See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  He’s a lot taller than me, she thought.

  And then – it was so unbelievably strange and so unbelievably nice and Sandra has thought about it every day since, as though it were a sign – then he jutted out his chin, giving his face a sort of silly look, and raised his forefinger. He held it in the air in front of her. Then he brought it to her nose, gave it a gentle press and said:

  ‘Now the two of us have a secret, Sandra Vikadal.’

  And then?

  Then the days, the hours, the minutes and the seconds just came crashing down. They collapsed on top of one another. The following night he was back, she let him in without any questions, the night after that he kissed her in the backroom, and the next night she met him in the woods for the first time, and the next night … everything merged together, she hardly slept, he took her over, they kissed and kissed and neither mouth could get enough, they touched one another and touched one another and neither pair of hands could get enough, they stared into each other’s eyes and Sandra felt she was drowning in them, they entwined hands, and what did they talk about?

  The future, countries they would travel to, things they would see, how beautiful the world was right here, right now. They talked about each other, about the storm of emotions that had suddenly arisen one rainy night, they retold and retold their own short history, how he had stood outside the shop with the moped helmet in his hands – you were so wet! – how he had tried to make her understand what he was saying – toilet paper, I said! A thousand times. But you, you thought – I thought it was today’s paper! Over and over again they repeated their own short history, and they thought it was the most important story of all. And every day they came closer. Every day, greater courage in their kisses, every day, greater courage in their hands, every day, greater courage in their words. Every day, a wild joy over recognition – Oh, you’re well sexy in those jeans – and an equal joy in discovering new things – Your lips look so beautiful when they gleam like that – and every day an all-engrossing interest in everything the other person does – I just have to hear that band, I’ve never liked metal but I’m sure I’d love them – and every day a drawn-out farewell, that horrible moment when they had to part:

  Oh, do you have to go?

  Yeah. I have to.

  I hate this.

  Me too.

  Don’t go.

  I have to.

  I hate this.

  See you tomorrow, yeah?

  Yeah.

  If not I’ll die.

  Yeah.

  You’re mine.

  I’m yours.

  See you tomorrow.

  And now?

  Now it’s serious. Sandra runs across the football pitch and Sandra has decided: she’ll lie down, she’ll be brave.

  She gasps when she catches sight of him by the substation. A pressure lifting from her chest; he hasn’t left. She runs faster, as fast as she can and throws herself into his arms.

  ‘Daniel,’ she sobs.

  ‘Hey…’

  ‘I’ve missed you so much! I thought you’d be gone! I didn’t think you – I thought—’

  ‘Hey, come on…’

  He takes her face in his hands.

  ‘Hey, hey…’

  He tilts her chin up with two fingers.

  ‘You…’

  He looks her in the eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ he says, holding her gaze. ‘Do you think Daniel would leave you? Eh? Do you not know Daniel would wait until Friday, until next month, Jesus, until it bloody well started to snow, if it’s you he’s waiting for?’

  She sniffles and feels the tears roll down her cheeks. A ‘hhha’ escapes her mouth, and Sandra stretches up on her toes, closes her eyes and kisses him, for a long time.

  ‘You taste of salt,’ he says, laughing.

  ‘It’s the tears,’ Sandra says, sniffling. ‘Tears of joy.’

  ‘They taste extra nice,’ he says.

  Then they begin walking into the woods while holding each another. Daniel with his arms around her slender waist, she with her arms up along his back, him backing up, her following his steps. It looks like ballet and that’s probably what it is.

  Sandra unbuttons her top.

  They totter further into the woods. Their breathing is heavy, his hands rove over her backside, she undoes the last button, they kiss one another, whisper ‘Here?’

  ‘No, not here, it’s too exposed.’

  ‘Further in?’

  ‘Yeah, further in.’

  ‘What about here then?’

  ‘No, across the road, the forest is denser there and no one can see us…’

  Then they stop. Sandra is naked from the waist up. He stands there gasping. He places his hands on her breasts and sighs.

  ‘Do you want to do this?’ Daniel whispers.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers, closing her eyes, ‘yes, it’s what I want.’

  ‘Do you want to do this every day for the rest of your life?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers.

  They sink down on to the ground.

  ‘No matter who I am?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers.

  ‘No matter what has happened to me?’

  ‘Yes, I want to do this every day for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Cool,’ says Daniel, ‘that’s really fucking cool of you.’

  21. GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN (Rudi)

  Rudi strides through the woods. He’s a tall man, well over one ninety-five with long arms which don’t always know what to do with themselves. His face is pockmarked, his whole body is lopsided and he looks like a roaming tower moving across the ground.

  He stops for a moment to think.

  Not many men have as good a woman as he has. Anyone thinking of laying a hand on her better fucking watch out. You can call it what you want, call it being a psycho, call it jealousy, I call it love and Chessi does too. Do you not think I’ve looked after her? Do you not think Rudi has given her what she wants? Didn’t she get to see Aerosmith at Sweden Rock Festival? Dream until your dreams come true!

  Rudi froths saliva between his teeth and continues pounding across the forest floor. Hasn’t he taken her to both Rock am Ring and Rock im Park, hasn’t he laid the tickets on the table and paid for the whole shebang? Weren’t they a fixture at Norway Rock in Kvinesdal until the festival went bust, doesn’t she get as many thousands of pints of beer as she wants, didn’t she stand and almost weep with joy in front of Motörhead and didn’t she almost come when Twisted Sister played ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’? Didn’t he hold her and rub her back when she puked in the tent in the middle of the night. And hasn’t she got an amazing fucking metal tattoo on her back that he paid for? And isn’t she allowed to go to that skincare shit, even though he thinks it’s disgusting.

  Rudi spits into the woods, feeling strong and fair.

  She’s grumpy and electric, always has been. She’s not approachable in the morning, you need to stay weeeell bloody clear of her until she’s had her coffee. But those are the kinds of things you just have to cope with when it’s love that’s at stake, you need to be generous, you need to let her sit in her room and mope – yeah, she can keep that room until she dies, every girl needs to have a room of her own.

  Rudi spits again, before halting in his tracks and spinning all the way round.

  Here. A wistful feeling sneaks up and strikes Rudi. Gran’s cabin could have stood right here. God bless the old bag of bones, they were the good old days. Land, fields, sheep and cows and no mobile bloody phones, no interfuckingnet and nobody ringing up to ask if you’re interested in faster broadband; no, mister, I’m interested in your dick on a skewer. Good thing for you, Gran, that you didn’t have to live to see this shit.

  Focus.

  Rudi peers into the forest. He pricks up his ears. A sound? His eyes dart back and forth in the darkness, trying to adjust to the lack of light. He orders his pulse to slow down.

  No, no sounds.

  Need to get hold of that du-du-du
du-du-du du-du-du song. It’s impossible to remember the name of it. Coldplay. What is it he’s singing? I used to rule the world. Chessi is going to put her finger down her throat and puke, heavy ballads all the way there. Rudi can’t stand pop either, metal all the way. But that one song there, that takes the roof off the church. He needs to get it on CD, then he won’t have to sit wondering if they’re going to play it on the radio when he’s out in the Volvo, and no way in hell is he getting any SPOTIFUCK or PISSTUNES or YOUSCREW and sitting listening to Mötley on a computer or watching the old videos on a mobile phone, that’s an insult to all music.

  Tapes. And CDs.

  Rudi nods to himself.

  He never got into vinyl. Jan Inge likes records. He’s got those old country records his dad left behind when he went to the US. Might be hi-fi, but it’s just scratches and stress. Rudi has always been of the opinion that if it’s good sound you want, just turn up the volume, then you’ll hear everything loud and clear. But each to their own, he thinks, I mean, it’s not like I sit doing my nails with silver polish and read poetry while the moon glimmers behind a cloud either.

  Pity you never had the chance to meet my woman, Gran. Cecilie’s her name! Lots of sharp edges but you’d be hard pressed to find better. Granny would’ve liked her. She’s sitting on a silver cloud up there in heaven with flowers in her lap, and one day she’s going to say: Rudi. There you are. Welcome to heaven. Is that right? You became a crook, I see, well, to every man his own life, welcome to heaven! She had a lot more respect for an individual on God’s green earth than the rest of that unspeakable family of his: Get thee behind me, Beast from Sandnes. Is that what a brother is supposed to be like? And is that what a sister-in-law is supposed to be like? Spitting in your own brother’s face at Gran’s funeral? Telling him you never want to see him again as long as you live?

  Rudi breathes in and out deeply.

  Who are you, Pål?

  The question is: should they move? Away from Jani. Get their own place. A damn hard question. Hard in every way. It’s by no means certain Jani could handle it. It’s by no means certain it’d be good for the company. It could actually ruin everything. A damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn hard question.

  He waves his big hands in front of him in the darkness.

  Focus, like Jan Inge says, you need to focus, Rudi. Don’t talk too much. Don’t get lost in thought.

  He takes long strides up towards the rock where he’s arranged to meet Pål. He catches sight of him when he’s halfway up. Rudi comes to a stop and studies him. There’s no immediate recognition. Of course the guy had to have a dog. He needs to start saying it to people. Dogs prohibited. Pål looks worn out. His shoulders are slouching, his hands are nervous and his face is sad. He can’t say he recognises him.

  Rudi continues on and Pål catches sight of him. Rudi gives him a firm nod and assumes his sternest look, Pål raises his hand and gives him a lopsided smile.

  ‘All right?’ Rudi halts.

  ‘Yeah, hi, I’m På—’

  Rudi glances quickly left and right. ‘No,’ he says, grabbing Pål by his jacket. ‘No, we can’t stand here. Come on.’

  ‘Okay…’

  They walk down the hill, cross the path and break off into the woods. The dog barks. Rudi hears Pål breathing nervously beside him and lifts his hand up in the air as a signal to remain silent, while continuing to pull Pål after him. He looks intently toward the tree trunks ahead.

  ‘Can you make your dog shut up?’ Rudi hisses. ‘Or do I have to find a stone to beat his head in with?’

  Pål bends down quickly to the dog, whispers in a commanding voice: ‘Zitha! Quiet!’

  Rudi mutters to himself, annoyed. They cross the road and enter the small forest on the far side, which seems less inviting, less frequented, and after a short time Rudi points toward the substation.

  ‘There,’ he says. ‘Behind that.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘The hum from the substation,’ Rudi says. ‘Away from prying eyes.’

  They tramp through the undergrowth, towards the graffitied brick wall. The substation emits a steady, monotone sound. They stop. Rudi smiles sideways and says:

  ‘Påli dude. I was thinking about you earlier today. You say we’ve met before? In the old days? Did you massage J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro’s melons? Did you live on the same road as Tommy Pogo? Did I steal comics from you? Did I beat you up under the street lights by Tjensvoll Shopping Centre?

  Pål looks down. ‘Eh, no, eh, it—’

  ‘No?’ Rudi clicks his tongue. ‘No?’ he laughs. ‘Yeah, they were the good old days. That was what made us men, eh?’

  ‘I…’ Pål clears his throat. ‘I lived here when I was small. Or, I mean. I still live here, and … yeah, I, or, everyone knew who you were of course, or the Tjensvoll Gang, who all of you were rather, and eh, what all of you, y’know, did—’

  ‘You’re struggling a little. Were you afraid of us?’

  ‘Eh…’

  ‘Were you?’

  ‘Everyone was.’

  ‘Heh heh.’

  ‘The whole area was, we—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Rudi interrupts, ‘old times. Now our paths cross once again and you’ve gone grey, my friend, but have I? Heh heh! Can’t say I remember you. Okay, Pål, focus. The ball’s in your court, we don’t have any unfinished business, I haven’t beaten you up, you’re not out for revenge and I’m guessing you don’t want to invite me round for dinner? Heh heh! And if you do, then I’ve only one thing to say – Rudi ain’t no homo! I’d cut my own head off before I’d take a cock up the hole!’

  Rudi jabs Pål hard in the chest.

  ‘No,’ he says, inhaling what feels like a kilo of air, while thinking that people can say what they like about fresh air being the best thing there is, but when you’ve quit smoking you know what the real truth is. ‘No, you don’t get much of a laugh if you’re not up for a laugh. So Wally, the dog whisperer, what will we do?’

  ‘Eh …. well—’

  Rudi places his hand on Pål’s shoulder. ‘Nervous? Okay, listen to me. Breathe in. And out. And in. And out. This is what you discover the older you get. All people – almost all, there’s always an almost – that’s the thing. This is what I want to teach my kids, if I have any. All people – almost all – are okay. They might look like inside out goatskin, but they’re okay. Come on, Kåli, you need to breathe here! In, out, in, out! Yeah. Repeat after me, Tåli: All people – almost all – are okay. There’s something for you to think about.’

  Rudi stops himself. Focus. He takes his hand off Pål and straightens up. Scrutinises him. Just a regular guy. Not much else to say. Could do with a bit more facial hair, maybe. Shy looking.

  ‘So. Pål. Fagerland. What is it this fudgepacker has got on his mind? Have you got a woman, Fåli?’

  ‘Eh … no…’

  ‘No? Thought as much. You’d know to look at you. Yeah, I can see how things might be tough. If I didn’t have—’

  Rudi clears his throat. How many times has Jani said it: No names. No stories. Nothing personal. He’s said it a billion times.

  ‘Anyway,’ Rudi says, ‘one day the ladies are going to come knocking on your door too. And that’s when you need to start … yes, so anyhoo … Pål. Fagerland. What is bothering this guy?’

  Pål shifts his feet.

  ‘Spit it out, Gåli. And remember to breathe now.’

  Pål gulps. ‘The Ace of Spades,’ he whispers, glancing up at Rudi.

  Rudi begins slowly to nod. ‘I see,’ he says, in recognition. ‘Double up or quit?’

  Pål looks down at the tall grass. ‘Yeah,’ he says softly.

  ‘Double stakes or split?’ Rudi raises his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Yeah,’ whispers Pål.

  His shoulders drooping over. His eyes, so scared looking. Standing there, slouched over. The dog’s leash hanging slack from his wrist. His meek, embarrassed voice. Is he crying? Jesus, this guy is in a bad way.

 
; Rudi starts removing his jacket. He pulls the sleeves back the right way round and hands it to Pål. Then Rudy takes off his sweater, which he also hands to Pål. And even though it’s beginning to get very cold, he pulls off his T-shirt. Then turns his back to Pål.

  ‘See?’

  ‘Yeah…’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘You see that it says Motörhead?’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘Good.’ Rudi turns and takes back his clothes. ‘So now you know.’

  ‘I can’t get out of it,’ he hears Pål say while he puts his clothes back on.

  ‘Staying up at night?’

  Pål nods.

  ‘The internet?’

  Pål nods again.

  ‘That’s what’s wrong with the world today,’ Rudi says, and spits.

  Pål looks at him. ‘So I was thinking … I don’t know, maybe it’s a stupid idea but I’ve got into a situation which I can’t manage to, y’know, debt collection and…’

  ‘I know, you don’t need to explain. Go on…’

  ‘And then I came to think of you and him, what’s his name, Jan Inge, and—’

  Rudi lifts both hands. ‘Whoa! Stop! No names. Erase! Rewind! Dude, no names!’

  ‘Okay, no names, but you two came to mind, from the eighties,’ Pål says, his forehead sweaty. ‘I have two kids. Two girls. I’ve done something stupid. I…’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I need a million.’

  ‘A million?’ Rudi laughs.

  ‘Yeah.’ Pål nods and looks down at the undergrowth.

  ‘Listen,’ says Rudi, slapping Pål on the back, ‘sorry I’m laughing here, but … I mean … you need a million, and—’

  Pål’s eyes brim with desperation. ‘Help me,’ he whispers, a lump in his throat. ‘Help me, please. I have two daughters—’

  ‘Yeah, don’t they have a mother?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s … it’s complicated. I’m up to my neck in this…’ Pål pauses, swallows, before looking up at Rudi: ‘I’ve no place to go. Please, help me. I’ll do anything.’

  Rudi nods. He folds his arms.

  ‘Anything,’ Pål whispers.