by Tore Renberg
That was when Dad added the thing about Houston not being a million miles away and to maintain a positive outlook and think of all the emigrants in the olden days.
A few weeks later he rang up and said it would take a little longer before he was able to get back home, and he reiterated that Jan Inge had to be a big boy now and think positive, that no big boy ever suffered from having to look after a house and a sister. On the contrary, he said, if he’d found himself on his own when he was thirteen, what a dream that would have been.
Up with the lark. Up with the light.
Another scintillating day in the wealthiest city in the world.
Jan Inge wheels blithely over the worn lino. The sun is showing up the dirt on the kitchen windows, where some kids have scrawled ‘cock’ on the pane with their fingers. Jan Inge sits in his pyjamas, smiling; that’s kids for you. He turns the wheelchair and veers towards the fridge, opens the door, his mind falling into new exciting thoughts while he reaches for the sliced meats, cheese, jam and juice.
What a night.
After watching Three on a Meathook and taking what he likes to think of as ‘internal notes’, he trundled out on to the veranda. The evening chill surged to meet him and he let his thoughts move slowly as he allowed his eyes drift from the light of one star to the next in the deep sky. The problems he sometimes feels are almost tangible seem to have blown away. The whole 120 matter, the fear of Rudi and Cecilie contriving to move, the issue of them needing an extra car, or two, the job Rudi was checking out in Gosen Woods, Tong getting out on Friday…
He fell asleep. A solitary individual in the world. Resting in front of the cold, starry sky. A criminal life. The David Toska of petty crime. But a life all the same. His chin hanging down. His head slumped to the side on one shoulder. Some saliva at the corner of his mouth. Laid bare in front of nature. Deep meditation. Cosmic intelligence. An airplane passing high up in the dark, night sky. Red lights blinking. A neighbour putting the rubbish out on the road below.
These kinds of things. Just like a poem, all of them.
I, a child. Yoga Yani and the universe.
Jan Inge was awoken by voices floating in the air in front of him:
‘Is he asleep?’
‘Oh, has he wheeled himself out here?’
‘Oh Jesus, I’m dying for a smoke.’
‘So why don’t you start again?’
‘Why don’t you just quit?’
‘Did he manage to get out here all by himself?’
‘I could see you liked that Pål dude.’
‘What do you mean, I liked him?’
‘Christ, I really want a smoke right now.’
‘Are you sure he’s asleep?’
‘I’m only saying, you liked that Pål dude.’
‘Just look at him, would you?’
‘Are you going to that face … treatment … thing tomorrow?’
‘Mhm.’
‘Nice.’
‘Mhm.’
‘You’ll be one sexy bitch after it.’
‘Heh heh.’
‘Would you screw that Påli dude?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Some brother you’ve got.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Look at that.’
‘Wha?’
‘He’s got a bald spot here, Jan Inge.’
‘Runs in the family. All the men get one.’
‘Yeah, yeah, there’s enough age discrimination in society without us needing to pick on that too.’
It was in this atmosphere, with Jan Inge slowly began to orient himself, while he remained with his eyes closed dwelling upon the humanity and compassion he was surrounded by; in this atmosphere that yesterday ended.
Whilst he experienced a kind of totality of love.
Cecilie and Rudi wheeled him across the living-room floor. They said shhhh, you don’t need to get up, shhhh, we’ll talk about that Pål thing tomorrow, shhhh, all you need to do now is just hit the hay, master, and as they jostled and bumped him into the bedroom, Rudi made mention of a skirting board that would have to go. They helped him, in the frozen and deeply moved state in which he found himself, into his bed, where he could carry on sleeping, and with his eyes closed, as if he were an old man in a congenial nursing home, Jan Inge heard Rudi’s last words of the night:
‘Good night, maestro.’
And Cecilie’s last words that night: ‘Sometimes I think it’s a shit life being your sister, Jani, but right at this moment you’re fucking intense.’
So naturally enough Jan Inge is experiencing a considerable amount of emotion this morning. All people who feel loved do, he thinks as he takes out the cheese and places it on the old earthenware plate from Stavangerflint, which makes him think malicious thoughts of his mother in the graveyard and painful thoughts of his father in Houston.
Soon he’ll wheel into the hall and wake them. Call out in the direction of their room: ‘Good morning! Wednesday! Breakfast meeting!’
It’s a good ritual.
Wednesday = Morning meeting.
If there’s one thing Jan Inge has blind faith in, it’s rituals.
For example: Cecilie always washes the bath. Rudi takes care of all things electrical. He himself always prepares breakfast. When it comes to breakfast, the thing to keep in mind is that it’s all about setting a certain standard for the day, and it’s about quality time, which is something of a basic necessity if this company is to succeed. Meals have a surprisingly large role to play. People need to get up and eat breakfast and they need to have dinner. They listen to Motörhead when they sit down to dinner, way up loud, so everyone can feel a sense of peace and calm within, but when they eat breakfast it’s quiet. It’s a time for evaluation, strategies and pep talks, and if it’s a Wednesday then there’s a morning meeting. That means an opportunity for anyone to bring up whatever they might have on their mind, and an opportunity for Jan Inge to be a visionary, if he so wishes.
Which he often does.
Lately Jan Inge has spared no effort at mealtimes. He’s bought more expensive cheese, meats and spreads, taken great pains when setting the table, purchased better coffee than usual and has even procured candles. All in order for them to see that being part of this household, of this company, is no bad thing. So any talk of moving, they’ll put that right out of their minds.
Jan Inge brings the wheelchair to a standstill.
‘That is one very nice spread I’ve prepared,’ he whispers, his crisp voice filling the early morning light of the room.
Three glasses. Three side plates. Knives for everyone. Coffee for him and Cecilie. Chocolate milk for Rudi. A candle glowing in the centre of the table. In a lot of ways you could say it’s nicely set off by the sun outside. A platter with cuts of meat. A platter with cheese. Jam for Rudi. Liver pâté for Cecilie. And the beetroot slices she likes to have on top of her pâté. An egg for him.
He raises his heavy behind off the wheelchair and takes a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He reads:
Film of the week: The Abominable Dr Phibes (R. Fuest 1971).
Pitch in and fix up the garden. This weekend? If so who’s getting hold of a trailer for all the shit?
Are we going to W.A.S.P. in Oslo on 24th October? If so who’s sorting out tickets, transport and somewhere to stay? NB: We’re not sleeping over at Tom B’s in Holmlia! Remember what happened last time!
Update on yesterday’s meeting w/ Pål. What’s happening? Progress?
Friday. Tong. What are we doing? Party? Dinner? Just let him relax? Suggestions?
Misc. Anyone have anything they want to share?
Jan Inge folds the note, and feeling primed and strong within, wheels himself out into the hall. And just as he’s about to call out ‘good morning, Wednesday, breakfast meeting’, he hears creaking from the bed in Rudi and Cecilie’s room. He swallows and trundles a little closer, hears a kind of banging on the floor, then Rudi’s deep voice: ‘Jesus! Chessi, turn round, let me see that ass. Yess!
Lift it up, chica, come on! YESS! Live porn from Hillevåg! Hands up, your pussy or your life, yess, right there, yeah, my little whore, oh yeah, here comes Mr Cock, oh you’re so big, hips like shelves, oh, heeeelp, mamma, ooh it’s so big, ooh it’s ready to burst, ooh mamma, you don’t need to come after all, I can come myself! It’s a partay on my ass! Into the darkness, for the twenty-seventh year in a row! And-peo-ple-go-and-get-div-or-ced! Sitting on the internet pulling their plum and going to nightclubs for strange cock. Ahh. I’m yours till the mountains fall into the sea. Okay, okay … now … now … okay … we’re on our way, my soldiers and me … Can you hear the artillery thunder across the battlefield? WE’RE A MILLION STRONG AND WE DON’T NEED NO WORLD WIDE WEB TO SPREAD US! HERE IT COMES, THE WORLD WIDE FUCK! SweetjesusIfuckingloveitwhenIgettoslapthatfuckingass!’
Jan Inge remains quiet and motionless for a few minutes.
Sits there weighing things up against one another.
‘But my horror movies,’ he whispers to himself, ‘I’ll never lose them. And Johnny Cash, he’ll never stop singing. And Cecilie’s pigtails, they’re burned on to my memory. And the sun,’ whispers Jan Inge, becoming aware of a rapid blinking in both his eyes as he hears Cecilie begin to whimper from inside, as he hears Rudi’s voice get even louder, ‘the sun, that will never leave me. And on my grave,’ he whispers, feeling his eyes well up, ‘on my grave it’ll say: This is the last resting place of the Master, here lies the Son of the Sun, 120 kilos of cosmic love, Yoga Yani, Jan Inge King, the Thinker from Hillevåg.’
33. SOCKS ON TOP OF THE STOVE (Pål)
No: a new day. The switches in his brain come on, crackling and flickering, like fluorescent tubes lighting up one after the other down a long corridor. His thoughts revive him. They’re painful, they’re fraught. They arrive along with feelings of self-contempt and nausea. His ears pick up a sound from the street, a neighbour’s car driving past, maybe it’s the guy in number fourteen who works as a builder. A noise from the bathroom increases in strength, one of the girls turning on the shower. Morning is here, the ground emitting a citrus smell as the temperature rises. But Pål feels no joy. He’s unable to participate. When was the last time he woke up happy, feeling rested and rejuvenated? He can’t remember. It feels like he’s waking up inside an egg, it’s felt like that for an eternity and it’s as though he’s never going to get out. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be this man and wishes he never woke up again. Don’t flick on these switches in my head. Don’t come to me with this darkness. No: not a new day.
‘Dad?’
If he only had one more chance.
‘Daaad!’
Pål props himself up on his elbows, throws back the duvet, swings his body round and sits on the edge of the bed. His holds his head in his hands, then drops them on his knees, lets his blood settle.
Footsteps. Then stomping on the stairs. Tiril.
The door’s going to be opened in a moment. He gulps, tousles his hair and plasters a smile on his face. His eyes. There’s still sand in them.
If he only had one chance to erase everything he’s done.
There. The door’s opening.
‘Hi, Tiril,’ he says, smiling. ‘Good morning, love. Come here and give me a hug.’
He stretches his arms out towards her, noticing straight away how weak they feel. She remains standing in the doorway. She’s wearing so much make-up, so black around the eyes. Her clothes, the red-and-black skirt, the cut-up tights, the braces, all the button badges, skulls, band names and slogans, the lank hair.
Zitha comes scurrying in. Pål takes a hold of her under the snout, looks in her eyes and she licks his face before lying down obediently, expectantly at his feet.
‘There’s no bread,’ Tiril says, folding her arms and planting her feet apart. ‘And there’s no milk or fruit. And you’re never up out of bed.’
He shrugs awkwardly, reaches for his trousers on the chair and takes his wallet from the pocket.
‘Here, look—’
She sighs. ‘That’s just great, Dad.’
‘What do you mean—?’
‘Whatever. Give me the money. That’ll fix everything. Why not just leave the fridge empty?’
She stands with her hand out in front of him, refusing to meet his gaze.
‘But Tiril, honey, I just forgot … it’ll be fine, listen, I’ll get to the shops after—’
She remains unmoved, her hand out. She reminds him so much of his wife sometimes. Barging into the room, no hug, no good morning, nothing, just instructions and demands. Pål hands her the hundred kroner note, wants her to know that he has money, that he’s taking care of what needs taking care of.
‘Will that cover lunch too?’
She crosses her arms again.
‘Imagine we ate a normal breakfast now and again,’ she says.
‘But … but we do?’ He rubs his eyes, pulls on his trousers. Holds out another hundred. ‘Don’t we? I mean, at the weekends—’
New footsteps on the stairs. Sounding easier, lighter. Malene. Zitha raises her head, wags her tail. Malene walks in the door, glances at both of them and then at the hundred kroner note he’s waving.
She goes over and stands beside her sister. Both of them look at him as he pulls on his T-shirt, puts on his socks.
‘What?’ Pål tries to laugh but can’t manage. ‘What is it?’
Malene’s chest rises and falls. She doesn’t make a big deal of it as she takes the money from his hand. She tilts her head slightly to one side. The fact that the two of them are sisters. Hard to comprehend sometimes. He remembers taking them to the playground when they were small. Tiril triggered into life as soon as she caught sight of the place, the colourful apparatus, the sandbox, sprinting towards them with almost frightening excitement, jumping on to the swings, never getting enough, faster, Dad, faster. Malene would walk in calmly. Go over to a swing. Sit down upon it. Examine it. Begin to sway, carefully, that’s high enough, Dad, that’s enough.
Tiril’s eyes are red, she turns on her heels and leaves the room. While she’s tramping down the stairs she shouts: ‘Zitha’s been fed! I won’t be home for dinner! Be back late! Got rehearsals!’
‘But—’ Pål tries to raise his voice a notch. But he lacks the strength.
Malene remains standing in front of him. He knows he treats her as though she was an adult and not his daughter, but he can’t help himself. ‘What was that?’ he asks. ‘What is it now? Have I done something wrong? I forgot to go shopping, but there’s a lot happening in work at the moment, Malene, you’ve no idea – do you think I deserve that kind of treatment? Hm? Do you? I’ve done my best for the two of you, you know I have, and it hasn’t been easy either—’
What am I doing now?
‘…as I’m sure you know, it hasn’t always been so easy … Being practically a single parent, for the both of you, that’s not easy either, Malene, trying to keep things together, I do my best, you know that, right? You know that, don’t you? Honey? That I’d never do either of you any harm? That I’m doing the best I can? And she comes in and then storms back out accusing me of all sorts…’
What am I thinking of?
‘…you understand, don’t you, Malene?’
He forces himself to cry. Jesus, I’ve sunk so low, he thinks, while he squeezes out a few crocodile tears. What kind of father am I, what am I doing. Why can’t I get out of bed, check the day’s school times, wake my girls up and make them both a packed lunch, what am I doing?
The tears come, he almost believes they’re real.
Malene puts her arms around him, hugs him, in that grown-up way of hers.
‘Dad,’ she says. Runs her hand up and down his back. ‘Shhh. I understand.’
He lets her hold him tight. It feels good.
Then he sniffles, breaks free of her embrace.
‘Oh dear,’ he says, ‘your Dad is such an fool, eh?’
Pål bends over to Zitha.
‘Dad’s such a fool, eh
, Zitha? Yeeah, good girl, yeeah.’
Malene nods and smiles. ‘Go downstairs now,’ she says, ‘get yourself some coffee, put on your Adidas and get off to work. How are your eyes?’
They make their way to the kitchen. The coffee is made, he pours a cup and drinks it quickly. Takes a look in the fridge. Must fill it up today. Get to work. Things are going to be okay. Pål turns around, his head doesn’t feel as heavy, his troubles are absent, he watches Malene put on her coat and shoulder her schoolbag.
‘Tiril,’ she says.
‘Hm?’
‘It’s just that concert tomorrow. The thing is Mum isn’t going to be there, she … I think the reason she’s so worked up is just that she really wants you to be there.’
Pål throws his arms wide in exasperation. ‘Jesus, I mean I’ve told her I’m coming. Does she think I’ve forgotten? I might seem like a bit of a scatterbrain sometimes but that’s because there’s so much happening at work. Of course I’m going to go along and watch her sing. I’m going to be sitting in the first row clapping every chance I get. Isn’t that what I’ve always done?’
He takes a big, warm slurp of coffee and shakes his head.
‘I’m not too sure Tiril feels you’ve told her that,’ Malene says, ‘the way you did just now, I mean.’
Pål takes a Ryvita from the corner cupboard and starts eating it. Not that he likes Ryvita, but he needs something in his stomach.
‘No, I guess I haven’t. I’ll make sure I do.’
‘You are going to work, right?’
‘Yeah, the usual time, yeah of course I’m going – work? Why are you asking that?’
Take it easy now, he thinks, easy, Pål.
‘You got in late last night.’
Easy now. He pictures Rudi and Cecilie, feels shame well up inside for what happened in 1986. Jesus, that girl was younger than Malene is now.