See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  ‘Wider!’

  ‘Wwwider?’

  ‘Wider!’

  Hansi opens wide and Rudi empties the remaining contents of the bottle down his throat. ‘Hey, cockaholic! You drinking a bit at the moment? Drink some more! Hey, buttaholic, I didn’t hear you? Who’s the loser?’

  Hansi coughs and spits, blood and booze. ‘Me,’ comes the meek voice from the floor.

  ‘Toofuckingright,’ Rudi snorts. ‘And the next time you say anything out of order about the Master, I’ll skin your dick, and the next time you put your cock into one of the schoolboys round here, I’ll be fifteen metres away, and fifteen seconds after you’re finished I’ll jam fifteen cactuses up your ass.’

  Jan Inge clenches his fist tighter around the key ring.

  This here, this is what makes life worth living.

  ‘Hansi,’ he says, ‘you’re a really good … what is it they say in Sweden … a jättegod … friend. You’ll get the Transporter and the trailer back over the weekend. No problem. Really appreciate it.’

  They walk back out the front door, to the front of the house.

  ‘About fucking time, that there,’ Rudi says, glowing.

  ‘Felt right, no doubt about it,’ Jan Inge says, lumbering towards Hansi’s grey Transporter.

  ‘Tong would have enjoyed that,’ says Rudi, opening the driver’s door.

  ‘Cecilie would have enjoyed that,’ replies Jan Inge.

  ‘That’s my woman,’ Rudi says, getting inside. ‘What are we having for dinner?’

  ‘Fishcakes,’ says Jan Inge, landing in the seat, the van listing with his weight.

  Rudi sticks the key in and starts the engine. ‘Fishcakes,’ he says, reversing out the drive, ‘remind me of Granny. The good, old days.’

  ‘I know,’ says Jan Inge. ‘And listen, what you were brooding over earlier, the private stuff and all that, you need to just shelve that.’

  ‘Hell yeah,’ Rudi says, as the sun, low in the sky, hits the windscreen and dazzles him momentarily, making the whole world gleaming and white, ‘it’s just I’m so fucking sensitive sometimes.’

  The van glides down the street.

  ‘Ah.’ Rudi lets out a deep breath. ‘Jumping Jiminy, that felt good. Jesus, it’s been a long time since I’ve used my fists. Right, I’m going to make a call here!’

  Rudi takes out his mobile, turns to Jan Inge and gives him a nod and a wink. He chortles to himself as he leans over to the glove compartment, roots around in it a little, fetches out a pen and paper, tosses it into Jan Inge’s large lap and says, in a low, rasping tone: ‘Now, pay attention, busfuck.’

  49. ADD TO CART (Pål)

  That the days should be so filled with lies. He doesn’t understand how he has managed to sink so deeply into it. One lie. Okay. It’s no big deal. It feels uncomfortable, like sticking your hand into a compost heap on a warm day, but the discomfort soon passes. Two lies. Fair enough. You shake them off. And then a third lie to cover up the preceding ones. Not quite so pleasant, what that entails. The stories need to correspond, need to fit together. Your face, it needs to fit too; it needs to match who you are. But who are you? What world are you living in? A fourth lie to correlate all the stories. It starts getting heavier, starts to whiten. It starts snowing inside you.

  What happens is that you begin to get good at it. You loosen up, your gestures become uninhibited and plausible, and your face, which was nervous the first few times, takes on a similarly assured look. In a surprisingly short space of time none of the original distress is visible. Your face melts together with the lies. You start to see the world the way the lies explain it, and it doesn’t take long before you defend them, tend to them, and cuddle them, ugly children that they are.

  He doesn’t think about anything else. He gets up, makes breakfast, and drives off in the car, doing 30 in the morning traffic, and the lies fill his whole head, his whole being. It has become a world of its own. Once they were necessary stories, sentences uttered to wriggle free from a situation. Then they became the narrative of a life. Then they became something to live. Something true. I just stayed up last night surfing the net. I’m just going to take Zitha out for a walk. Is that how it fits together? That the lies are now the truth? That without them he does not exist, because they are what he resorts to every day in order to keep it together? A little earlier he went into his boss, smiled, and said: ‘I need to take off for a couple of hours, one of my daughters is sick.’

  It felt good to say it, as if there was a girl lying at home with a temperature, who needed her daddy. He saw the lie materialise in front of him. He saw it take effect, spring to life and become real.

  ‘Poor thing, by all means, you take off home, Pål.’

  He turns off the motorway, drives uphill at Ullandhaugbakken.

  To tear down an entire life. It’s so easy.

  Three things have ruined everything. The wife. The money. And the lies.

  Day one for the whole thing, was when Christine came home and said I need to talk to you, Pål. She spoke calmly, almost in a whisper, and told him that it wasn’t working. Wasn’t working. There’s no passion. No passion? I’ve met somebody. Hell opened up around them, kids dissolving in tears. Jesus, he’d never forget Malene’s face and the feeling of having smashed a child to pieces. But Christine managed to see it through. She had the strength to go ahead with it. She left, for Bergen and another bloody man. As though she wasn’t a mother at all. She managed to leave her kids. That took some doing. Everyone he has talked to agrees. Everyone – especially women – agree that it’s an action bordering on inhuman. Jesus! They exclaim. She just left? And you’re stuck here? Yeah. It was that situation, and everything it ushered in. A single dad, just like that. Who had prepared him for it?

  But he coped. Touch wood.

  Then came the next phase: money.

  Never being able to buy the kids anything extra. Always having to search the papers for special offers on mince, on sausages, frozen pizza and fuck knows what else. That horrible feeling when he and the children were round at Mum’s for Sunday dinner, and all he could think was: free meal. That horrible feeling of gladness when the girls were invited round to school friends’ homes during the week: they’ll get something to eat there.

  Before he started winning, and losing, there were no lies to be found in his life. Perhaps there was shame, perhaps an insidious desperation, a sense of relief when the kids got plenty of gifts at Christmas and on birthdays, but there were no lies. Or were there. The lies came with the money – or did they come when he started losing it?

  Is he thinking clearly now? Has he always had them in him? The lies?

  No, I haven’t, he says to himself as the tower blocks come into view.

  I’m not thinking very clearly now.

  He drives down Folkeviseveien. Past the bin at the bus shelter where he usually gets rid of everything he can’t face opening. Letters from debt collection agencies. Bills. His hands are sweating, sticking to the leather of the steering wheel. Someday they’ll be at the door. The police, the betting companies and the debt collectors. They’ll soon be there.

  He brings the car to a halt, puts on the handbrake, releases the seat belt, grits his teeth, rubs his eye with the back of his hand, and then hurries into the house. Down to the basement. Over to the computer. His pulse is pounding like a fist. He needs to get a move on, get a move on before things catch up with him, he just needs to do it, one last time.

  Username: Maiden.

  His fingers stiffen, they are cold. He performs a quick wrist stretch and finger flex, blows on them, places them back on the keyboard: do it, one last try, there’s still time to get out of this, there’s still time to avoid meeting Rudi.

  Password: Zitha

  Blackjack.

  ‘Dad?’

  Pål gives a start, moves the mouse to click on the little x in the top right corner of the screen, but the arrow veers here and there, and his fingers tremble.

  Footsteps comi
ng down the stairs.

  Shit, shit, shit. This bloody machine, it’s so slow.

  ‘Dad?’

  He hears her in the hall, just outside the door.

  There. He manages to close the webpage. And there. He manages to open the one he always keeps minimised, just in case.

  ‘Dad? You home? I saw the car…’

  Malene walks into the room.

  ‘Yeah, I…’ Pål sighs wearily, offers her a quick glance and taps his feet against the floor. ‘Well…’ He begins to laugh. ‘No, it’s kind of stupid, Malene, I…’ His laughter gets louder, gets dangerously close to seeming unnatural. ‘Well, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about Tiril, about me not giving her enough attention … so I was sitting here trying to see if I could find an Evanescence T-shirt for her.’

  He laughs. Loudly. She looks askance at him.

  He types quickly: www.evanescence.com. Trying to make it look as practised as possible. Enter site. Merch.

  ‘There, eh? Nice T-shirts, eh?’

  He points at the screen. Malene leans forward, squinting over his shoulder.

  ‘They look good, don’t they? What about that one?’

  ‘I think that band is stupid,’ she says. ‘But she’ll love you for it.’

  She looks at him obliquely. He gets to his feet, pulls her close, hugging her so she won’t see his face, which right now is not able to keep the lies in place.

  ‘So, school?’ he says. ‘Everything going okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine,’ says Malene. She frees herself from his embrace, avoids his eyes. ‘Nothing special happened. Had an all right day. Just doing my homework now. Tiril won’t be home for dinner, but you haven’t forgotten that. She’s rehearsing for tomorrow.’

  Malene jogs up the stairs. ‘You do the shopping, yeah?’

  ‘Yes!’ He calls out, admiring the tone and high pitch of his own voice. ‘No problem!’

  Pål sits back down in front of the computer.

  There is no collection agency, no online gaming, no tears, nothing.

  Women’s. Dark Angel Babydoll T. Front and Back Print. $20.00. Add to cart.

  50. LUDVIG NILSEN AND ALBERT JENSEN (Rudi)

  ‘Yes, hello, this is Ludvig Nilsen speaking. Now, I wanted to get from Hillevåg to Gosen tonight, heh heh.’

  ‘By bus?’

  ‘Yes, by bus. Public transport. Knights of the environment. Nature’s best friend.’

  ‘Okay, then you must take a number 7.’

  ‘Must I?’

  ‘Yes, and you must hop on that either at Tjensvollkrysset – a number 3 will take you there from Hillevåg – or…’

  ‘Didn’t you just say a number 7?’

  ‘Yes, but in order to get the 7, the easiest thing for you to do would be to hop on at Tjensvollkrysset, and to get there you’ll need to take the 3 from Hillevåg, or take it into the city centre and then catch a number 1. From Hillevåg. To Stavanger Station.’

  ‘Stavanger Station?’

  ‘Yeah, Stavanger Station.’

  ‘The train station, you mean.’

  ‘No, or rather, yes, by the train station, yes. You could say that.’

  ‘Listen, Jani! We either need to take the number 3 to Tjensvollkrysset, or the number 1 into town, write that down! And then … hold on a sec … then take the number 7 from town, at the train station?’

  ‘Yes, from Stavanger Station.’

  ‘Jani! From town. Down by the train station. The number 7 to Gosen! Whoops, shit! What? No, no. We’re just out for a drive, hands-free! Heh heh. Okay. Next question, Miss Bus. If we want to be at … what the hell’s the name of … Madlavoll school and—’

  ‘Then you must get off at Gosen Kindergarten. At the turnaround there.’

  ‘The turnaround, right! Okay, if we need to be there at ten o’clock then what time do we take the bus from town? And what time should we catch the bus at Tjensvollkrysset? Assuming we choose that alternative.’

  ‘Ten o’clock…’

  ‘Yeah, ten o’clock. Now we’re talking.’

  ‘Yes, then that would be … no, I seem to have read that wrong…’

  ‘It happens.’

  ‘The best thing for you to do would be take the number 2 from Hillevåg to—’

  ‘So it’s the number 2 now?’

  ‘The 2, yes, the 2 from Hillevåg to—’

  ‘Hey, Jani, cross out the 3 and 10 there. It’s the number 2 to—’

  ‘Yes, so it’s the number 2 from Hillevåg, departing 21:01—’

  ‘And when you say Hillevåg, just so we’re clear, you mean—’

  ‘The stop on the main road, just after Baneveien, travelling into the city—’

  ‘Kein Problem, you’re talking to a local here – so that’s the number 2 from Hillevåg at 21:01 – hey, you writing this down, Jani? Yeah I know it’s bumpy, that’s why they call them speed bumps. The number 2 from Hillevåg at 21:01 – right, and then?’

  ‘And that’ll drop you off in the city, by—’

  ‘Hey! Girl! We’re not talking by the cathedral here, are we? The Nokas building?’

  ‘No, you must go to the other side of Breiavannet Lake, you’ll arrive at stop fourteen, which is close to what you refer to as the train station—’

  ‘I see! We’re back there again!’

  ‘Then you walk a few metres to stop … nineteen, and you wait there until 21:15—’ ‘Jani, write this down, get off at stop fourteen, walk to stop nineteen, wait until 21:15 – okay, we wait a while?’

  ‘Yeah, and then you take the 7—’

  ‘Heh heh! There she comes! The 7! I’d say the 7 has been going to Gosen for more years than anyone can remember, the bus never goes out of fashion – heh heh, I could tell you, girl, a thing or two about what doesn’t go out of style! Fishcakes, to give you a little clue! The good, old number 7, a stalwart – and then Ludvig Nilsen and his friend Albert Jensen will be at Gosen Kindergarten at what time exactly?’

  ‘21:25. In ten minutes.’

  ‘Do you get that, Jani? Ha. Ten minutes. Eh? Not bad. Public transport.’

  ‘Oops, oh no, I’m afraid I’ve given you—’

  ‘No need to apologise, Fräulein! Don’t stand with your cap in your hand! Don’t bow and scrape like you were a Romanian beggar! It’s fine – we’re all only human. Now let’s take it smooooooothly one more time – was it the 3? The 6? The 1? Do you want it up where your number two comes from? Heh heh!’

  ‘Eh, it doesn’t go right up to the kindergarten. You must get off in Madlamarkveien, and from there you make your way to the kindergarten. It will take you ten minutes by foot.’

  ‘By foot? Do you know what Granny called that? The Apostles’ horses. That’s from the Bible. Deuteronmomy. Or Acts of the Apostles! Oh yes, The Good Book. There wasn’t too much bussing back then, so to speak, Fräulein! It was all camels and sandals! But now that I’ve got you on the line, do I detect a slight accent? And the thing you keep saying about what Nilsen and Jensen must do?’

  ‘Heh heh.’

  ‘Heh heh, your Norwegian is flawless, I’m guessing you’ve lived here for quite a while … Might we be talking Germany, Mädchen?

  ‘Hannover.’

  ‘Hannover, to be exact. And who else is from Hannover?’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m from Hannover…’

  ‘Yess, baby, you and Scorpions.’

  ‘Ha ha!’

  ‘Heh heh, you got a little laugh out of that, Gerda!’

  ‘My name isn’t Gerda…’

  ‘No, that’s just something we say. Oh! Gerda! Ja! Bitte!’

  ‘Ulrike, my name’s Ulrike.’

  ‘Okay, okay, no names, honey, no names.’

  ‘Well, have a gute trip to Gosen Woods then.’

  ‘The same to you, Ulrike! And now you could say that Nilsen and Jensen are back home; now the light of this bright September day is shining down on us all; now the whole of society is heading home for dinner, and I’ve had a chance to emplo
y my fists, you’ve had an opportunity to employ your expertise and Jensen here, he’s had occasion to put that big brain of his to a little use. And if that doesn’t make for a good day, then we may as well bang it all intoouterspace – trip, Gerda? Did you say trip? This whole life’s a trip! Ich habe eine grosse in die Hose! Rock you like a hurricane!’

  51. MALENE UNDRESSES (Malene)

  Malene walks into the bathroom. She locks the door and takes a step towards the mirror. She fixes her gaze on its surface and focuses on the reflection of her own eyes. ‘Am I pretty?’ she whispers to the face she sees, and the face mouths back. ‘Am I beautiful?’ She narrows her eyes, squints. She sucks in her cheeks, sees her cheekbones become even more prominent and she pouts tentatively. ‘Am I sexy?’ Malene takes her hand to the back of her head, takes hold of her hair and lifts it. A boy said that to her once: You should always wear your hair like that, looks well cute. Oliver in 10B. Cockwad. Gamer. He goes to LAN parties and stays up all night. He won some endurance contest recently, played for hours on end in a big hall, fell asleep and was woken up by the laptop burning the side of his face like a hotplate. Retard. But even idiots have eyes in their heads and maybe he’s right?

  Malene can see what he’s talking about. She does have nice hair, always has had, shiny and strong. It takes on a whole other look when she tousles it, takes it up and avoids letting it just hang straight down. And a nice body, she knows she has that. A gymnast’s body. But unlike a lot of the other girls she’s always found it hard to relate to that sort of thing … nice body, yeah, so? It’s like the cheekbones; should she go round trying to show them off all the time? Or draw attention to them? What if you don’t feel comfortable with that, sticking your tits out, being so much about your body all the time. What do you do then?

  Quit biting her nails, she’ll have to do that in any case.

  Aunt Ingrid has no problem with it; she walks around in extremely tight tops and pants, she has the deepest cleavage in Rogaland, and she’s loud and brash. The girl is such a hussy, Gran always says, and then she’ll explain what it means: hussy, that’s what we used to call girls like that. They’re so full of themselves and into themselves, all flirty and shameless – and my daughter, she’s like that. Ah, give it a rest, Aunt Ingrid says, I’ve been listening to that since 1980. I’m a woman and I choose how I look and how I dress, Mummy.