by Tore Renberg
It’s not just nights he’s been playing. Lately he’s been in the sitting room with a smile plastered to his face, the laptop on his knees, two windows open, one an online newspaper, the other a gambling site. On Sunday, he’d said, casually, his eyes on the screen: Hey Malene, what’s your favourite number? She gave him a strange look and said, eh seven, why do you ask? Oh, was just wondering, he said, betting on seven. What are you doing, Dad? Hm, ah, just checking the weather forecast in the paper here. Lose. Lose. Lose. Continue. Continue. Continue. Personal loan, maxed-out card, GE Money Bank are throwing loans at people these days, and no one knows who Pål Fagerland is, apart from them: Hi Pål, how’s it going? The telephone rings late one night. Listen, we wondered if you wanted to come along to a poker tournament in Riga? Or: Hi Pål, we transferred 500 euros to you today, a little bonus. And when does that call come? Just as he’s logged on. After a few day’s absence. They know who you are. No one else.
The inside.
That’s where I live, he thinks. But what is it that’s going on inside of me?
He won big one time, felt the money rain down upon him one time, and that one time he’s believed it was down to talent, but the laws are such that eventually he’ll lose, everything. That’s the heart of the game. He knows that. But how does that help? It doesn’t, not at all. Pål was terrified of smoking when he was small. It didn’t prevent him from starting to smoke. He smoked for seventeen years. The only reason he managed to quit was Malene, when she was ten and lay crying because she was sure her daddy would die. That was something that raked at him on the inside. Pål knows that it’s not going to work. But no matter how well he knows it, he still believes in that jackpot every night, the one that can cancel all his debts and make him rich and worry-free.
Zitha rubs her snout against his thigh and Pål feels his jaw loosen, his chin drop, hears himself sigh.
‘Yeaah,’ he whispers, glancing over at Cecilie and Rudi, ‘yeaah, good girl.’
He was amazed when she showed up. She hasn’t changed since the time he went into her room. 1986. She’s just the same, only more run-down. Just as thin, just as bony, just as discordantly composed. Her skin was soft and pink back then, now it’s grainy and grey, but still freckly.
Pål needs to take pains to avoid being recognised. It’s not going to go down well if Rudi realises he’s been one of her – well – customers. To think she was the first girl Pål was with. Two hundred kroner? Wasn’t it two hundred kroner he stole from his mum and dad? They took the bus out to the house in Hillevåg, he and Hasse. Pål handed the money over to Videoboy, was directed towards a room that lay at the end of a long hall. She was lying in there. A little girl under a duvet. Posters on the walls, one of a cat and another of Wham! He undressed. She giggled, he remembers, and lifted the duvet. He got into the bed, put his hands on those tiny tits. He didn’t sleep with her, didn’t have time, he came as soon as her fingers stroked his dick. Pål felt sick with shame afterwards, ran away from the horror movies and the rented girl and never went back.
And now here she was. She’d become Rudi’s girlfriend.
He was always a nutcase, thinks Pål, looking over at the pair of them. Was this a good idea? Help him get hold of a million? Rudi was always twisted but now he seems even more so. Probably the same with criminals as the rest of us, we become ourselves more and more as life goes on, we expand, and it’s not only the good sides that grow, the bad ones do too.
The eighties come wafting back to Pål, a time smelling of Sky Channel and late nights, flickering bike lamps, humming dynamos and puddle rock. The Tjensvoll Gang, sick rumours circulated about them. They looked tough, they lived by their own rules, they had the courage not to give a shit, not about school, or teachers, or parents, if they had any. Pål never possessed that kind of courage. Hasse was drawn to it, his curiosity greater than any moral qualms, he had to get to see everything, but Pål grew frightened when he heard about the things they got up to. Even their names scared him, Rudi, Tommy Pogo, Janka Bat. People spoke of Rudi’s eyes sparkling the time he held a wailing cat in his grip, knocked it on the head with a stone, opened its mouth, placed a firecracker on its still pink tongue, laughed so much he almost retched, closed the cat’s mouth, lit the fuse, took a few steps back and said:
‘This is the most fun I’ve ever fucking had, and it hasn’t even happened yet.’
People said the cat’s head cracked and its eyes exploded like glass. Two weeks later they stole a can of petrol from the garage of a house in Ragnhilds Gate, captured a hedgehog, doused the animal with it and watched the flames rise into the night sky as they discussed what to do next, and did anyone have any drain cleaner at home?
Rudi has placed both hands on Cecilie’s shoulders. It looks like he’s trying to press her down into the ground. She nods. Then she looks over at Pål while saying something. Pål swallows. Are they talking about him? Has she recognised him?
Rudi looks in his direction.
No, thinks Pål. I need to go. He’s going to kill me.
There’s a flash in Rudi’s eyes. He raises his forefinger.
I need to go. Now.
Rudi begins to walk towards him.
‘Nice to meet you, Pål,’ says Cecilie, ‘I have to be off, so … see you.’
Pål clears his throat but doesn’t manage to get a word out.
She bends over, picks up the hedgehog and begins walking back down through the forest. A bit like a soldier, Pål thinks, and sees Rudi approach. He looks like one of the trees in the forest, like one of the trees has torn its roots up out of the soil and begun ambling across the earth in the darkness.
‘Okay, Pål Wall.’
Rudi hawks and spits.
No, no, no. I should never have done this.
Rudi puts his finger on Pål’s chest, jabs him hard a few times. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry about it. Woman stuff. You’ll know all about it when you get yourself a lady, Påli—’
Woman stuff?
‘Sorrysorrysorry, daughters? Two daughters? But no wife? Rudi’s not going to stick his nose in. You know all about it. What do I know? Isn’t it the very reason someone like you and someone like me are talking? Woman stuff, it’s a full-time job, man. You smoke? No?’
They didn’t recognise me.
‘Quit a few years back,’ Pål says, and breathes out.
‘Yeah, I quit too. Couple of weeks back. Hell to pay. No. The ladies. Got to have a spine of steel. Love, Snåli. You know about love?’
‘Yeah, I’ve—’
Rudi fixes his eyes on him.
‘I’m a man of love, Jåli.’
That look of his, utterly mad. It’s like he’s going to spontaneously combust and lava’s going to flow out of his head.
‘Never doubt it, not for a fucking minute,’ Rudi says, seething. ‘You can talk all the shit you like about Rudi but he’s a man of love, never ever doubt that. You hear me, Swalli?’
‘Yeah, of co—’
‘Good. I can’t stand talking to people who don’t listen. But. We can’t stand here nattering. Will I tell you what’s wrong with the world today, Wålli? The internet. There you have it. What happened to the human factor? Answer me that, Zålli. The internet. Don’t get me started, brother! The internet, that’s what wrong with the world today. As you well know, my keyboard-clicking friend. And The Good Book, who reads that nowadays? And the family, who watches over them nowadays? Okay, Håli, I’ll tell you how we’ll do this.’
Say goodnight to the girls, Pål thinks, trying hard to hold back the tears. I need to get away from here, this is all wrong, I need to get home and say goodnight to the girls.
25. A LOW FRIGGING GIRLY THING TO PULL (Tiril)
‘Tiril?’
Malene is standing on the loading ramp with her arms folded. Her head moving slowly from side to side, like a leaf in a light breeze.
Tiril bites the top off a fingernail and spits it out on the tarmac. She takes out a fresh cigarette, tucks her c
hewing gum up between her lip and her front teeth as though it were a pinch of snus, produces the lighter, watches the flame light up the darkness before bringing it to the cigarette.
She doesn’t reply. Why should she go around answering people all the time? Amazing how someone’s always pestering you. Everybody’s alone in this world, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re born alone and you’ll die alone.
‘Something’s up with Dad.’
Malene turns to her. She speaks in a low voice. She has a forlorn expression on her face. Sometimes Tiril wonders if she practises that look, so people will feel sorry for her. Tiril certainly couldn’t be bothered perfecting any bogus expressions of her own, even though she’s the one they should feel sorry for, because she’s the one who’s fourteen, she’s the one with a horrible body, the one without any friends, while Malene gets everything handed to her, just sits there in Dad’s lap being the understanding, talented little gymnast with good grades.
‘I can just feel it,’ Malene says, still speaking in a hushed tone. ‘There’s something up with Dad.’
She can just feel it.
Jesus.
‘Relax,’ says Tiril. ‘You’re so dramatic. He’s out taking Zitha for a walk. That’s what he does every night. Zitha is a dog, she needs to be taken for walks. It’s not Dad there’s something wrong with, it’s you.’
Malene crouches down right in front of her. Tiril doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like it when people get all in her face. It’s like when that Norwegian teacher crops up behind her shoulder, smelling of coffee and asks so veeeeeeeery gently how are you getting on here, Tiril. Just great, Miss, get lost and sort out your own life, on your period, are you?
She blows smoke straight into her sister’s face.
‘You need to quit that, it’s disgusting.’ Malene waves the smoke away with a grimace.
‘No. It’s great. Cancer of the future, pleasure of the present.’
‘Knock it off. Listen to me,’ says Malene. ‘I can feel it, you understand?’
Tiril shakes her head: ‘You can feel it. You know what, I’m so bloody fed up of you thinking you can feel how things are with Dad.’
‘Tiril, stop—’
‘Who do you think you are? Dad’s girlfriend? The way you go round tidying his things, as if he didn’t have his own life, do you think he likes that? Do you think he likes you putting away his Adidas and folding his trousers, I don’t know what you’re thinking, I mean, it’s sick! You’re, like, his daughter! And then you sit on his knee as if you were even younger than me. Jesus, it’s disgusting.’
Malene recoils. Her eyes screw up slightly and the corners of her mouth begin to quiver.
Jesus, now she’s going to start crying.
That is a frigging low girly thing to pull.
She’s never going to be like that, she’s never going to cry unless she’s in real pain. Harshini and Vera both do it as well, they’ve been at it since first class, crying about nothing and then the whole class gathers round them and it’s all poooooor you, Harshini, and poooooor you, Vera. Jesus, it’s not poooooor anyone, or if it was it should be Kia Pogo, she’s actually paralysed, she actually has a reason to think everything’s fucked up. No, it’s just a low, frigging, girly thing to do because they’re weak and don’t have the guts to deal with things themselves. It was cool when Frida Riska tore into them, Vera and Harshini both, went over to them and said: ‘Girls, enough of the crocodile tears. You hear me?’
Tiril gets to her feet. She looks away.
Mhm. There’s the sniffling.
Time for the waterworks now, maybe? Pooooor me who’s always looking after Dad. Pooooor me who does all the housework. Ungrateful you, who just goes round giving out and being pissed off. Isn’t that what you’re going to say?
Malene stands up, grabs hold of Tiril’s arm. She tries to pull herself loose – ‘what are you doing? Are you going to hit me now as well?’ – but her sister clutches her tight.
‘You can say what you want, Tiril.’ Malene looks her in the eyes. ‘You can say what you want about me, we can talk about that another time, when you’ve had a chance to think about it. But this here, this is about Dad. Understand?’
Tiril tears herself free from Malene’s grip. She stares at her while fixing her clothes.
‘Is that so? You think you’re the only one who’s ever right? You think you’re the only one with eyes in their head? Don’t you? That you’re the only one who can think and understand and actually has a brain?’
‘No. I—’
‘No! So quit it and … just quit it! What is it you want?’
Malene looks down. ‘I’m sick of arguing with you, Tiril,’ she says quietly.
Tiril takes a last drag of the cigarette, drops it, puts it out with her foot and dislodges the chewing gum from beneath her lip. She takes a few steps along the loading ramp and looks over towards the school. Some day she’s going to get out of here, and she’s never going to come back. She’ll get away from here, away from Madla, away from Gosen, away from poxy fucking Stavanger.
‘I’m not arguing,’ Tiril says coolly, ‘I’m discussing.’
Behind her, she hears Malene let out a heavy sigh. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Whatever.’
Her hands hang by her sides. Malene stands there with her nice body. And Tiril stands there with her horrible body and a pain in her stomach. Two boys skate by in the car park below. One of them points at the girls and shouts something. It’s Bunny’s little brother and that guy from Haugtassa, Hassan. Tiril extends her middle finger, holds it up to them and shouts: ‘Fucking retard!’
Can’t she give it a rest.
Standing there breathing so heavily.
‘Yeah, yeah!’ sputters Bunny’s little brother. ‘Emo! Looking forward to you making an asshole of yourself on Thursday! International Cunt Workshop!’
‘Wanker!’ shouts Tiril, hears them laughing and watches them skate out of sight. Bunny’s little shit of a brother, cheeky little prick. Not a day goes by without him making some remark, something wrong with that guy.
‘Listen…’ she says, without looking at Malene. ‘I didn’t mean it.’
‘Right, right,’ her sister says hastily. ‘Whatever. I’m heading home. See you when I see you’
Tiril bites her lip. ‘Look…’ she takes a deep breath: ‘That thing about the clothes. I didn’t mean it. Dad likes it. I’m sure he does. It’s just … you always have to be so … it’s like, you always have to do the right thing the whole time. When did you get your period, by the way?’
Malene looks like E.T. again, she gives a little start and laughs. Tiril grins.
‘Well, I—’ Malene stops herself. Looks closely at Tiril. ‘But have you—’
‘No, no. I’m as clean and pure as a preacher’s sheets. Heh heh.’
‘Summer last year,’ Malene says, ‘right after we got home from Copenhagen. It’s a real hassle.’
Tiril looks around. It’s a hassle, yeah, but it sucks being the last in the class to get it. Not that she’d want to have been the first, not like Amalie, that was so embarrassing, she got it super early, but if it doesn’t come soon she’s going to start to wonder if there’s something wrong with her, no matter how much it hurts.
She doesn’t have Malene’s nice figure. She doesn’t have Malene’s eyes. She isn’t good, nice and kind like Malene, but she has the eyes of Amy Lee, and she, too, is able to see. Bunny’s little brother and his mate skating by the low-rises. The woods. The school. The telecom tower. The hill.
Tiril feels the cold worming its way into her body. All right, she thinks, hopping down off the loading ramp. Fleet of foot, clear in mind. All right.
‘Come on,’ she says, setting off.
‘Huh?’
‘Limahaugen.’
‘Huh?’ Malene scuttles after her.
‘Well? Didn’t you want to look for Dad?’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Well then, come on,’ says Tiril, continuing up
the hill by the school, ‘and I’ll prove to you nothing’s wrong. Dad is standing up there, I’ll bet you a hundred kroner on it. He’s standing up there, on top of Limahaugen looking out over the fjord, Zitha by his side, her tail wagging, and when we get there she’ll come running and barking, but then you’re the one, Malene, who’s going to have to explain what we’re doing there, okay?’
Tiril stops in front of the flats, turns and breathes on her sister.
‘Well, have you got a hundred? I’m not going if you don’t.’
Malene nods and takes a banknote from her pocket.
‘Do I smell of smoke?’
Malene sniffs.
‘It’ll go away.’ Tiril hurries uphill toward Limahaugen. ‘Dad will be disappointed, you know, if he finds out. Think you might need glasses by the way, you’re making a lot of weird faces, maybe your eyesight is bad.’
Bunny’s little brother, that prick.
Tiril clenches her fists.
Guess who’s going to get a taste of Tiril tomorrow.
26. SHE BRUSHES OFF LEAVES, GRASS AND MOULD (Sandra)
‘Like that? Daniel? Like that?’
It hurts a little. She has the weight of a boy lying on top of her, his entire bodyweight. Only a few moments ago she thought about just abandoning herself to it, and she managed too, but now she’s suddenly thinking there’s a boy on top of her, she’s never experienced that before and he’s thrusting something inside her. Ouch.
It stops abruptly. She feels a trickling sensation ease through her body and it doesn’t hurt so much any more.
I love this boy, she thinks. I love this. He’s all mine.
Why is he stopping? Why is he pulling out of me? Sandra opens her eyes as she feels Daniel getting up. She props herself up on her elbows, covering her naked breasts. He’s on his knees in front of her, features tightly drawn, looking away, looking into himself.
‘Daniel? What is it?’
He doesn’t answer. His face is contorted, his eyes wide open, as though his pupils are just going to disappear. Sandra draws her legs back, feels a tightening in her chest.