by Tore Renberg
Jan Inge gives Rudi yet another look of reproach. Pål needs to gather his wits. It’s Videoboy standing in front of him. Even though he’s met him before, that damn week in 1986, it’s just like encountering a celebrity from childhood. One of those you always heard about but never met, almost like it was, well, Kevin Keegan or Phil Collins. Pål has always been nervous around celebs, they make his hands sweat. Videoboy. He’s really fat. His skin is wan, like ash. His hair is thin. And that freaky high-pitched voice.
I can’t let them recognise me, thinks Pål. They mustn’t remember what I did.
‘I’m not entirely comfortable about you bringing your dog along,’ Jan Inge says, glancing down at Zitha, who’s sitting by Pål’s feet.
‘No, I’m sorry about that,’ Pål says, fidgeting nervously with the lead, ‘but it’s the only way I can get out of the house without arousing too much suspicion. I’ve got two daughters, you see, so…’
‘I understand. I’m not heartless. I have a family myself. I trust the dog will stay easy?’
‘You know what, I was just thinking exaaaactly the same thing—’
Rudi speaks loudly and gesticulates. Videoboy glances at him for a third time. ‘Anyway—’
Videoboy slips his hand into his trouser pocket, producing an inhaler which he proceeds to shake. He presses down on it, breathes in.
I’d forgotten that, thinks Pål. The inhaler.
‘Anyway,’ repeats Jan Inge, ‘I understand you’re having financial difficulties.’
Rudi folds his arms, nods in a manly fashion.
‘Yes.’ Pål swallows, but notices this situation isn’t as horrible as he thought it was going to be. Jan Inge seems genuine. ‘Yes,’ he says again, ‘I’ve tried everything but I just can’t find a solution.’
‘Right,’ Jan Inge says, nodding. Causing his jowls to wobble. ‘That’s where we come in.’ He places a hand on Pål’s shoulder. ‘That’s how you need to view us, as a solution. You need to get your life back on track. You require a service. We – in all probability – can provide that.’
‘Eh?’ Rudi nods contentedly, his arms still folded. ‘Schnåli? You hear that? What did I tell you?’
‘I’ll get right down to business—’
‘Right down to business—’ Rudi uncrosses his arms and snaps his fingers.
‘Rudi, would you let me speak here?’
‘Kein Problem.’
Jan Inge inhales. He lets his gaze wander. Peers into the woods, as though he heard something. Then he fixes his eyes on Pål again: ‘We had a meeting today. About you and your situation and what we envisage could help. And we came up with something which I believe will solve your problems. But first, a question: are you well insured, Pål?’
‘Insured, mmm … yeah, I suppose I am? My ex-wife, she…’ Pål shoots Jan Inge a hesitant glance. ‘Insurance … right … well, if you’re thinking—’
‘Yes, that is what I’m thinking,’ says Jan Inge.
‘Heh heh. Blood! Blood! Not only blood!’
‘Oh, shut up.’
Jan Inge fixes Rudi with a harsh stare. He checks himself and nods affirmatively.
‘Right,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘you’re well insured. Both household and contents as well as personal injury?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Excellent. That makes everything much simpler. This is the scenario we envisage: when night falls tomorrow and the suitable hours of calm arrive, roughly between half past seven and eleven, then we’ll drive over to your place. Where do you live?’
‘Well, in Ernst Askildsens Gate, up by the low-rises, not too far from here…’
‘Do you have a garage?’
‘Yeah, sure, I’ve got one…’
‘A spacious garage, would you say?’
‘Weeell, yeah, I suppose it is…’
‘Perfect.’ Jan Inge slaps his bloated palms together and Pål notices how they hardly make a sound. ‘It’s a good time to work,’ he continues, enthused. ‘It’s dark. People are busy with their own thing. No one pays any attention to the presence of an extra car or not. Some people are watching the news. Others are at club or association meetings. Shadows and shapes and incidents. There’re many who believe that the poetic hours occur later, in the middle of the night. I say it’s these hours that are lyrical.’
‘Heh heh. You listening?’
‘Daily life is taking place,’ Jan Inge goes on, without allowing Rudi to perturb him, ‘it’s dark but not too quiet. That’s when we’ll come driving down the street. A plain, grey Transporter. A Trojan horse. And the only thing you need to do is to make sure your kids are out of the house.’
Pål nods with interest. There’s something about the way Jan Inge presents it that makes it feel right. His confidence is reassuring, he’s genuine and proper, reflective and experienced. It’s the same impression he gave in 1986, but he seems more reliable now.
‘We park the Transporter at your place, we’ll number between three and four people, depending how many the firm have at work that evening. We will of course have some equipment along with us, you’ll usher us in and then we’ll get to work on your house. Our goal will be to make the damage look as realistic as possible. Basically, you understand: to make such a good job of it that the entire insurance amount is paid out to you. We’ll take your possessions.’
‘Possessions…?’
‘Possessions.’
‘Possessions!’
Jan Inge puts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. This is a joint effort, Pål. We can’t risk this much without getting something in return. You understand that.’
‘Eh … sure …’ Pål clears his throat. ‘That’s probably – well – how it has to be. So. You’ll take everything, I presume, TVs, computers…’
‘If it’s your laptop you’re thinking of, I’d imagine you should be happy to be rid of it. The internet isn’t for you, Swalli.’
Jan Inge takes a step closer to Pål: ‘There’s also the added detail of us being obliged to leave you in a somewhat altered state.’
‘What do you mean?’ Pål says, knitting his brow. ‘Altered?’
‘Heh heh. Altered.’
Jan Inge’s laughter is as shrill as that of a little girl.
‘Professional jargon, Pål. Altered.’ Pål looks from one of them to the other. Rudi must have a condition of some kind, but still he’s a cordial type, the kind of guy everyone wants to have in their gang of friends. Jan Inge is impossible to place, obviously talented and very intelligent, but all the same … stupid?
‘Hey, Uli?’
Rudi places a fingertip firmly on Pål’s chest. Jabs him four times in the solar plexus.
‘I can feel that this is going to go fucking great,’ he says. ‘We definitely have a connection here. Am I going too far when I say that this could be the beginning of a long friendship between you and our company? What do the stars have to say about it? What do you think Gran – rest in peace, old patchwork quilt – would say, sitting up there in Heaven, knitting socks for the lot of us? Respect to you and respect to your kids and respect to your dog, and death to your woman problems. What’s his name again? Zitha? He’s been sitting there now, obediently, for fucking minute after minute after minute after minute, and I’ve noticed it. While the two of you were talking I was on the dog’s side. And what does a dog get out of a human’s conversations? Wellmyfriend, there’s more between people and dogs than we suspect. That dog has participated. You have a true friend there, Huli.’
Videoboy nods to Rudi and places a fat arm around Pål’s shoulder. He leads him a few metres alongside the substation wall. Walks with him a little. Gives him a few pats on the back. Nods. Both of them with eyes downcast.
He stops abruptly and looks Pål in the eyes. Then the high-pitched voice wafts into the darkness of the woods: ‘Have I seen you before?’
‘No,’ Pål replies hastily, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No? Hm. Are you scared, Pål? You don’t need to be. You
should know that you’re surrounded by friends. You should know that you’re working with someone who wishes the best for you, someone who is going to give you the chance to get your life back in order and get you back on your feet. Fear? Let me tell you. I know all about fear. It’s what you could call my area of expertise. You’re at the point where it’s still not too late. You’re not alone in this. We’re going to lift this weight as a team, Pål. A collaborative effort.’
There’s a shine in his blueberry eyes. His voice carries out into the woods, with an unworldly tone.
‘Are you with us, Pål? Will we do this? Go through with, what I like to call, a time-honoured classic?’
59. DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHO I AM? HM? DO YOU? (Daniel William)
This here – this is a hassle. That last foster father was a run-of-the-mill asshole, but he was right about what he said: if it’s hassle you want, just get yourself a woman. Daniel has two of them now and they’re both psychos. One has cut herself up and the other is hysterical. Daniel, you are a coward. It’s time you showed who you are. Who it is you want. I’ll wait by the substation. Daniel feels the lift suck him down through the block of flats, and looks at the display on his mobile for around the twentieth time. What the hell’s happened to Sandra? The fact that Inger flipped out when she saw Veronika’s mesh-face, screamed and wailed and wanted to ring the hospital and Child Welfare, and send Daniel off to some outreach camp for kids and God knows what else – that he gets. But he managed to calm her down. He has a knack for that sort of thing. Look deep into the eyes, keep a good hold on the shoulders, wait for the breathing to slow: Inger, Inger, we’ll sort it out.
But this here?
You are a coward
Daniel exits the entrance to the flats and walks out into the darkness.
He’s not an idiot either. He’s got good hearing. He can pick up when other people are talking through your mouth. When you open your gob and they’re not your own words spewing out from between your lips. When you can see in people’s eyes that there’s a psychologist in the background dictating the words.
Get rich. Get a woman with her head screwed on once and for all.
That’s all Daniel wants. Two small things. How difficult does it have to be? Every time he nears his goal it’s like some fucker comes along and wallops him in the face with a club, sending him back to his own stone age. Inger seemed all right. Sandra seemed all right. Veronika seemed all right. But no. They were all too good to be true. That’s the hidden truth. Nobody is as they make out. They sell themselves as beautiful fucking buttercups, but when you unwrap them they snap at you.
Give them cancer, cancer, cancer.
He walks with purpose, his arms paddling through the air, as though to sweep aside anything that gets in his way.
He can handle Inger. A grown woman screaming because her daughter has transformed her face into a hundred small bloody squares, who says she regrets ever having taken him into the house. There there, Inger. It’s going to be all right. He can also handle Veronika. When he left them, mother and daughter were sitting on the sofa with their arms round one another. They feel they’ve been through something together. But Sandra. He can’t handle her or his own feelings for her. They brim over, he’s unable to hold them down. Whenever other girls pass him he doesn’t react. They can be as hot as may be, they can have jugs that are heaven-sent, legs and asses that are primo, but it makes no odds. When she comes running along from side to side with those knees of hers, then he just has no control over himself.
But now.
Now he’s in control of himself.
Daniel, you’re a coward. It’s time you showed who you are.
All right. It’s a deal, bitch. You asked for it.
He runs. The last metres through the schoolyard, over the football pitch. It’s already dark all around. There isn’t the slightest breeze, no friction other than what he himself creates against the world.
‘Daniel!’
He stops dead.
‘Daniel!’
A dark figure appears over by the school, becoming clear under the lights by the football pitch. Be angry now, he says to himself. Be hard.
She runs quickly towards him. Fast, small feet across the gravel. The pulse in his necks throbs, he clenches his teeth. Sandra speeds up, she looks a wreck, her hair is dishevelled and her eyes tired.
‘Daniel!’
She stops just in front of him. They look at one another. He bends over slightly, she raises herself on her tiptoes. They throw their arms around each other, kiss.
‘Fuck,’ he says, feeling her soft lips, how they take shape to fit his, her warm, wet tongue, how it seeks his, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘Fuck,’ she says, sniffling.
‘Fuck,’ he says, closing his eyes, ‘fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘Fuck,’ she says, sobbing.
‘It’s you and me, baby,’ he says, placing his hands on her behind.
‘Touch me,’ she says, ‘never stop, Daniel William Moi.’
‘Fuck,’ whispers Daniel, ‘I didn’t mean it. You know that.’
‘I know,’ she whispers, ‘I know.’
‘I just get so fuckin’…’
‘I know,’ she whispers again, ‘you don’t need to say anything.’
They break off from the fantastic kissing he can’t live without and stand looking at one another under the lights of the football pitch.
‘Daniel?’
She reaches her hand out, strokes him gently across the cheek.
‘Yeah?’
‘Have you seen Malene and Tiril’s dad?’
‘No…’
They look in the direction of the substation.
‘What do you think is going on?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know – did you say anything to them?’
‘No,’ she says, ‘but I think it’s kind of horrible … I feel I know something I shouldn’t, and I feel I ought to say it, but—’ Once more she brings her hand to his face again, strokes his skin with her fingers, and once more he loves it. ‘But Daniel,’ she says, warily. ‘Am I the one you love?’
Is she going to start this again?
He can’t believe his ears. They’ve been snogging each other for two minutes, they’ve forgiven one another – and she starts this again? He feels like beating her senseless. Can she not fucking leave well enough alone?
‘Veronika,’ she says, nervously, ‘you need to tell me what’s going on. I saw the two of you, in town. I saw her. You have to tell me what’s going on.’
He breaks eye contact. Okay. That’s how it is.
‘Sandra.’ He shifts his weight to his other foot. ‘Don’t worry about this. Will we go into the woods and look for the father of those girls? Just, don’t be concerned about this—’
She just stands there. ‘I need to know, Daniel. I have to know if it’s me you want.’
He sighs and looks up towards the sky. ‘Please. I need you to trust me now.’
She nods. ‘Yeah, and I need you to be honest with me. You had your arms around her. You live with her. I have to know—’
‘She fancies me.’
Sandra takes a step backwards. The corners of her mouth begin to quiver. She stammers: ‘Does she want … but … so, do you want to be with her?’
‘I—’ he stops himself, this has to come out right. ‘I’m not able to protect myself when I’m with you.’
Furrows appear on Sandra’s forehead, her hands begin to clench.
‘When I’m not with you I sometimes think I should break it off, that we shouldn’t be together.’ Daniel is conscious these words aren’t coming out right, he can hear how dangerous it is saying them out loud, yet he’s unable to stop: ‘But when I see you, then I just want to have you.’
Sandra weeps inaudibly. Her body is limp. He doesn’t like looking so he turns his head and continues: ‘I didn’t know she wanted to be with me. Not like that. Not in that way. But she did. I can get on fine without her, but at the same tim
e it’s like she … fuck, you know? It’s as if she’s good for me somehow, while you’re not good for me, even though you’re the one I need. Do you understand?’
Sandra has closed her eyes. She looks like she’s going to keel over, as though her knees are going to give way any second.
‘Do you understand?’
She doesn’t say anything. She just stands there with her eyes shut, crying. Fucking hell, she looks so beautiful. Okay, he thinks. Not so strange she has to mull it over a bit. She’s just got a considerable dose of honesty right in the face. But if she managed to listen to what he was saying, then she’s understood who he needs. That was what she wanted to know, wasn’t it? Who it is you want. He’s said it as clearly as he could, without lying. He likes Veronika, he’s not planning on letting her down. If Sandra’s thinking of a life with him, then she’ll have to learn to deal with Veronika. Just like Veronika will have to face the fact that it’s Sandra he needs.
‘Sandra?’ he says in a soft voice. ‘Are you all right with this?’
‘Did she cut herself for you?’
She opens her eyes, they’re overflowing with tears.
He nods.
Sandra swallows. ‘Just one more thing, Daniel, then I’ll let everything be.’ She brings her hand to her throat, fiddles with her necklace. ‘I need to know who you are.’
‘Hm?’
‘I need to know who you are. What you’ve seen. What you’ve done.’
Ponderous beasts surround the football pitch, crippled mongrels. They’ve emerged from out of the woods. Groups of small boys stand just behind them, all dressed in beige wadmal, all barefoot, all with horses’ heads, all with bleeding eyes. One of the boys holds a lance in his right hand. He raises it and at the same moment the horse heads begin to scream, a piercing, depraved shrieking, and the sky overflows with a rapacious light, and there, in the heavens, the sun is on fire, burning with raging flames. The boy with the lance summons the muscles in his body, tenses his arm, brings it back and sends the lance up into the sky.
‘A wolf,’ whispers Daniel and sees the beasts withdraw, moving backwards into the woods, followed by the boys in horses’ heads.