The Great Rabbit Revenge Plan Read online

  The Great Rabbit Revenge Plan

  About the author

  Burkhard Spinnen was born in Germany in 1956 and lives as a writer in the German city of Münster. He has received many awards for his work, among them the Oldenburg Award for Young Adult Literature and the German Audio Book Award (for Belgische Riesen, the German version of The Great Rabbit Revenge Plan).

  The Great Rabbit Revenge Plan

  Burkhard Spinnen

  Translated by

  Siobhán Parkinson

  First published 2010

  by Little Island

  an imprint of New Island

  2 Brookside

  Dundrum Road

  Dublin 14

  www.littleisland.ie

  First published in Frankfurt am Main, Germany in 2000 by Schöffling & Co. Verlagsbuchhandlung GmbH.

  Copyright © Burkhard Spinnen 2000

  Translation copyright © Siobhán Parkinson 2010

  The author has asserted his moral rights.

  ISBN 978-1-84840-945-3

  All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

  British Library Cataloguing Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Cover illustration © Annie West 2009

  Printed in Ireland by Colourbooks

  Little Island received financial assistance from

  The Arts Council (An Chomhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland.

  The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut which is funded by the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Konrad Makes an Entrance

  The door opens.

  ‘By the way,’ says Konrad, ‘it’s totally bright outside.’

  It’s pretty bright now in the bedroom too, because light is coming in from the landing, and that’s how Konrad can see one of the two occupants of the bed swiftly pulling the duvet up over his head. This person says something not very nice, something Konrad would never be allowed to say.

  This person is Dad. Outside the house, he’s called Herr Bantelmann. Inside, of course, Dad. And only very rarely, Wolfgang.

  This person was not always Dad. He makes a big deal of this, and he’s always making sure Konrad knows all about it. For thirty-one years, Dad was, among other things, a son and a constructor of model aeroplanes. He was the holder of a driving licence. He was the wearer of a beard. And later he was also the young man of the other occupant of the big bed.

  He’s only been Dad for ten years; and although ten years is rather a long time, Dad hasn’t quite got used to Dadhood yet. He is least accustomed to Dadhood on Sunday mornings at eight minutes past six. And that’s exactly what he says now. What he is saying is perfectly clear, even though he has the duvet over his head. Presumably Dad can see that it is eight minutes past six through a tiny breathing crack that he has left between the mattress and the duvet. It says eight minutes past six in glowing red numbers on the digital alarm clock.

  ‘Konrad,’ says Dad’s voice from under the duvet, ‘what have I forbidden you to do?’

  Konrad thinks. Forbidden … forbidden? Dad has forbidden pretty well everything. How could you possibly know which bit of everything he means at this particular moment?

  Luckily, Konrad gets a bit of help. It comes from the person who is lying next to Dad in the bed and who was once his young lady. This person is Mum. Outside the house, Frau Bantelmann. Inside, of course, Mum; occasionally, Edith.

  ‘It has to do with coming into the bedroom,’ she says.

  Oh, yes, of course! Konrad gets it immediately. How could he have forgotten? There is a particularly serious rule that has to do with coming into the bedroom on Sunday mornings. You are supposed to, that is to say you should – careful, now, mustn’t get this wrong! – on Sunday mornings you should not come in before … a particular time. Unfortunately, what this time is escapes Konrad. That is stupid. And so that he won’t get it wrong, just to be on the safe side, he says nothing.

  Luckily, Mum comes to the rescue again. ‘What time is it now?’ she says, in a reproachful tone.

  Konrad twigs. It looks like he’s come in too early, and the time shown on the digital alarm-clock could be a clue as to what time not to come in at. Konrad looks at the clock.

  ‘Nine minutes past six,’ he says. At least that much is not wrong.

  ‘Terrific,’ says Dad from under the duvet. He makes it sound like a very bad word. ‘And what have we forbidden you to do?’

  All of a sudden, Konrad remembers. ‘I’m not supposed to come in before eight o’clock on Sundays. Except in an emergency – serious illness or fire.’ Hey, he’d got it!

  ‘By the way – ’ said Konrad.

  But Dad roars: ‘And what else are you not supposed to do?’

  Something comes back to Konrad. You are not, if at all possible, supposed to come into the parental bedroom before eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, and when you do come in, you must absolutely not, never under any circumstances, begin your first sentence with ‘by the way’.

  Dad has explained it. In fact, he has often explained it. As recently, indeed, as last Sunday. It was round about this time, and Konrad had just come in. The expression ‘by the way’, Dad had said, is something you use to bring a new subject into a conversation and hook it up to an old subject. He had even demonstrated it, the hooking up, with both hands. Konrad had understood. By the way is a linking expression. It’s like this piece of string that you get and you tie two subjects together with it so that they don’t fall apart.

  ‘That’s right,’ Dad had said. And so it follows, as night follows day, that a conversation cannot begin with ‘by the way’. For a ‘by the way’ you need at least two subjects. Two! And on a Sunday morning at however many minutes past six, there is not yet even one subject. In fact there is absolutely no subject whatsoever.

  At this point in the explanation, Dad had raised his voice, even though it was so early in the morning. ‘No subject!’ he’d said. There is no subject, because he, Dad, is not in the middle of a conversation but in the middle of a sleep. And if one of the two future conversationalists is still asleep, then the other conversationalist should bloody well watch out and under no circumstances come barging into the bedroom with a big, thick, fat, ugly ‘by the way’.

  They’d practised it, last Sunday, the eight o’clock entrance and the beginning of a conversation. Until they’d got it right. Uh-oh. Konrad knows what’s coming now. And he is quite correct. ‘Get out, and come back in,’ says Dad from under the duvet.

  ‘Does he have to?’ says Mum. Mum is soft-hearted. She keeps showing it.

  ‘Okay,’ says Dad from under the duvet, ‘you’re the soft-hearted one. Agreed. But who complains most if they can’t get a lie-in? You or me?’

  Now, this is what Dad always calls a ‘rhetorical question’. Rhetorical questions are questions that you don’t have to answer, because the answer is already known. And because Mum really does get very cross, in spite of her soft-heartedness, when she can’t get a lie-in, she doesn’t have to answer now. Konrad considers rhetorical questions very useful. Unfortunately, his parents think up far more of them than he can. And unfortunately, Mum makes a sign to him now, which means ‘leave the room and come back in’.

  Out on the landing, Konrad paces up and down for a while, so that Mum and Dad have enough time to fall asleep again. They have to be asleep when he comes bac
k in, otherwise it’s just not right. On his fourth time up and down, he looks into his younger brother Peter’s room and sees that he has kicked his quilt off and is now sleeping on all fours. Konrad takes a closer look. What is he like! His bottom in the air and his head on his forepaws like a sleeping dog. Recently, Mum and Dad were standing by Peter’s bed and he’d been sleeping just like this, and Dad had said, ‘A natural wonder.’ Peter has to hear that. It might amuse him.

  ‘By the way,’ Konrad says, ‘Dad said you are a natural wonder.’ With this, he smacks Peter on his raised bottom.

  ‘Wha-at?’

  ‘A natural wonder. You are a natural wonder.’

  ‘Ugh! What time is it?’

  That’s another one of those rhetorical questions. Peter is five years old and doesn’t know the first thing about the time. He’s just repeating what he hears people say. So there’s no need to answer. And besides, Konrad has something better to be doing than reading the time for little brothers. He has to make a proper entrance. So, let’s go for it!

  The first thing he does is to open the bedroom door slowly and carefully, so that Mum and Dad don’t get a fright. That’s more or less what Dad said. And no sooner has he slipped through the door than he closes it again, so that no unnecessary light falls on Dad. He’d said it was possible that he was a vampire on Sunday mornings, and if vampires get too much light then they crumble into dust and that would be terrible because then Mum would have to brush an enormous pile of dust out of the bed. So now Konrad is in the room. And it’s completely dark. Mum and Dad have recently had new shutters installed and they close so tightly that not even the tiniest streak of light can get in. ‘Hermetically sealed,’ Dad said and he’d given a funny little laugh.

  Konrad, however, is not feeling so very funny in this darkness. He takes a little step and immediately bangs his shin on the bed. It hurts, but at least now he knows where he is. What next? Oh, yes, he must feel his way around the bed until he reaches the crack between the two single mattresses. That’s not so hard, and he finds the spot quite quickly. But then it gets more difficult. Because now he has to get into the bed and wriggle his way up the crack on all fours without banging Mum or Dad in a sensitive place with his knee or his elbow or knocking one of Mum’s or Dad’s teeth out or squashing their noses in with his desperately hard head. The best thing is to keep himself completely flat and to feel his way forward with his hands before wriggling any further. Dad has demonstrated this a few times, but Konrad had unfortunately laughed so hard that tears streamed from his eyes so that he couldn’t see a thing.

  Anyway, he seems to have reached a head. It’s probably Dad’s. It’s easy to tell Mum’s and Dad’s heads apart. Mum’s face is soft and she has long hair. Dad, on the other hand, has hardly any hair on his head but he is very scratchy in the face. Especially on Sunday mornings, because he doesn’t shave on Saturdays.

  Konrad gives another feel to be sure. No doubt about it, this is unquestionably Dad. So, he’s made it. Now comes the last part of the exercise. It’s a bit embarrassing, though.

  Konrad likes it very much when someone strokes his hair and whispers something nice into his ear, but to stroke someone else on the head and whisper something into their ear – that he finds rather embarrassing. Good thing it’s so dark. Konrad strokes Dad’s head and purrs like Aunt Thea’s cat. It works. And now to say something nice. Konrad puts his mouth very close to Dad’s ear.

  Phe-ew! Dad stinks of garlic. Child poison! Mum and Dad were in a restaurant yesterday, and in the restaurants where Mum and Dad go without Konrad and Peter, there’s nothing but child poison. The whole menu from beginning to end is child poison with double garlic. Konrad thinks this is terrible. ‘By the way,’ he says. ‘You smell of garlic again.’

  ‘Konrad!’ says Mum, and Dad makes a scrunching sound.

  Then the door opens and all of a sudden it is bright in the room again.

  ‘By the way,’ says Peter. ‘I can’t help being awake. There!’ he points at the bed, where Konrad is by now half sitting on Dad’s head. ‘Konrad! He woke me up.’

  ‘Great,’ says Mum, getting out of bed. ‘I’m going to have a shower.’

  Dad says something too, but you can’t hear what it is, because Konrad has just belted Dad in the face with his knee and Dad is now holding his nose with both hands.

  ‘Will you tell us a story?’ asks Peter. He’s scrambling into the bed now too, and as he tries to climb over Konrad he gets him in the eye with an elbow. Konrad yells, but only a bit. Then he says, ‘Yeah, will you tell us a story?’

  And all three, Dad, Konrad and Peter, know that this is indubitably a rhetorical question.

  Anabasis the Forest Snake

  It’s a rhetorical question because Dad cannot possibly answer in any other way except with a heartfelt yes. Because in the first place he always tells Konrad and Peter stories; and secondly he started a new one only yesterday morning. All the same, he doesn’t say ‘Yes’. Instead, he says, ‘You’re a pair of tyrants.’

  ‘What are tie-rants?’ says Peter.

  ‘Tyrants,’ says Dad, ‘rule by force.’

  ‘Hmm,’ says Konrad.

  When Konrad says ‘Hmm,’ it sounds to strangers as if he means something like, ‘Ah, so that’s the way it is.’ Or ‘Oh, great, yes, I see.’

  His mum and dad, however, know that he means something quite different. What he means is, ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you are talking about.’ Or indeed, ‘I don’t like that.’

  In any case, Dad has to explain the word tyrants a bit more precisely.

  ‘In this case,’ he says, ‘tyrants are persons between five and ten years of age who pay absolutely no attention to their parents’ need for sleep.’

  Uh-oh. The conversation is starting to get dangerous. Instead of just telling the story, Dad obviously wants to go on talking about what an intolerable impertinence it is to expect a person who is hardly awake yet to tell a story at this hour of the morning. It wouldn’t be so bad if it could be a story with an ending. But his dreadful sons expect him to think up – just like that, out of his head, on the spot – a new instalment of a serial story.

  Luckily, Konrad is pretty good at changing the subject.

  ‘How big is the snake anyway?’ he asks now.

  ‘Seven metres,’ says Dad. ‘At rest. Nearly nine when it stretches itself out.’ He gives a stretch.

  Bingo! Now at last they are into the story that started yesterday morning. It is about a forest snake called Anabasis, who is guarding an extraordinary mound of earth deep in a large and impenetrable forest. It’s been doing this, night and day, for hundreds of years, and yesterday morning Dad gave an extensive account of which long-extinct animals had come by and asked the snake what it was guarding, to which the snake always replied that it could not say, because it was a great secret.

  If Konrad were to be entirely honest, he would have to say that, so far, this snake story doesn’t sound all that very promising. It is possible that yesterday morning, Dad had been so tired that nothing else had occurred to him, other than to have some dinosaur or other go past this snake. More or less the way it was in those stupid books Konrad had read before he was able to read. There were all these animals who pestered other animals with questions. A cow who’d lost her little calf, or a crocodile whose baby crocodile had gone missing. The animals who were asked the questions would always say very nicely, ‘No thank you, not with me,’ or something, until eventually the baby crocodile turned up and all the animals were thrilled in an animal sort of way and the stupid book was finished.

  However, Konrad knows that it is not smart to find fault with the first instalment of a new story and to say so out loud. Then Dad would be offended and that in turn would have a bad effect on the quality of the next instalment. And in any case, Konrad plans to make sure that something exciting will happen soon with this forest snake.

  So he says, ‘Da-ad, what were those people called again who discovered this moun
d?’

  ‘People?’ says Dad.

  Possibly he was so tired yesterday morning that he can’t remember what he mumbled when he was half asleep. But he doesn’t mention that. He just says, ‘What people?’ instead.

  ‘You know, the people!’ says Konrad.

  ‘Yeah, the people,’ Peter joins in. And because he always has to move when he talks, he kicks Dad, just a bit, quite unintentionally, in the stomach.

  ‘Oof !’ says Dad. ‘The people, the people – oh, yes! – it was the people from Forest Expedition Roman Numeral Three Dash Seven, led by the world-famous special scientist Professor Franzkarl Findouter.’

  ‘Aha,’ says Konrad. ‘Forest Expedition Roman Numeral Three Dash Seven. Right. And the world-famous scientist Franzkarl Findouter.’

  This doesn’t sound all that very adventurous. But at least it’s better than the parade of dinosaurs.

  ‘You have to imagine,’ says Dad, ‘that by now we’ve arrived in the twenty-first century. Which is to say, today.’

  He pinches Peter on the leg. ‘What year is it today?’

  ‘Twenty-two thousand,’ says Peter promptly.

  ‘Nearly,’ says Dad. ‘And just this year a big research centre has decided to send Forest Expedition Roman Numeral Three Dash Seven, led by the aforementioned world famous special scientist Professor Franzkarl Findouter, into the impenetrable forest to figure out the secret of the remarkable mound.’

  ‘But how did they know about this mound?’ says Konrad. ‘It’s in the middle of an impenetrable jungle. You said so yourself.’

  Now Dad laughs. Konrad and Peter know this laugh. This is how Dad laughs when he knows something better than anyone else on planet Earth.

  How well his sons know him!

  ‘Aerial photography,’ he says triumphantly. ‘Aerial photographs taken by satellite. With radar!’ Using this kind of thing, he explains, you could photograph a lollipop from a height of eighty-three kilometres and you could tell just from looking at the photo whether the lollipop had been licked yet, and if so, by whom. And this is exactly how the people in the research centre discovered this remarkable mound.