Lazy Days Read Free

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