by Tore Renberg
‘Daniel? Is there something wrong?’
He holds his hands in front of his crotch, he’s quivering all over, sweating, not looking at her. Sandra reaches out despairingly, her hands touching his stomach.
‘Don’t!’ he hisses, getting up and pushing her away.
‘What is it?’ She sobs. ‘Daniel? What have I done wrong? You know I love you, you know I just want … it was nice, Daniel!’
They hear the sound of a dog barking, not far from them. Daniel pulls up his jeans, giving her a stern look as he crouches down.
‘Daniel, I—’
‘Shhh!’
He brings a finger to his lips. He shoots her another severe look. Sandra feels her throat go cold and a sweat break out under her hairline. She’s never seen him like this before, it’s scary.
But she does as he says. Keeps quiet.
Footsteps. They hear footsteps. Moving quickly over the ground, nearby. They both crouch down further. Daniel zips up the flies of his jeans. Sandra pulls her panties on hurriedly, wiggles her hips into her jeans and nervously fastens the buttons on her top one by one. They look around for the source of the footsteps. That dog, the barking of that dog, they’ve heard that before. Is someone spying on them? My God, it could be someone from the class. It could be Mum, it could be Dad.
Daniel points. Once again he puts a finger to his lips. Sandra feels her stomach throb with fear, she looks around anxiously. Now he gives a firm nod, his teeth clenched, in the direction of the woods. What is it she’s supposed to see?
There. A girl.
Or, a woman.
She’s walking between the trees. God, she’s walking right towards them. A woman, she’s carrying something, what is it, a cat? It’s an animal in any case, and she doesn’t look good, this woman, not at all, frail and rough with unruly witchlike hair, shabby clothes and smudged make-up – there’s that dog barking again.
‘Down!’ whispers Daniel and lies down flat on the ground.
Sandra does the same. Her heart pounding in her chest.
The woman walks by. It’s a hedgehog she’s carrying. It’s the weirdest-looking thing, the woman is tiny and as thin as a sheet of paper, around forty or something, with crooked teeth and red eyes, walking along muttering to herself.
She continues on down towards the road.
They get back up when she’s out of sight. They try to look at one another but can’t manage to. Sandra has tears running down her cheeks and feels like she’s ruined everything. She did something wrong but doesn’t know what, and now he’s furious. Wasn’t she good enough at it? Were her hands not skilled, did she use her tongue wrong, was her body not attractive? Has he slept with hundreds of girls before her and just thought she was horrible, stupid, small and tight and no good at anything? Please, Daniel, give me one more chance, I’ll be better, I promise, I’ll do everything the way you want.
‘There’s someone here,’ he says, in a low voice.
She’s about to say something, but he puts his hand over her mouth.
What’s he on about? How can he talk like that after what’s happened?
There’s that dog barking again.
He turns. Whispers: ‘Understand?’
Sandra nods, she feels so small and stupid that she obeys everything he says.
Then they hear it, both of them. The sound of someone laughing.
‘We have to go,’ he says. ‘It’s not safe here.’
Sandra feels like she’s going to shatter into a thousand pieces. There’s nothing about Daniel to indicate they’ve slept together, that they’ve looked as far into one another’s eyes as people can.
‘We can’t be here,’ he says, straightening his jacket. ‘We’ll just walk calmly across the path, me first and then you half a minute after.’
Daniel stops.
‘Fuck. Where’s my helmet?’
‘Helmet?’
‘Fuck,’ he says again. ‘Never should have—’ He shakes his head. ‘Okay. Me first. Then you follow half a minute later. I’ll take the Suzuki. You walk home.’
Home?
She’s not able to get up, not able to breathe, she can only cry.
‘Get a grip, Sandra.’ He’s not looking at her. ‘Get up. Don’t sit there blubbering. I’m off now, you follow after.’
She gets to her feet unsteadily. I have to do what he says, she thinks, otherwise he’ll leave me. He knows about this sort of thing. He’s older than me.
‘Okay,’ she says, mustering her most grown-up smile. ‘Half a minute,’ she adds, trying to sound upbeat. She leans forward, gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘So, did you like it?’
His eyes flit around, avoiding her gaze.
‘Hm? Yeah, yeah, it was great, see you tomorrow.’
What’s with you, Daniel William Moi?
How can you be so cold?
Are you a dangerous boy, Daniel William Moi?
She wants to hurl herself at him, wants to hit him more than anything, hit him with both hands, but she refrains. She smiles, brushes off leaves, grass and mould, and says: ‘Yeah. Sure. See you tomorrow.’
27. VOLVO (Jan Inge)
He’s pleased with this wheelchair.
Jan Inge rocks slightly forward and back while watching a movie. It handles like a dream, much better than you’d think to look at it. Ingenious idea Rudi had that time. Chessi needs a wheelchair. Where do they have wheelchairs? Wherever sick people are. Where are there sick people? At the hospital. Okay. Rudi drives to the hospital. He just walks straight in the door. He sees a wheelchair: That’s mine.
Rudi at his best. Utterly fearless.
Easy to change course too. Jan Inge brakes hard in front of the living-room table and turns the chair smoothly around. Carrying 120 here, after all. About time Rudi called. But that’s Rudi’s style, if you take him on you have to be willing to take on the best and the worst, like beer and calories, to make a comparison. But loyal? People have come and gone in this company, good people who’ve accepted Jani’s leadership style and realised this isn’t some half-ass gang, bad people who haven’t understood a single rule, people who’ve run themselves into the ground on drugs, made for a lousy atmosphere and been disloyal.
A cushion wouldn’t go amiss, if you were planning on sitting here for a while. And some kind of headrest. Be surprised if Tong couldn’t knock something up. There’re few things he can’t fix up, it’ll be good to have him around again.
Jan Inge grins at the TV as though it were an old friend, and that’s what it is, after all. A classic, Three on a Meathook. Well made, if you consider the budget and the fact it came out in 1973. Yeah. That scene’s so good. The axe isn’t even big, just a little hatchet, and it chops the woman’s head right off.
There. Darkness. Zoom in on the house.
The father walking around calling out to Billy.
Why didn’t you listen?
It’s too late now.
That’s what’s so good about horror movies. They’re all about it being too late. If Jan Inge ever writes that book, he can call it something along those lines.
It’s Too Late.
A Study of Horror Movies.
By Jan Inge Haraldsen.
That bloody surname. It doesn’t command any respect. He’d have to change his name if he was going to be a writer.
Jan Inge Wilson.
Doesn’t sound that good.
What are writers called?
Hamsun.
He can’t remember that many writers from school. But then again there weren’t many days he went to school.
Jan Inge Hamsun
That has a certain ring to it.
JAN INGE HAMSUN
Vibrant. But a bit Nazi.
Knausgård? Jan Inge Knausgård?
Bit boring. Bit German.
Jan Inge Nesbø?
Bit used-up.
Spielberg? Jan Inge Spielberg?
Not enough like a writer.
Jan Inge Cash.
No. He�
�s not really a writer-writer, Johnny Cash.
Nooo … Jan Inge … what’s his name…
Yess.
JAN INGE KING.
It’s Too Late. A Study of Horror Movies.
By Jan Inge King.
Jan Inge pivots a little on the wheelchair, nodding to himself.
It’s all about grabbing hold of life while you can.
Some people have that little extra. The company was vulnerable when Tong went inside. Cash flow was better when he was working. He can be a bit iffy upstairs but that’s the drugs. And as soon as that’s out of the picture, which Tong promises it is, then it’s hard to find fault. It’ll be good to have him home, then the gang will be all together, then they can avoid having to trust people they half know as well as complete strangers. Melvin. Tødden. God, he’s happy to be rid of that sick hippie, and Hansi, what a disgusting individual. He’d start jabbering away when he was drunk. When Rudi drinks he just wants to sing, dance, shout, mess about and screw Chessi, but when Hansi drank he wanted to hit the town, then he’d start blabbering, and then it’s not far to the copshop on Lagårdsveien 6, and before too long you’ve got Tommy Pogo standing at your door. Well, anyway, all that’s behind us now. Have to organise a party for Tong on Friday. Show him that we care. That he’s bloody well welcome back.
WELCOME HOME, YELLOW SUBMARINE, WE’VE MISSED YOU.
That’s what’s important, thinks Jan Inge, filling his mouth with crisps. Keeping the gang together. Being a good leader. He saw a programme about business executives on TV, and after listening to them, he can’t say he breaks with any of the fundamental principles of sound leadership. Trust. Presence. Ambition. Resolve. Seeing your co-workers. Seeing their good sides. Supporting them. Inspiring them. Being there for them in adversity. No, Jan Inge can’t see that he breaks with any of the fundamental principles. On the contrary, they’re precisely the same basic principles he adheres to when it comes to leadership:
No drugs (only when we’re on a job!).
No to porn (ruins your head!).
Never harm individuals (what have they done to us? Are we animals?).
No to excessive violence and weapons (= copshop on Lagårdsveien 6!).
Small jobs = good jobs (get too big, Lagårdsveien 6!).
Yes to break-ins, no to hold-ups (Lagårdsveien 6!).
Keep calm! (Chaos is our enemy!)
Only talk to your own people (who else can you trust?).
Focusfocusfocus (!!!).
The biggest danger is Rudi and Chessi moving out. That’s not a pleasant thought. What he needs to do is make sure things are so good for them in the old house that the issue doesn’t arise. A charter holiday? Is that what they want? Jan Inge can surprise them and splash out. He could spring a surprise trip on them. And what about the SodaStream? How about he actually digs it out to see if it can be fixed?
LEADERSHIP.
‘No,’ Jan Inge says aloud. He rocks a little back and forth. On the TV screen a dead girl lies in a bathtub filled with a mixture of water and blood. ‘No,’ he says again, even louder. His voice fills the room, as though he were addressing someone. ‘No,’ he repeats firmly, ‘need to get back down to a hundred. Too much of a good thing, this here.’
Why are you doing this! What do you want!
That’s Rudi’s ringtone. Jan Inge is torn away from his meandering thoughts and reaches out for the telephone. ‘Yep, Jan Inge King speaking.’
‘King?’
Jan Inge rolls his blueberry eyes.
‘Okay, Mr King, noisy at your end, what are you … hang on, hang on, I’m listening, hang on, Three on a Meathook? Ha ha. You study day and night, you do.’
Jan Inge grabs the remote control and mutes the sound.
‘Always on the hunt for knowledge. So, what gives?’
‘The Volvo won’t need repairs.’
‘No?’
‘Nope.’
‘But we need to go through it together.’
Jan Inge squeezes the mobile phone between his jaw and shoulder, turns the wheelchair and trundles toward the door to the veranda.
‘Oh?’
‘A few details we need to take a look at.’
‘But no repairs?’
‘No.’
‘Otherwise everything went okay with the Volvo?’
‘What do you mean?’
There’s something amiss with Rudi’s voice.
‘Well, just wondering if everything else was okay with the Volvo?’ Jan Inge rocks back and forth in the wheelchair.
‘Eh … yeah? I mean yeah! Yeah. Everything’s good with the Volvo.’
‘Okay, well, if you say so.’
‘Kein problem. Back to your studies!’
Jan Inge hangs up. Then he unlocks the door to the veranda, shoves it open and feels the white September night meet him. He feels the chill of a slight prickle on the top of his head. His bald spot’s getting bigger, but can’t do anything about that, runs in the family, bad hair. He seesaws the wheelchair gracefully over the doorsill, steering with steady hands, rocking a little back and forth before gliding out on to the veranda. Never fails, that whole Volvo thing, he thinks, surveying the run-down garden. Weeds and shit. All that junk and other crap lying about rotting. It attracts attention. They ought to have a clean-up soon. Straighten out company HQ. They can just talk about the Volvo and they understand one another. Don’t need any set code, can just talk about the Volvo.
And that, he thinks contentedly, despite the presence of a creeping unease over what may have occurred; that is the innermost secret.
To be so tight with your colleagues that you understand everything. That you need only listen to the sound of their voices to figure out what kind of humour they’re in. That you don’t need to look in their eyes for more than a moment to know what’s going on.
That to me is VOLVO.
28. TITANIUM (Malene)
The sisters walk across the fields by The Iron Age Farm.
They’ve been here before. All the kids in the area have been here. First in kindergarten, a herd of children out in the rain or wind, and then in primary school. Out to look at the ruins of the Iron Age houses situated on the slope between the high-rises and Limahaugen, with a view over Hafrsfjord, where the battle which united Norway into one kingdom took place: 872, Harald Fairhair.
They’re surrounded by darkness, ahead of them they can see the red signal lights of the telecom tower at Ullandhaug, they can see the lights from passing cars down on Madlamarkveien, and they don’t have the energy to talk.
The first girl is angular and ungainly, with small hips and a boyish stride, she’s bent forward and moves with a jerky gait. Her chin juts out, her eyes often narrow and often flash with anger. She’s good at football, has a foul mouth and wears heavy make-up. The other girl has grown-up features and beautiful, high cheekbones. The first one has said she wants to be an environmental activist with Amnesty and write songs of her own. The other has said she is going to concentrate on gymnastics, continue studying in any case, perhaps something within sport or health.
She might well be a little anxious about the future. Anxious it could present further changes.
It was a normal training session. A Thursday afternoon at the end of May. Spring was in bloom, the air full of birch pollen, the summer holidays were right around the corner and Malene had had a good season. After a difficult winter where she had felt stiff and heavy, she was back in form. She’d done well in the regional finals, third place on the beam, a good routine on the parallel bars had given her second place behind Ylva from Sandnes Gymnastics Club, and she’d executed a lovely vault where she’d finished with her first double somersault in a championship and taken home her first gold medal. In the Norwegian Cup in Trøgstad she’d been on the winners’ podium again, third place in the vault and parallel bars.
Malene trained six days a week all season. She could feel her own strength, she could trust both her mind and her body, and people remarked how she had a
new gracefulness about her. She’d grown, was elegant and had gone from being a good gymnast to being considered one of the best in the region. Not as ruthless as Mia, her best friend in the club and not as solid or tough as the Russian twins in Stavanger Gymnastics Club, but people viewed her differently than before. The jump was still the weakest part of her routine, she still lacked the necessary explosiveness, but she trained with determination and she knew everything was moving in the right direction. She had been doing gymnastics since she was seven years old and now she was reaping the rewards.
She was standing. The hall was full of girls, young beginners who practised their first round-off backflip, girls of ten in the advanced group doing arm support swings on the parallel bars. They giggled, ran and landed on the crash mat, Sigrid Ueland making comments the whole time: Bravo, Ingrid! Shuttle runs! Don’t play with the hoop, Nora! What kind of wrist is that, Tuva? The vaults are all right, Mia, but otherwise you’re too careful! You’ll get a half-point more for a proper finish! You’re going to get a Christmas present from me, Pia! You’re running like a bunch of old ladies! Legs together! Legs together!
Without Sigrid, Malene would never be where she is. A powerhouse of a woman with a steely personality, a legend in the city, gymnastics champion and PE teacher, over fifty years of age but still very strong in both mind and body, imperious as well as ambitious on behalf of the girls, with crimson lipstick beneath bright green eyes.
‘Malene! The double!’
Sigrid called out to her and Malene hurried from the beam over to the iPhone laying on the little table by the benches and wall bars. The other girls cleared off the mat and made room. Malene turned up the volume, ‘Titanium’, David Guetta & Sia. She always has to have loud music on when she’s going to do her elements, it gives her energy and shuts out the world. Then she took up position in a corner of the hall. She allowed the music to play a little until it rose to a pumping tempo, she tensed her body and could feel Sigrid’s eyes boring into her. The younger girls began chanting her name until it resounded throughout the hall – just as she’d done for the bigger girls when she was smaller, cheered them on, given them the noisy support they needed to get their adrenalin going.