about. You and me and Ba
der and all the others. And our condition. The sick human condition. And the nastiness of it all.
I want to go home.
To Mixing Part Churches?
I want to go home, Telemann. I just want to go home.
Out of the question. Do you realise how rarely this film is shown? This is a unique opportunity. Let’s see a bit more. Just a couple of hours. Two or three hours.
Hi, it’s me.
Hi.
Thanks for yesterday.
My pleasure.
It was an unusual film.
It was, wasn’t it. Plenty of food for thought, eh?
Mhm. What are you doing?
What do you think?
Writing?
Correct. Theatre. What are you doing?
Telemann, I was thinking we could go back home today.
Oh yes.
And I wanted to say that…
Yes?
I’m not allergic to you after all.
Aren’t you?
No.
Are you over it?
Yes.
But were you really allergic to me for a while or was it just something you said?
It was just something I said.
Hm. I see. Actually, I think that’s quite titillating.
Do you think?
It gives you an air of mystery and inscrutability.
Really?
Important theatrical attributes, both of them.
Right.
Exciting.
Does that mean you’re coming back with us then?
I’m not quite sure.
I think you should come.
What about Bader?
He’s staying here. It’s finished.
Finished?
Yes.
Great.
Are you coming home then?
Maybe.
I’ve been so stupid, Telemann.
Yes, you have.
So incredibly stupid.
I quite agree. And Bader’s stupid.
Yes, he is stupid.
Both of you are stupid.
Yes.
And not a little stupid, either.
No.
Extremely stupid.
Yes. Kiss me.
We’ll leave that for a while.
OK.
And Mixing Part Churches is stupid.
Yes.
And next year we’ll go to London.
Yes.
But I’m not stupid, am I.