See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  ‘Late?’ He clears his throat. ‘Was I?’

  She’s talking to me like I’m the kid here.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Right, yeah, maybe I was. Took a longer walk than usual, I guess.’

  Easy now.

  ‘By the way,’ says Malene, fixing her hair in the mirror, readying herself to go, ‘I was down in the basement this morning emptying the washing machine—’

  ‘Oh good, yes, must have slipped my mind—’

  ‘Anyway, there was a light on in the study and a pair of your socks were lying on top of the stove, they were really hot, Dad, I mean roasting hot.’

  ‘Oh, gosh—’

  ‘Were you up all night? The computer was on.’

  ‘Well…’ he hesitates, turns his head, looks out at the garden. ‘I was just … well, I couldn’t sleep. Just sat surfing…’

  ‘You shouldn’t dry your socks on the stove, Dad. You don’t want to start a fire.’

  He remains standing with his back to her.

  ‘No, of course,’ he says, looking out over the garden. Only now catching sight of the good weather, only now getting the chance to ponder how nice it is outside again today.

  ‘You took the socks away, then,’ he asks, his voice mild.

  ‘Yep,’ he hears from behind him, ‘I threw them in the wash.’

  Pål nods. He can make out something in her voice but he decides not to turn round, decides to push it away.

  He points towards the garden.

  ‘I know I’m going on about it,’ he says, ‘but every time I see that tree I keep thinking the two of you should really hang up a new milk carton for the birds.’

  34. CAN YOU KEEP A SECRET? (Sandra)

  Sandra’s body is sore. She’s tired, the schoolbag on her shoulders feels heavy. When she woke up she had bags under her eyes. But she clenches her teeth, brings her fingers to the silver crucifix in the hollow of her neck and walks on. Up King Haralds Gate, on to Madlamarkveien, past the church, across Jernalderveien and on towards the school. She’d rather bunk off. But she’s never done that, and she’d never dare, because that’s not how she is.

  Dear Jesus, she whispers, my stomach is so cold, I’m so frightened. Her mother and father told her off when she got home last night, she just about managed to fix her hair and check her clothes in the hall mirror before they were standing there in front of her. Her mother, eyes jittery, her father with his arms crossed. Have we not been clear about this, Sandra? Did we not agree on this? You’re tired, you can’t concentrate, you’re getting in late, was that what we agreed on? Hm? You know how much we love you, dear, we’re telling you this for your own good.

  If she wanted to keep this job, which, strictly speaking, she was too young to have, then she had to prove herself deserving of the trust they placed in her. That meant responsibility. If she came home late at all, if there was the slightest sign of it affecting her schoolwork or how much sleep she got, then it had to come to a stop. She could go up to bed, they could all have a think about it, but she had to be aware that under their roof nobody was allowed to behave that way.

  She straightens up as she makes her way along Sophus Bugges Gate towards the school. She still has the chance. She hardly dares to think about it. Just run away. Send Daniel a text – I’m not at school. Come and meet me. Now! – and run away. Rush off to the woods. Rush off to the ends of the earth, totter on the edge in the arms of the one she loves. She still has the chance. Just run between the villas, behind the terraced houses, past the old school, until she reaches the block of flats he lives in and call out to him, Daniel, I’m here, come on.

  But she doesn’t dare. Sandra feels as though she has a lump of ice in her stomach. Is this how love’s supposed to be? Are you meant to feel cold and fearful? – Do you love me? Did I do it right? Will it be as nice tonight? Tomorrow? Am I doing what you like?

  Dear Jesus, she whispers, I don’t have the strength for this, I’m shit scared, I’m so fucking shit scared, sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to talk like that.

  Sandra fixes her fringe, takes a deep breath, her eyes flashing, she smiles into the empty air. It went well, after all, she whispers. He said it was good. He said he wanted to see me again. I’m not the one with problems, it’s those sisters, Malene and Tiril, they’re the ones with problems. What did he say again … that was only the beginning … his voice, that bright mouth of his … what else did he say?

  We have the rest of our lives.

  Dear Lord, she whispers as she reaches the lean-to at the front of the low, grey school building, is love really this hard?

  It’s nearing half past eight and pupils swarm about her, all on their way to the first class of the day. Those first-years, God, so annoying, the fact she was actually like that herself, it’s hard to fathom. Jostling around, like they’re still in primary school, their arms and legs all over the place, no wonder you can never find a spot to eat your lunch in the yard, first-years have no control over any part of their bodies, or of their stuff, all hanging halfway out of their bags, and they’re so tiny, they look like goblins and the only cute one is Ulrik Pogo, he’s sweet enough to eat, just makes you want to hug him like a teddy bear. Still, poor sister, Kia, hard to talk to someone who’s paralysed. What are you supposed to say? How’s things today?

  ‘Hi, Sandra.’

  Malene’s voice. She turns around, quickly. She feels her throat tighten, forces a smile. ‘Hi … hello…’

  She’s never really hung out with Malene. But the fact she’s standing in front of her the morning after she saw her father in the woods makes her feel she ought to say something. She feels sorry for her but what’s she going to say? It’s not like she wants to snitch on anyone.

  Daniel, why aren’t you here. What will I do?

  ‘How’s it going?’ asks Malene, an expression coming over her face which she trys to hide.

  ‘Oh, y’know,’ says Sandra. ‘Okay. Lots to do.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Malene says.

  The girls remain standing under the edge of the lean-to while the other pupils stream past on their way in. The most natural thing would be for one of them to start making their way towards the doors and mingling with the rest. But they stay put. Malene is looking at her as if she knows something.

  ‘Did you manage the maths?’ asks Malene. It’s like she’s trying to wrestle with her own facial expression, making her look like E.T.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sandra says, ‘but I thought it was hard.’

  Is she able to see it, the fact that I know something about her?

  ‘Yeah, it sucked.’

  ‘How’s the foot, by the way? You going to get back to the gymnastics soon, or…?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s taking its time to heal.’

  Malene stands there. She makes no sign of wanting to go. Everything about her says she’s going to stay put. What is it she wants?

  Daniel, what will I do?

  ‘Your sister, Tiril – she’s singing tomorrow, right? At that International … Inter…’

  ‘Cultural Workshop,’ nods Malene. ‘International Cultural Workshop. Some kind of student exchange thing. She’s a good singer—’

  ‘Seriously good—’

  ‘But she needs to sort her head out. Drop all that emo stuff.’

  ‘Well, y’know, she’s only in second year.’

  ‘Mhm. Yolo.’

  Sandra smiles. Malene has nice features. Those high cheekbones give her a beautiful face, she looks kind and she’s very different from her sister. Sandra feels her knees growing weak, her forehead becoming warm, oh no, is she going to start sweating? Is she going to start crying? She realises how long it’s been since she’s been face to face with a girl she feels can understand her, and she has a sudden sense of having a friend. It’s stupid, they’ve only stood together talking a couple of minutes, only bumped into one another on the way into school, but there’s something about Malene’s voice that makes Sandra feel safe, so she opens her mouth and he
ars herself say:

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’

  The school bell sounds, ringing out over the yard.

  ‘Can you?’

  Malene nods.

  Dear Jesus, Sandra thinks, grabbing hold of her arm, I hope I’m doing the right thing. She lowers her voice, takes a step closer:

  ‘I’m seeing Daniel William Moi. I’ve met him almost every night the last few weeks.’

  Malene looks at her.

  ‘I tell lies the whole time,’ Sandra whispers. ‘To everyone.’

  Malene nods her head slowly.

  ‘I met him again yesterday,’ Sandra says softly. ‘I had sex with him. In Gosen Woods.’

  35. A TIME-HONOURED CLASSIC IN THE BUSINESS (Rudi)

  The little lady on top of the lanky man.

  He’s worked it out: if you’ve been together with your woman for twenty-seven years, and you’ve screwed her on average twice a week, then how many times have you screwed her? And: if it’s lasted a quarter of an hour each time – on average – how much of your life have you spent at it?

  Hm?

  2,808 times.

  42,120 minutes.

  Or 702 hours

  Or 29.25 days

  You get to know the terrain.

  The arithmetic is only approximate, of course. Calculations for the first few years are bound to be a bit ropey, given that, strictly speaking, Chessi gradually went from being an underage whore under Jan Inge’s control to his girlfriend, and also that she was quite young. Girls don’t like screwing so much when they’re thirteen, so you have to subtract a little to make up for the first couple of years.

  Still, not one day too many.

  The little lady on top of the lanky man. That bony body of hers on top of that skinny body of his. All those freckles, across her back and arms. Her shelf-like hips, that Rudi calls ‘God’. Those little tits. He likes them. Little girly tits. Rudi has a wild look in his eyes, makes fearsome movements with his mouth: his tongue sweeping across his front teeth, biting down on his lip and sucking in air, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His compulsion to talk all the time, talk and talk and talk – and there’s no situation he feels more like talking in than when he’s having sex with Chessi: ‘Jeeeeesus! This pussy is never going out of style. Chessi, come on, sit yourself down on Rudi, spin that wheel, come on! Twothousandeighthundredandeight! Eh?! What do you say to that, you sexy slut! Eh? I’m already looking forward to nine! Oh Jeeeeesus, you just don’t know how much I love you. Give it to me. Is that ass getting bigger the older you get? Yeah! Come on, MILF!’

  Ah.

  Feels good to get it out.

  Rudi rolls off Cecilie and over on to his back. He stretches right out and releases a satisfied groan. He entwines his fingers in hers. Rudi is soft and spent, and he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t feel like it, just holds Cecilie’s hand. After a while his breathing becomes more regular, and then he feels like talking a little.

  ‘That was bloody good,’ he says, in a low voice.

  ‘You say that every time,’ Cecilie says soberly.

  ‘Well, that’s because it’s bloody good every time.’

  She doesn’t reply. It took him a while to get his head around that. While he might have an absolute motherfucker of a need to talk while he’s riding her, and just as much of a need afterwards to hear her say how great it was, it’s still a need he feels. Not her. For years it was a touchy subject, the fact that she never said anything, not a single word. Not for ages afterwards, and then she wanted to talk about other things entirely. They’d be there, getting it on, and it was so good to ride her, sometimes he’d worked himself up all day, but would she say anything when they finally got under the duvet? Like maybe wrap her lips around his dick and mumble something while his knob pumped against the inside of her cheek, like how rock hard he was or how damn good it felt and that she’d been dreamingaboutrudiscocksinceshewokeup or that she was sofuckinghornyshecouldntthinkstraight or that he was the sexiestmanontwolegs, sexier than Steven Tyler and Lemmy put together? Just imagine, how amazing it’d be, listening to her slobbering and muttering down there, his prick getting in the way of the words, ab at ock mm am it up my sy, whatdidyousayyousay? Please say it again? Ab at ock mm am up my sy. Can’t hear you, Pfläumchen, can you say it one more time? GRAB THAT COCK AND RAM IT UP MY PUSSY.

  But no. Not one word. Hurtful really.

  It took him ages to figure out how to live with it. There was a time he wondered whether he should rough Cecilie up or take her to see a psychologist, because it all felt so unfair. Him being so attentive, giving her cash, lavishing her with love, saying so many nice things to her and getting so little in return. A cutprice feeling. A cap-in-hand feeling. But he weathered the storm, didn’t send her to a psychologist or beat the shit out of her; hear that, Gran? I never laid a finger on her. Rudi learnt to live with it. Acknowledged that she was a person with her own qualities, her own surly, introverted way of being, while he was a person with qualities of his own, his own talkative and extroverted way of being. Now everything’s just fine, obviously, twenty-seven years speaks for itself, but it still hurts a little.

  And still, even now Rudi can’t help but feel it niggle a little. So he says:

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know you love me, even if you’re as quiet as a baseball bat.’

  Cecilie sits up, leans over to the bedside table and grabs hold of the cigarette pack and the hair elastic she took out while he screwed her, because he likes to see her hair cascade across the pillow.

  He studies her. Damn bony and damn sexy. Rudi puts on his most boyish smile, hoping she’ll look his way. But she doesn’t. With her eyes closed and the cigarette in her mouth, she raises her eyebrows and sets her hair in a ponytail. She puts on her knickers, her bra, her top and her socks before standing up. Cecilie opens her eyes, gazes at the wall and fixes her jaw into place with a sort of fish-mouth movement. She’s been doing that since she was thirteen. It’s like catching sight of an old friend for him. Nice to have things like that. Safe things. But she’s not looking at me, he thinks.

  ‘Good morning! Wednesday! Morning meeting!’

  Rudi rolls his eyes and sees Cecilie do the same. She calls out to her brother, whom they both know is right behind the door:

  ‘All right, all right! Take it easy, Jani. We’re coming.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’ they hear from outside in the hall. ‘Just thought I’d let you know. Morning meeting.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ Cecilie says, ‘you always just think that, little darling!’

  Rudi doesn’t think that little darling stuff is really necessary, even though the fact that he’s so on first thing in the morning does annoy both of them. Standing outside their door shouting about those endless breakfasts of his. Still, she doesn’t need to say it, it just seems downright patronising, and he doesn’t like her picking on him. Little darling? Why does she have to say that? She is his sister and everything. Particularly when Jani isn’t the slightest bit little. If there’s anyone in this house who strives and deserves respect, it’s Jani.

  Cecilie turns to him as she’s pulling up her jeans. Ash balancing on the tip of her cigarette. ‘What’s with that two thousand stuff?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘With all that, y’know …’ she shrugs, the ash falls on to the duvet, ‘two thousand stuff you were on about?’

  Rudi laughs and gets to his feet, pulls on his T-shirt, socks and jeans. Then he gives Cecilie a kiss on the cheek, slaps her on the ass and says: ‘The number of times I’ve banged you, honey, that’s what that is. Two thousand eight hundred and eight.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she says, extinguishing the cigarette in the glass of water beside the bed. She opens the door. ‘Have I had that huge dick of yours up me that many times?’

  ‘Yes indeed, baby. Two thousand more to go.’

  Cecilie isn’t smiling. She’s stopped with one foot on either side of the doorsill.

  ‘But… Rudi says, again tryin
g to make his voice as soft as possible. ‘There’s … nothing … wrong, is there?’

  ‘More than two thousand times …’ Cecilie looks pensive. ‘It’s just that it’s so long, that dick.’

  He runs his had up and down her back.

  ‘I know,’ he says, guiltily. ‘It started in sixth class. I woke up every morning and though, shit, that’s going grow to some size. And it did.’

  ‘It goes so far up me.’

  ‘Yeah, it does all right,’ he says, tilting his head to the side. ‘But I really like it, y’know, feeling you right up against me.’

  Cecilie sighs, ‘But imagine you damage something up there, what then?’

  He screws up his eyes. ‘Damage something? What do you mean, damage something?’

  ‘No, I…’

  There’s a scratching at the door. Jan Inge’s fat finger:

  ‘Don’t mean to go on about it but … breakfast meeting!’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Cecilie says, actually giving Rudi a little smile, an almost apologetic smile, and it makes him feel good. ‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely and big, that dick of yours. Come on. Big brother is getting impatient.’

  The sun shines through the kitchen window, shining upon a well-laid breakfast table, glinting on knife blades and making the jam glisten. Rudi runs a large hand through his hair, yawning, almost fatigued by the sight of all the food. Neither Rudi nor Cecilie eat a lot in the morning, but lately Jan Inge has been preparing breakfasts as though he were running a twelve-star hotel. There’s more and more every day, food no one’s ever fucking heard of, cured mutton and French herb sausages, dill-marinated shoulder butt, weird cheeses and whatnot, and today he’s gone that little bit further.

  Cecilie sits down at her usual place by the window. She pours herself a large cup of coffee and brings it to her face, allowing the heat to steam her skin.

  Jan Inge comes wheeling in from the living room.

  ‘Sleep well? Everyone?’

  Rudi nods. Cecilie clasps her hands tighter around the coffee cup and shuts her eyes.