See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  Sandra takes the vacuum cleaner and walks in the direction of the back door. Tiril nods.

  Do you think I haven’t copped on?

  I know where you’re off to, shiza.

  I know what you’re up to, biatch.

  I don’t like you anyway, not you, your necklace, your BO, your lawyer daddy, your Jesus freak mother or your lies. You think you’re so perfect, but you’re a Canada Goose minge, a Jimmy Choo ho, a Chanel poontang, a preppy tart, and sorry, but I’ve news for you: Someday you’re going to walk out on the guy you marry, you’re going to leave the people around you, you’re going to betray your own family, and you’re never going to go to Little Rock, Arkansas, because you’ve no style of your own, slut.

  6. YOU CAN HAVE ME (Sandra)

  Sandra is clammy, her neck feels damp, her back is sweaty and her forehead is moist. She needs to get herself that headscarf, Hennes & Mauritz? She knows that H&M sell stuff that falls apart after the first wash. There are a lot of things her mother’s wrong about but she’s right about that: If you want quality, you have to pay for it. Hennes and Mauritz is not the kind of shop that’s renowned for its quality, Sandra.

  If she wants to?

  He has peered at her with those deep-set eyes of his, they’re so far back in his head that sometimes she feels she’s going to fall into them. He’s put his arms around her and pressed up against her, she’s felt how strong and hard he is. When he asks – Do you want me, Sandra – he glows. He glows with savage hunger, and right at that moment she thinks that even though she doesn’t know if she wants what he’s talking about, she wants it just the same. Because he wants to, because he’s so hungry.

  She knows what she’s going to say next time he asks.

  Yes, I want you.

  Take me, Daniel.

  His name is singing in her head from the time she wakes up until she goes to sleep and far into her dreams: Daniel William Moi. He can’t bear being named William. It’s poncy, he says, as if I’m supposed to be English or something, I can’t bloody stand poncy things. But Sandra just wants to take his name in her hands and caress it, cradle it like a bird, stroke its soft feathers with her fingers, put her lips to its head and kiss it. No fucking way I’m letting you use that name, he’s told her. Daniel swears quite a lot, she doesn’t really like it when people swear, but when he does it she thinks it sounds like a song.

  I don’t use that name, Sandra, and you’re not to use it either, nobody knows I’m called that, just you, and God help you if you tell anyone.

  Just her. Just Sandra Vikadal.

  I want to know more about you than everybody else.

  I want that part of you that nobody else has.

  I want to be closer to you than anybody else.

  She used to see people in love and think it was gross, she thought boys were annoying, always rowdy and acting stupid, if they weren’t called Johnny Depp and weren’t hanging on her wall, that is. Now she doesn’t recognise the girl she was, because nothing has been as real as this. It’s awfully difficult to know if she’s doing the right thing. Does she say the things he likes to hear? Does he think it’s a turn-off when she sweats like she does? Does he cringe listening to her speak, does he think that tooth of hers is ugly, or her voice sounds stupid? Sometimes when she talks it can sound sort of hollow and lumpy, as though she had a potato in her throat, does he find that disgusting? And what about her age? He says it doesn’t matter that she’s only fifteen, but sometimes she thinks he’s lying, well, not lying of course, people in love don’t lie, but still, is he only saying it to cover up how gross he actually thinks it is?

  The hardest thing of all is to know if she’s good-looking enough.

  No matter how many times he tells her she’s sexy in those jeans, the pair she lays out flat and takes care not too wash too often, she still doesn’t know if it’s just something he’s saying. If there’re a thousand other girls who are just as pretty, whose bums are just as nice. And no matter how often his mouth breaks into that bright smile of his when he sees that expression on her face, the one he thinks is so incredibly cute, she still can’t be sure if he’s not just putting it on. Even though she trusts him. Of course she does. Because that’s love. But still she’s nervous, still she takes a long time getting ready.

  Her boobs, do they look nice enough?

  He stares at them intently, but who knows what he’s actually thinking?

  She’s let him touch them lots of times. It’s mad how long he can just stand there, teeth clenched, with that lovely jawline of his, fondling them. Yesterday, she let him kiss them. She took off her bra, in the middle of the woods, her fingers were trembling and she could hardly believe it herself, the fact she was actually doing it, as she slipped her hands under her top, unhooked her bra and wriggled it out of her sleeve and stood there, practically naked behind the substation while darkness fell around them. Lord, imagine if someone had come? Imagine someone had seen her standing there, when Daniel opened his bright mouth and said Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus, they’re so fucking beautiful.

  When he said that, she wasn’t able to feel anything.

  All she was able to do was show herself to him. Because she knew that’s what he wanted, it made it her own choice. Show herself and let him touch her breasts, let him kiss them. Then she felt a jolt of happiness through her, but all she could think was: Are they nice enough? Are my boobs as soft and as firm as he wants, are they big enough for him, are they the shape he likes? She doesn’t have very small boobs but they’re not very big either; compared to the other girls in the class she’s probably a little bit bigger than average, but what does that actually mean, and what does Daniel want? Because boys like boobs, she learnt that long ago, and a nice bum, they like that too. But legs? It’s not so easy being a girl, not everyone can manage not giving a toss, like Tiril does, not everyone is able to put on a pair of headphones, some goth make-up and rail against the world. It’s hard being a girl, because girls are supposed to look so nice all the time, and that doesn’t seem fair. Sandra has short legs, her knees are a little knobbly maybe, sometimes she thinks they look like malformed wheels, and Daniel has never mentioned her legs. He’s never even looked at them. Her thighs, which are a little thick compared to her body, he’s touched those, but not with the same hunger as when he puts his hands on her bum or her breasts. But her legs? Nothing. Doesn’t he like them?

  My mouth, then? Do you like my mouth, Daniel?

  It is small, slightly puckered, my two front teeth do stick out a little and I know they make me look like a rodent. Do you like that? Your little rat-girl?

  That’s all she wants. To look good enough for Daniel William Moi. For the rest of her life, she thinks, glancing at Tiril before taking the vacuum cleaner and going into the backroom. She’s unbelievable, that girl. She saw the stack of honey going all over the floor. She heard her asking for help. But she couldn’t care less. What’s more, she enjoyed it. What is with her? If Sandra told the manager how little work Tiril does, she’d be fired. But Sandra’s not a snitch.

  20:54

  Sandra brings her hand to the crucifix round her neck and squeezes it.

  She opens the closet and stows the vacuum cleaner as quickly as she can. Then pulls off her work clothes.

  There’s never anybody in the woods at night. Round the back of the old school, behind the substation. The only sound they’ve ever heard is a dog barking. If her friends knew what she was up to they’d shake their heads in disbelief. Jesus, they’d say; going into the woods to meet a seventeen-year-old boy, you do realise what he’s after? If they knew who she was with, they’d be shocked. They’d be jealous, they’d hardly believe her. Sandra, you really need to think about this, Daniel Moi, he’s not right in the head, everyone knows that. He’s in the sixth form, he rides a moped, he plays in a heavy metal band, he’s hot, but he’s not right in the head, he’s from a foster home, people say he’s had some seriously screwed-up things happen in his life, he’s dangerous, Sandra, you
do know that?

  If her Mum found out what was happening, she’d freak out. If she heard it was the boy from the foster home, the one who lives with the single mother and her deaf daughter in the flats, she’d break down in tears and start picturing hash, heroin and the end of the world. But no one knows Daniel. They’ve no clue what that bright mouth of his can say, what those long-fingered hands of his can do or what’s stirring in those hungry eyes. They don’t realise that he needs her, don’t realise that he has an emptiness inside, but Sandra does, and when he says he doesn’t want to tell her what happened to him, she understands that. She understands what he’s gone through because she can see into his soul, and she’s not going to nag him about it, she’s promised herself that. She’ll never ask what happened, she doesn’t listen to rumours, about him having boxed, having beaten up some guy, the thing about his real parents, and that there was something really messed up there. She doesn’t listen to gossip, because she is Sandra Vikadal and he is Daniel William Moi.

  They can laugh at her, they can trample all over her. They can do what they want.

  But they better remember, for all eternity, that they’ve trampled on love itself.

  Because Love, thinks Sandra, love bears all things, love believes all things, love hopes all things, and love, she thinks, taking out her mobile once more, love endures all things.

  20:58

  You can have me, Daniel William Moi, no matter what it is you’re after.

  7. LOVE (Rudi)

  It’s quiet in the car now.

  Just the hum of the engine and the sound of the wheels on the tarmac.

  Rudi has never liked silence. The feeling of people just waiting to drop a bombshell. Sitting there mulling over some pickle or another they can’t face talking about. Speech is silver, Granny said, but silence is golden. Well, Gran, my respect for you is as infinite as the love of the Lord, but that’s where we differ.

  Rudi has been told loud and clear. On more than one occasion, to put it mildly. That there can be a bit too much gabbing.

  Okay!

  All right!

  But there can be a bit too much bloody silence as well.

  Rudi sees the reflection of his face in the rear-view mirror. Behind that, he sees Chessi resting her head against the back seat and closing her eyes. No, love. Who would’ve believed it that time he called into Jani’s house and set eyes on his freckly little sister, lying in her bedroom, getting her brains fucked out beneath posters of horses and dogs? No, those days are long gone, that was Jani’s psycho plan. Renting out your sister like she was a movie. You’d have to be right twisted to be at that.

  Here you go. Help yourself. This is my sister. Cunt retail.

  ‘Eh? Chessi? You there?’

  Good thing she met me, thinks Rudi, replacing the silence with his own thoughts. No telling where she would have wound up if her best customer hadn’t caught sight of the person behind the pussy. And, Jesus, the amount of times he’s wanted to beat the shit out of those mongrels who got the chance to fuck her before he came on the scene. If he ran into them today he’d skin them alive, bit by bit. It’s twenty-seven years since he saw those bulging eyes for the first time. Twenty-seven years since he deserted the Tjensvoll Gang; thanks for the apprenticeship, handy to know you should gaffa-tape a table leg to get a good grip. Handy to know which slim jim to boost a Beamer with. Handy to know how it feels to kick a man in the back of the head! Old memories; salut Tommy Pogo, salut Frax and Stix and Hex, salut Rikke Clit and Baps and J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro, salut Fresi and Christer Imfuckinoff, salut Janka Bat. Rudi needs to be getting on in life. My folks are moving to Hillevåg. Heh heh. Right into the arms of Jani. There’s always someone who wants to live outside the law and there’s no better leader than Jan Inge Haraldsen, is there now?

  Twenty-seven years of love.

  ‘Hmm? Chessi? Baby? Are you there? Ready to do a bit of work?’

  No reply.

  Give her some time. Ha. Renting out his sister like she was a video. Hard to stomach for a family man like Rudi. But how long are you going to store up old shit? Now everything has calmed down nicely, it’s not something they talk about all the time, no more than Rudi can stand anyone bringing up his parents, not to mention that rabid brother of his out in Sandnes, and that psychotic witch he’s married to.

  They’ve put it behind them. In the name of love. Chessi and him have stood strong, and what with the unbelievable number of divorces going on all around, society is just about ready to go under: is it any wonder they vote for the Christian Democrats? Listen here, Mr Socialist Homo: walk around in your slippers. Play your protest songs. Listen to The Smiths and The Tits and The Pits. Somebody has to show people what’s right and what’s wrong in this world, and one thing’s for sure, love, that can’t be explained, but it’s always right, which is pretty much the gist of what it says in The Good Book which Rudi always keeps in the bedside drawer.

  She was only thirteen the first time he saw her, and some people may well think that’s sick, but Rudi doesn’t give a flying fuck what they think. Because the truth is: from the day he saw that chestnut hair, that freckly body and those cracked lips, Rudi knew Cecilie Haraldsen would be his. And that – oh yes – that’s just like it was with Granny and Granddad. They stuck together. Weathered all the storms. That’s just how it was, and that’s just how it is with Chessi and me, he thinks and feels a swelling in his chest, the way he always does when something moves him. And the feeling can be just as intense whether you’re listening to some good metal or have brought in a nice bit of cash on a warehouse job because you’ve got a leader who did the groundwork, got hold of a key card and checked times and routines, or like when, for the fifty thousandth time, you get an eyeful of what a bloody good woman you actually have.

  Itsthetwoofusbaby.

  Tong’s getting out on Friday. Be good that. About time.

  Hey Tong, you sick Korean!

  Rudi orders himself to give Cecilie more time and meets his own face in the rear-view mirror. No, he thinks, if there’s something I bloody well am not, it’s good-looking. It’s that long line of dishcloths. Dad’s side. Dishcloth genes. Looked like pin cushions, the lot of them. A minefield, all over his skin, wrinkled and scarred. And what about a little colour? A little pigment? Oh no, we’ll make you pale and anæmic. But we’ll make your lips big! Not just a bit big, but biiiiig. And your teeth? Rudi bares his teeth in the mirror. Jesus. They look like nails. They’re crooked, all of them, as though they aren’t doing anything in his mouth other than fighting. His hair, on the other hand, that’s okay. He hasn’t started going grey, and as for hair loss, none of that. Colour is a tad dull maybe, this mousy blond tone, hairdo’s a bit crap, sort of half long with no style, but it’s hair all the same. But good looks, they do not run in the family. Even Granny, that angel, was pig ugly.

  A smile spreads across Rudi’s face and he can’t manage to keep his mouth shut any longer:

  ‘Chessi? You know… fuck, you know… right? That Rudi damn well loves you like crazy? That if you left me I’d kill everyone and everything around me? You know that, right? That you’re mine? That I’m yours?’

  But no.

  ‘Hmm? Baby? A kind word for a kind man?’

  Not a fucking peep.

  ‘Hmm? I yours? You mine?’

  8. DEVIL’S TREASURES (Daniel William)

  Fifteen. Yeah, so what?

  20:54

  Daniel pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Takes one out.

  In the old days girls had kids when they were fifteen. They were a damn sight more grown up back then. Boys were able to do everything when they were fifteen. No fuss made about how old the girls could be. Now it’s all a big to-do. Everything’s supposed to be so meaningful the whole time, everything has to be so open and curious and ecological, and he doesn’t know what his foster mother and the ones from Child Services are on about. He’s been at enough meetings; open get-togethers, my ass – more like they’ve just made up a l
oad of stuff because they’re after getting some ideas in their heads.

  For Daniel it’s simple.

  He pulls his leather jacket tighter around him and lights up the cigarette.

  All he wants is to be with girls and get it on with them and for them to get it on with him. Sandra is fifteen and she’s fit as fuck. She has a glow around her. He’s been with other girls but he’s never gone all the way. He’s got his hands on tits, licked tits and snogged so much he was almost bored of it – up until he started snogging with Sandra. It was as though his whole mouth became electric, as if something happened, physically, to his tongue, making him just want more.

  He’s mucked about a lot with tits, he’s stuck his fingers into plenty of girls, stuck them in and rubbed. He likes it and all, but sometimes he feels he’s lying there rubbing away like you’d scrape at some candle wax stuck to a table. He’s kissed a girl between the legs, in a bedroom at a party, but that was a disaster. She was shitfaced, and even though he wasn’t that drunk it was no good, she smelt rank, tasted rank too. It’ll get better with time. He’s going to be a world-beater. Requires practice. A steady relationship. Figure out where to find the right spots, do it the right way.

  Daniel balances the cigarette between his lips while he tosses the moped helmet from one hand to the other. Stupid bloody Child Welfare. What’s missing from your life, Daniel? Wha? Missing? Eh, a moped? A moped? We can talk about that, Daniel, if you show yourself deserving of the trust placed in you. Three months later: Ha fucking ha. 20,000 kroner on eBay. Suzuki AC50 from 1978. A sweet second-hand moped at Child Services’ expense. Newly overhauled engine, new tyres, wiring, wheel bearings, battery, rebored barrel and a new piston. The red paintwork was just a little worn, but he fixed that himself.

  The ladies like a dude with a bike.