by Tore Renberg
‘No, you have nev—’
‘Got in the wa—’
‘No, you have n—’
‘Or been tight wi—’
‘Money, no, you have n—’
‘Or let you f—’
‘You certainly have not, Rudi boy,’ Cecilie says, a wonderful firmness to her voice.
No, he thinks. I treat my woman the way women should be treated. Rudi forms his mouth into a determined pout, moves his hand to his inside pocket, takes out his wallet and pulls out a five hundred note.
‘Here,’ he says, reaching his right hand back between the front seats. ‘Go and make your face shine. Stick it in a bucket of spinach. Yes indeedy. Say hello to Mariero Beauty from Rudi and tell him your face is worth the money. And tell him who’s paying.’
‘Thank you so much,’ he hears from the back seat. ‘You’re really good to me.’
‘Damn right I am,’ says Rudi, feeling just how much love is crammed inside the little Volvo.
What a night, he thinks. Cold, clear, so bloody beautiful.
Hey Granny! Should have been around to see this, old hen.
Rudi peers through the windscreen, they’re by the forest. ‘Okay,’ he says, looking at the clock. 20:58. ‘Nearly time.’
‘Tomorrow,’ says Cecilie, kissing the five hundred note with dry lips.
Rudi grins, thinks everything’s rosy, wouldn’t mind if they played Coldplay on the radio one more time. But what’s the song about? Saint Peter, Roman Catholics and bells that ring?
Time to concentrate. That’s the thing about love, takes hold of your brain, and if you’re not on the ball, it can gobble up the whole world.
Ow! Ow! Stop it!
The phone, Jani’s ringtone. He picks it up. 20:59
‘Ye yo, brother?’
‘Cut that English crap out,’ he hears on the other end of the line.
‘It’s Americano, brother,’ he answers, laughing.
‘Whatever, it’s stupid, you’re from Norway, from Rogaland, from Stavanger, from Tjensvoll. Don’t put on an act. Now listen, I’ve just been doing some thinking about this venture of ours,’ says Jan Inge.
‘Thoughts are free, what were you thinking?’
‘Well,’ Jan Inge says, wavering. ‘There’s something foggy about it.’
‘Foggy?’
‘Yeah, foggy.’
‘Okay?’
‘I’m dubious. I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing. We’re not exactly in a risk-free line of business.’
‘Okay. Will we call it off? Callitaday and pull out? I haven’t met him yet—’
‘Listen. Working in a risky business means taking risks. You go and meet the guy. But keep your eyes and ears open. Your objective has to be to clarify what’s foggy.’
‘That was nicely put,’ says Rudi.
‘That thing you said about remembering the guy, or wondering if you remembered him. What was that?’
‘Dunno, just the feeling I got when he called. Or the feeling he got. I don’t know. There was something old about it.’
‘Old?’ Jan Inge’s tone is sharp.
‘Yeah, old, as in the past.’
‘Hm. Old can be good and old can be a mess. Is there anyone who’s got something on you?’
‘Naah…’
‘Stay on your toes. Keep Chessi out of it. She can wait in the Volv—’
Shit!
What was that?
‘Hey Chessi, what the fu—’
‘Rudi?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here, it’s just, hold on – bollocks – did we hit something? Chessi?’
Cecilie peers out the back window, Rudi slows down and Jani Inge shouts down the end of the line about how he needs to take it easy, he can’t be going around attracting attention, Jesus, can’t he do anything right, hello, what’s happening?
‘A cat!’ Cecilie cries.
Rudi gulps and breathes easier.
‘Just a cat,’ he says into the phone.
‘Just a cat?!’ he hears from the back seat. Rudi glances in the rear-view mirror and sees that she’s crying again, and he wonders when this is going to end. Is he going to have to live with this until he’s six feet under, is she going to be so difficunt for the rest of her life?
‘Sorry, Jani,’ he says, ‘it was just a cat.’
He can hear Jan Inge breathing heavily.
‘You sit yourself down again now,’ says Rudi calmly.
‘Right, will do,’ says Jan Inge. ‘Okay, talk to you later, get things sorted out. Keep your eyes open. Ears. Fog and clarity.’
Rudi nods, hears the sound of his best friend putting his inhaler to his mouth, pressing down and sucking in the acrid air. He can picture that fat boy so well it almost hurts.
‘Okay, brother, talk soon. You sit down, okay? Pick a classic and open a packet of crisps. The Hills Have Eyes?’
Rudi hangs up and indicates a left turn. He swings in by the little shop at the bottom of the hill that’s been there as long as he can remember. He pilfered that place empty throughout the entire eighties. Remembers the time he and J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro sauntered out with so many packs of cigarettes in the pockets of their bubble jackets they thought they’d keel over with the weight. Janne Dobro had such black eyes she’d put you in mind of a bird. She’s probably selling Asfalt magazine now. Liked her heroin, Janne. She was called J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro because of Mini from Haugtussa, he was so small his father took offence every time he clapped eyes on him. Mini was so in love with Janne Dobro he started to stutter every time he saw her.
Used to be called Gosen Grocery Store, now it’s part of a chain, Spar. Everything’s going to the dogs. The socialists have won. An impersonal society. It’s true what Jani says, nobody dares run their own business any more. We’re the only ones. The last bastion of independent entreprenuers. But Rudi doesn’t park outside the shop, it’s too visible. He drives a little further on towards the woods, up a small back road, and brings the car to a halt in a little grove.
‘Chessi,’ he says, killing the ignition. ‘Come on. It was a cat. A cat, okay? We can’t do anything about it.’
She’s sniffling in the back seat. He recognises the level. It’s not disaster sniffling, it’s demonstrative sniffling.
‘Do you hear me? I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Youandme, baby. Mariero Beauty. It’s going to be okay. Right? Come on, be a doll now, lie down on the seat, and just keep calm until I get back. And don’t smoke, okay? People get all flustered, you know, if they walk past a car filled with smoke and nobody inside. They get suspicious, ring home to the wife, tell her they’ve come across a car filled with fucking smoke. You can manage without one for a while, right?’
She sniffles again.
‘Is this what Jani meant when he said I should go out and get some air?’ she says. ‘It could have been a kitten, Rudi!’
‘No, no, it was a fully-grown cat, didn’t you feel the bump? No kitten would have made the car jolt like that. Listen. Chessi. Afterwards,’ he says softly, ‘afterwards we can drive someplace and sit and look at something. The sea or something. You like looking at the sea. You can teach me that. How to look at the sea.’
Cecilie folds her arms. Doesn’t reply.
He recognises the signs. It’s all about being smart now. Not making a big deal out of things. He tries to sound as warm as he possibly can: ‘Great, baby, so cool of you to take it that way, no one wants to be together with a chick who’s high-maintenance. Five minutes, okay, ten tops, then I’m back, who knows, I might come back with a million bucks in my pocket. Then you’ll have one million five hundred. Remember, tomorrow, Mariero Beauty!’
No reaction.
Rudi takes a deep breath. Okay, he thinks, all right. He really needs to dig deep here. He looks at her, as directly as he can, he smiles, with as much charm as he can muster, sucks his cheeks in and sings: ‘Don’t want to close my eyes, I don’t want to fall asleep, cause I’d miss you babe and I don’t want to miss a thin
g.’
She gulps.
Yesss.
She looks at him.
Laughs a little.
Yesss.
The Aerosmith Trick.
Never fails. Not once since he first did it, standing in front of her, sucking in his cheeks and imitating Steven Tyler, has it failed. The woman just falls apart.
‘Baby! Youandme! Daddy has to do a little bit of work now, then I’ll be back. Come on, down in the seat with you.’
Rudi gives her a wink. To say she smiles would be an exaggeration, but she wriggles down into the seat in any case.
He opens the door and feels the cold prickle of the September air on the back of his neck. He looks around. The old forest. It’s strange being back here. It was Granny’s forest in a lot of ways. She spoke about it so much, and all the things she did there when she was little. The flowers she picked and how much better things were before, in the good old days. Rudi has never got that out of his head. He often thinks about it, thinks how right Granny was, it was better in the good old days. More peace. More style.
Rudi begins to hurry along the path. He glances about him again, feels the surroundings sucking him in. Then he comes to a halt.
‘Hm,’ he says, almost loudly.
‘Pål,’ he says.
‘It’s as if … there’s something about that name. It … shit … it calls something to mind! But what? Hm? Pål, Pål, Pål…’
Rudi walks on. We’ll soon see, he thinks, who you are and who you’re not, Pål. You called me. You’ve reached out your hand. And who are you? I’d love a cigarette now. If I’d known it would be this hard to stop then I never would’ve quit. Women. It’s not bloody easy. You’ve got to be a sly eagle with a good Aerosmith trick in order to be supple enough to get around their corners. Except for Gran. She had her head screwed on. Skål, you old jelly roll.
Rudi, without even being aware of it, raises his hand, puts it to his forehead and salutes, while he strides across the forest floor.
Good thing Tong’s out on Friday, he thinks. Not the same when the gang isn’t together. He brings in good money, Tong. He puts Chessi in better humour, he’s always been able to do that. He’s a psycho all right. But he’s always ready for action.
Pål, Pål, Pål.
Have you taken a beating from me? Is that it?
Are you out for revenge? Is that it?
Are you the devil, Pål?
15. A WOMAN DRESSED IN JEANS AND A LONG-SLEEVED SWEATER WALKS ACROSS A YARD (Jan Inge)
120 kilos now. 120 on the nose. 120 on board.
Jan Inge has been holding the telephone in his hand for almost a minute. He has been standing like a statue on the living-room floor with the phone two feet from his stomach and his eyes turned to the ceiling. Typical me, he thinks, lost in thought. That’s what everyone says, that he has great concentration. And no one dares disturb him when he’s thinking, there’s no one who lacks respect for JANI WHEN HE’S THINKING.
He pictures it like that. In big letters.
Like those neon signs in small American towns beset by gruesome atrocities.
Jan Inge has always been like that, with his head full of big letters.
He puts away the phone. Jan Inge misses the old house telephone. He nods, making the fat on the back of his neck wobble. Grey with red numbers. That telephone worked like a dream, but hi-tech advances meant they had to throw in the towel. So much new technology at the moment that it’s becoming a problem. Mobile phones are okay, with top-up cards at any rate, but all this pressure on you to use the internet, it’s not good. It’s not like it was in the good old days.
There it is again. THE GOOD OLD DAYS. You can’t say it without big letters.
Jan Inge glances at the wheelchair at the far end of the hall.
120 on the nose.
It’s important Rudi doesn’t screw this up. He needs to see through the fog. But if there is one thing Jan Inge has learned, it’s that where it seems most foggy, that’s where the gold might be, and if you want to get your hands on the gold, you have to venture into the fog. As long as Rudi keeps his wits about him and doesn’t start blabbering.
Jan Inge takes the inhaler from the pocket of his jogging pants and sucks. He shuffles across the floor in felt slippers, down the long hallway. He stops in front of the wheelchair.
120 on board.
He has always been fat. Or at least thickset and chubby. So was Mum, may you rest in purgatory, you detestable person. There have always been a few surplus kilos on this body, always a little extra to offer, but 120? He was weighing in at about 100 for a number of years. Nice round number. Easy to relate to. It accorded him a little class, some executive authority. It’s only right for a boss to be a few kilos heavier than the others. Rudi, lanky though he is, weighs ninety-five after all. But after a while it started to rise. An occasional check on the scales now and again. Oops. 105. Down to 100. Oops. No, seems to have gone up, this … 110 … Jani 110, since when?
It rhymes, Tong said, just before he went inside.
They had done a job in Jæren, a clean break-in, got lots of computers, just easy-to-sell stuff that would mean clean cash from Buonanotte. Well planned, well executed. Keys, swipe cards, the whole shebang. There had never been a single mistake on Tong’s watch, never been anyone sent down. If there is one man you can count on, it’s Tong, because he doesn’t count on anyone. Thank Christ he’s getting out on Friday. He carried out the job itself perfectly, but then? You’d think he had suddenly become an amateur again. Thirty-five years old, tonnes of experience, and he ends up doing something like that? It’s the drugs, Tong. Jan Inge has told him a thousand times. You think your senses are sharpened. But that shit has chomped lumps out of that brilliant brain of yours. We have a policy in this company, we rack up a few lines before we go to work, to get our heads up and running, but we don’t degenerate into a gang of junkies. But what do you go and do, Tong? You hit a party in Orre after the job, you stuff your nut full of speed, and God knows what else, and you know how horny that coke makes you, and then you’re pulled in for intercourse with a minor. A month later you’re in the dock, faced with two fuming parents and a sobbing girl, all pointing the finger at you, and you claim you had no idea that she was only fourteen.
Jan Inge has said it a million times: listen to me, you horny Korean, the coke has gobbled at your brain, and I know what I’m talking about – my mum drank five bottles of spirits a week and she went as mad as a March hare and as empty as a drum upstairs, and she was a terror and nobody, neither man nor beast, misses that old bitch. Well, all right, Chessi … poor bag of bones … maybe she … no, Chessi remembers shag all. She was only little when Mum died. She can’t go around missing someone she practically never set eyes on.
But me, I remember that sicko, and I’ve nothing good to say about her, no wonder Dad took off when he got that job in Houston.
Jan Inge has spent a good deal of time thinking about it. Thinking about what exactly was wrong with her.
And he has arrived at the conclusion that she lacked something.
That she quite simply didn’t have it in her to love people.
And that’s why Jan Inge has drawn his own conclusions about what is important. To find your own people. To find your own family. To hang on to them. To love them long and love them right. No matter if they make a major blunder that lands them back inside Åna, and no matter if they take 120 kilos on board.
Dad heading to Houston was of little consequence. At least he always sent money, give him his due. Sent money right up until Chessi turned eighteen. And Christmas cards. Or that time in 1985, Jan Inge thought his heart was going to burst out of his chest: a package arrived from Dad in the USA, a package in the post. A SodaStream!
And a huge box with a BETAMAX VCR and a pile of videos.
Love from Dad.
He still has the SodaStream. It’s down in the basement somewhere.
Doesn’t work any more. But it worked back then. Every kid in
Hillevåg was at the front door slavering after home-made fizzy drinks. They could pick and choose who to let in. Those were the days. Won’t ever throw it out, that SodaStream is a trophy. They were over in Houston a few times, him and Chessi, travelled halfway round the globe on their own; she was so small the first time he had to hold her by the hand for hours. Jan Inge can still remember how clammy their hands got, but forget about trying to let go, then she just wailed as though the plane was going to crash. No, Janinge. Those were some trips. Just him and Chessi. Just him and her up in the clouds. Are we flying now, Janinge? Yeah. Are we flying into the sun, Janinge? It’s a great country, the US, free and easy; Dad took them to burger joints, let them do their own thing, watch films and that, while he was at work. As for going back to Norway; that was never going to happen. He was clear about that, they could come and live in the USA, but he was never going back home to Norway.
And he never did come home.
Jan Inge puts the inhaler back into his pocket. He nods to himself. Looks at the wheelchair. It’s been sitting there for years. It was Rudi who got hold of it when Chessi broke her foot. Typical Rudi. He’d bend over backwards for her.
People like that, thinks Jan Inge, you hold on to people like that.
Bit foggy, the job they were on at the minute. As long as Chessi manages to keep calm. She has to stay in the car. He can’t have her getting under Rudi’s feet while he’s working. She’s too volatile. It’s from Mum, thinks Jan Inge, bad genes. She’s ill-tempered and difficult, you’d be hard pressed to say otherwise. But she is his sister. And she is Rudi’s girlfriend. And that’s how it should be.
Jan Inge lowers himself into the wheelchair. It sinks a little beneath his weight, but it supports him well. It’s easy to control, a nice little contraption. He smiles. A dark lustre comes over his narrow pinhead eyes and he rolls off down the hall.
He trundles into the living room and over to the table, picks up a remote control, presses minus, and the ceiling lights dim. He continues over to the armchair in front of the flatscreen, remains seated while he shoves the armchair over to the window, and then parks the wheelchair in front of the TV. This is ingenious, he thinks, and then glances out the window and sees how dark it has become outside. Good, working in daylight, that’s not for us. Rudi will manage this. But it’s a good thing Tong is getting out on Friday. God bless that little mole of a Korean. He’s a demon, but it’s been tough without him, been like a football team without a striker, to draw an analogy.