Lazy Days Read Online Free PDF Page A

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