by Tore Renberg
‘There’s not much of a chance of that,’ they said, ‘we live in a block of flats, it wouldn’t be allowed.’
‘Well then, that’s that,’ he said, ‘I can’t’. So Child Services coughed up the money to get the room soundproofed. Fucking idiots. They’re understaffed, there’s stories in the paper every second day about how stretched they are, yet they still have the money to soundproof a room.
Cannot kill the family, battery is found in me, battery.
On the one hand it’s like he knows Sandra and she knows him. On the other hand it’s as though she has no idea who he is. None. But she was good at screwing. Felt just like it ought to, like diving into eternity. Manage to hold out in time. Was just some sort of shock to the system was all. No problem. Just wait, soon be banging away at you for hours on end.
He’ll have been marked absent by now. Daniel can’t face going to school today. The upshot will be them ringing Inger, then ringing Child Services and after that there’ll be a parent-teacher meeting. They’ll sit down in the guidance counsellor’s office. The student-teacher liaison, the maths teacher, and no doubt that Sivertsen guy, going on about how if Daniel doesn’t buck up then he won’t pass his maths exam, and then he’ll fail his finals, and then … he’s been listening to it since he was in first class. Your attendance rate, Daniel, that’s what they’ll start on about.
Yeah, he’ll say. What about it?
He’ll soon be eighteen. They won’t be able to touch him then.
The handle on the bedroom door turns slowly and the door opens. Daniel hits the drums as hard as he can, the Metallica lyrics whirling round his head, and then he looks up.
Veronika comes into the room. She has two towels around her. A big baby-blue one, fastened above her big tits and reaching down to below her hips and a smaller, pink one, done up on her head like a turban.
She’s often in his room, there’s nothing peculiar about it. At the start it was a bit weird. For the first few weeks he didn’t know how to behave round the girl with the hollow-sounding voice and the strange hand gestures, but then he realised she was just like everyone else, only deaf, and the reason she was a little shaky was that idiots had treated her like an idiot. All she actually needed was someone who saw her for who she was. Is that so hard to grasp? After a while he began to enjoy the silent attention she gave him, so he allowed her to come in. He let her sit on the floor in her Buddha posture and listen – yeah, listen – to him as he played the drums, as well as allow her to sit in his room and do homework.
‘Big bruv,’ she called him a few weeks back.
Daniel had nodded. He could be her big brother.
‘You know what?’ he said, speaking slowly so she could read his lips.
‘No?’
‘I’m going to buy you a car. And a house. You won’t need to worry about anything. I’m going to be rich, Veronika, I’m going to be filthy fucking rich. Your big bruv will look after you.’
Her whole torso, her tits – which are pretty huge – had wobbled under her sweater, her eyes narrowed to lines and her weird laughter had filled the room.
She’s good-looking, Veronika. Tidy. Big eyes. Awesome body. Long legs. But she’s got something intense about her, as though she were water on the boil.
He puts down the drumsticks, looks over at her.
‘Are you going to go to school?’ he asks slowly. Daniel knows he should really use his hands, use sign language, but he couldn’t be bothered.
‘Are you?’ Veronika smiles. Two small dimples play in her cheeks. She shrugs.
He smiles back. Shrugs.
He likes that about her. Her sense of humour. She’s quick.
‘So, what’s up then?’ Daniel says, and clears his throat. He has to look away. He’s seen her half-naked plenty of times. But right now it feels a little weird. Her just standing there. Like that. Now. In the morning. Water beading on her shoulders. Her breasts look enormous beneath the towel and he’s having trouble averting his eyes.
‘So, what’s up then?’ he hears her say.
Shit.
Now she’s sitting on the floor. In her Buddha position.
Fuck.
He can see everything.
‘No, nothing much,’ he says, attempting to smile.
‘No, nothing.’ She smiles.
Daniel swallows.
He tries to take his eyes away but he can’t manage. They’re drawn towards her sitting there cross-legged, towards the towel pulled tight across her open thighs, towards her crotch. What is she doing? She must know he can see it?
‘Play,’ she says, making the sign for drums.
He shrugs. Is she just going to sit there like that? Is she doing it on purpose?
‘Okay,’ he says, making to begin. ‘Wait, hang on.’ He motions to her. ‘Come here. You try. Come on.’
She laughs. ‘No, no.’
‘Yeah, come on, come on.’
Veronika laughs again. She shows no indication of knowing what he can see. She merely laughs, waves her hand in refusal and again says: ‘No, no.’
He stands up, takes a step to the side and points at the stool. ‘Come on, sit down. I’ll show you.’
She rolls her eyes but gets to her feet and makes her way over to him. She sits down.
He sees the nape of her neck below the coiled towel. The red hairs beneath. Her shoulders. Her skin. Her cleavage. Her hips, her ass, heavy on the stool. Veronika turns her head, reads his lips. Mouthing slightly what he says with her own.
Daniel speaks slowly: ‘Pick up the drumsticks. That’s right. Grip them like this, as though you were holding a fishing rod. That’s right. Good. Okay, I’m going to show you four-four time, straight beat. Completely straight beat.’
‘Bit?’
‘Take your right hand, yeah, like that, bring it over to the left, yeah, there, and now you hit the high-hat four times…’
He stands right against her back. Holds her arms, her hands. Helps her with each beat.
‘Like that, yeah.’
She laughs. Tries to keep on hitting.
Daniel feels his pulse begin to rise.
‘And steady. One two three four, one two three four … then you take your left hand, here I’ll help you, the drumstick in your left hand, and on the third beat you bring it down on the snare, like this…’
He takes her other arm. Stands pressed against her. Holds both her arms, both her hands.
‘Okay, good, like that, nice and steady, one two three four, one two three four…’
Daniel’s breathing is heavy. It’s the caveman panting inside, can’t stop this, it’s the stone man panting within.
Veronika lets go of the sticks. She removes the towel from her head. Her long copper-red hair falls down, looking darker now it’s wet, lying like thick knives down along her back. She turns, her eyes gleaming for a second before she closes them, gets to her feet, stands on her tiptoes and gives him her mouth.
No, he thinks, kissing her. Sandra, he thinks, feeling Veronika’s tongue, fresh and strong. He gives her his tongue, feels the electricity in his mouth. She brings her hands to her chest, fuck, she’s undoing the towel, it falls to the ground, her breasts brush against his sweater. Veronika’s hands go behind his back. She takes hold of his T-shirt, lifts it up and presses her breasts against his skin. Fuck, Sandra, fuck, Veronika – Daniel pushes her away.
He clenches his fists and visualises himself beating her bloody.
Daniel runs into the hall. He grabs his moped helmet, slips hurriedly into his shoes, leaves his bag lying where it is. He snatches his jacket, hears Veronika’s muffled crying behind him, opens the door and leaves.
Quit that snivelling, he thinks as he rushes down the stairs, his footfalls slamming against the walls of the stairwell. Stop that blubbering, stop it, do you want a taste of the bleeding iron, bitch?
37. GO NEAR THE DEVIL (Malene)
The school bell sounds like a fire alarm. The pupils begin making their way inside, while Sandr
a stands there, her face almost unrecognisable. There’s sweat on her brow, her big frightened eyes stare at Malene, pleading for help, as though she were suddenly her lifeline in a rough sea. Sandra’s hand is trembling, the bell is ringing furiously in their ears, and she won’t let go of her sleeve, but what is Malene going to say?
She can’t bear to lie, she’s unbelievably bad at it, and acting surprised is the hardest thing she knows. Daniel Moi? No way. Have you had sex with him? Wow? In Gosen Woods?
Sandra would see through her right away.
Malene has never slept with anyone. She likes boys, it’s not that, and she’s aware she’s nice-looking, she knows they like her, it’s not that either. She’s just not ready. She hasn’t met the right guy yet. The One. Tiril always says she’s going to screw the first guy that comes along, makes no odds, really. But Malene can’t think that way. She knows people call her names. Ice queen. Gymnastics queen. But she pretends not to hear. She doesn’t take it to heart. At least not much. A little, maybe.
What’s she going to say to Sandra? It’s no surprise, what she’s hearing, Tiril already told her, but all the same it’s bonkers that the biggest swot, the most Christian girl in school, lawyer daughter Sandra Vikadal, is together with Metal Daniel. Moped Daniel. Crazy Daniel. Foster home Daniel. And what’s just as mental is that Sandra is standing in front of her – why her? – telling her that she’s had sex with him.
Outside. In the woods.
That is mental.
Daniel is hot, no question about it, but he’s hot in that dangerous way. All the girls know who he is, those eyes, but would anyone dare to do what Sandra’s done? Go near him? It’s so mad it makes Malene’s heart pound, a heavy hammering inside: I met him again yesterday. I had sex with him. In Gosen Woods. And not only is Sandra saying it, she’s picked Malene to say it to. She’s told her everything – why? They’ve been in the same class for years but they’ve never really spoken. Not before today. It gives Malene a pain in her chest. She’s entwined in Sandra’s world now and she doesn’t want to leave it.
Daniel Moi has done some crazy stuff, they say. Killed someone, they say.
‘Jesus,’ says Malene, thinking she needs to look natural, ‘is it true? With Daniel Moi? Wow!’
Sandra’s eyes are watery. ‘You mustn’t say it to anyone, you have to promise—’
‘No, Jesus—’
‘I’ve been seeing him for two weeks.’
‘But,’ Malene takes a quick look around at the dwindling number of pupils around them, ‘we need to go in—’
Sandra retains her grip on Malene’s sleeve. ‘Do you think I’m gone in the head?’
‘No,’ says Malene, ‘but … I mean, he’s seventeen, he’s – well, it’s not so much his age as – y’know … people say things about him, stuff…’
‘Yes. But I love him.’
Love him
Malene feels the thumping of a pulse in her ear. ‘We need to go in,’ she says, avoiding her eyes, ‘but … you know what people say?’
Sandra relaxes her grip on her jacket, her eyes narrow.
‘I mean,’ Malene goes on, ‘as long as you know what you’re doing. Then it’s probably all right. If you … love him.’
Sandra wipes her forehead. ‘I do,’ she says. ‘So, what is it they say about him?’
‘Weell … you know … you do know, right?’
Sandra nods.
‘Don’t say any more. I love him.’
Malene has seen this prim, proper girl every day since first class. She’s always had a naïve look about her, but also balance and poise. Now everything’s off-kilter. Malene shudders. She becomes suddenly aware of wanting to feel like that too and it scares her. Because she’s never thought about it before, about wanting to go out there, out there on that sea where everyone can drown.
‘Look,’ – Malene pushes yearning to one side – ‘we need to be getting in, but are you sure that he’s not just using you, I mean … what about him, does he love you?’
Sandra suddenly gives a start, a look of panic filling her eyes, she looks like she’s about to keel over.
Malene turns to look. There’s a moped coming down the street towards the school. A tall boy with a black helmet, black jeans and a leather jacket riding it.
Sandra gasps for breath, and drags her fingers like a claw from her forehead to her chin. ‘Sorry, Malene, I … talk to you later, okay? I won’t forget this. You won’t say anything, will you? I’ve got to—’
Sandra rushes off towards the boy, who’s pulling up by the bicycle racks. Malene stands looking at her. She recognises that knock-kneed run from PE class, the one people snigger at, one hand under her tits, the other swinging through the air.
Daniel pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his hair. Sandra throws her arms around him.
Can’t stand here. I’ll get a demerit.
She loves him.
Malene opens the doors and dashes down the corridor, a sudden burning feeling having come over her, a sudden uncertainty; I want that too. She stops for a moment – religious studies? Art and crafts? Pull yourself together, Malene, it’s Norwegian … she’s out of breath as she enters the classroom. Malene nods to the teacher, is conscious of being spared a demerit by a whisker and hurries to her desk.
‘Thank you, Malene,’ Mai says. ‘Nice of you to join us.’
Mai Jensen Bore is fairly young, and she’s a canny, kind teacher. She was off for almost six months last year, for what some claim was an operation on her uterus, while others maintain she had ME, or CFS, which Mira said was the proper name, because that was what her mother had; she lay on the sofa for nearly two years and didn’t have the energy to do anything. But you’d never know it to look at Mai. She teaches Norwegian and social science and she’s one of the most popular teachers, the girls look up to her and the boys make gestures to one another when she walks by in the corridor.
Mai switches on the digital blackboard, clicks on Wikipedia and says something about continuing on today with some texts by contemporary writers. ‘You’ll all recall we read a short story by Frode Grytten—’
‘Pussy Thief!’ shouts one of the boys.
‘That’s right, Jokki, Pussy Thief,’ says Mai without blushing, ‘and you’ll also remember we talked about Tove Nilsen. Well, today we’re going to take a look at something by Johan Harstad, the Stavanger writer who’ll also be paying us a visit in two weeks’ time, so that’s something to look forward to…’
Malene smiles at Mai, tries to follow what she’s saying, Johan Harstad, writer, point of view. But she can’t manage to concentrate. Her head is full to bursting. Sandra and Daniel Moi, Dad and his eyes, the mess in his room, his crying, Tiril, whom she slapped last night…
Malene looks around. There’s a growing disquiet in the classroom, a buzz and murmur spreading throughout. People turn to one another and whisper. Mira has stood up and gone to the window. More and more people get to their feet to follow her. Mai has stopped talking about Johan Harstad and even she’s walked over to take a look. Malene cranes her neck.
‘Jesus,’ one of the boys exclaims. ‘Check it out!’
‘Wicked,’ says another. ‘Yeah, baby!’
‘Whoop whoop!’ a third calls out.
Malene stands up to look out. Sandra is standing by the moped making out with Daniel Moi.
‘All right, everybody,’ Miss Jensen Bore says, ‘let’s try to settle down, okay?’
Malene holds her breath. The white sun shines on Daniel’s moped. His hands are around Sandra’s waist. His head is bowed down towards her and he looks like he’s going to eat her alive.
Take him, Malene urges.
38. I’D DO FUCKING ANYTHING FOR YOU (Cecilie)
The house is situated at the end of a cul-de-sac, close to the rail-track, and anybody would have difficulty guessing what colour it is any more. It hasn’t seen a lick of paint since Thor B. Haraldsen leaned the ladder against the wall in the early seventies and ran a brus
h across the planks. It could do with new windows, six of them have condensation between the double glazing, the ground around needs to be drained, it’s got so damp in the laundry room that the boxes of old clothes down there will soon decompose.
Mum drank herself to death in this house, lying there at the end like a dung heap with a death rattle, hardly a tooth left in her head. Dad moved to Houston a few years later, telling his kids to be positive in life and since then things have hobbled along in their own lopsided way. Jan Inge’s reputation spread over half the city, people called him Videoboy. Some dodgy characters began hanging around the house and he started to rent her out when they came to visit. He let them eat crisps and watch video nasties which they paid for by putting cartons of stolen Marlboros on the table, and in this way it developed into a little community in a run-down part of Stavanger, a little company where people have come and gone and which today is comprised of her, Jan Inge, Rudi and Tong.
It wasn’t that horrible, she thinks.
Having all those boys on top of her.
But it wasn’t good either.
It was just something she was forced to do.
The house lies a few hundred metres from the old Riksvei 44, the main road into Stavanger city centre, which goes from Sandnes, through Forus, Gausel and Hinna. The stretch of it passing near to where Cecilie lives is called Hillevågsveien. For a long time it was a dismal area of the city. While the oil ran down through the region and lubricated Stavanger, added lustre, it was as though Hillevåg was forgotten. Nobody pumped money into Hillevåg. The whole suburb, along with its small factories, car showrooms and wholesalers, was left to lie and rust. And these grey streets have been Cecilie’s streets. This is where she’s bought her cigarettes and cinnamon buns, the treats she brings with her down to the quay behind the grain silos, while she looks out at the oilrigs lying in the sea at Jåttåvågen.