by Tore Renberg
A man passes by, wearing a bicycle helmet and tight training gear. She makes her way up the last hill, towards the last block in Jernalderveien, the one facing the Iron Age Farm. She approaches the buzzers. She slides her fingers down over all the buttons, without pressing them, like she did as a little girl, together with Shelley in 4A. Shelley was from Norwich, had lived a few years in Stavanger while her father worked for Mobil, had a big mole on her top lip and had never managed to learn Norwegian. One time they had rung all the doorbells, ran their hands down over the buttons and felt the hairs on the back of their necks stand up at the thought of the buzzers going off in all the flats in the block, and while Shelley thought it was wicked, it had given Sandra a pain in her stomach. She had let her mother down and let Jesus down by doing such a mean thing, by playing ring and run. But now she knows that Mum is a nervous wreck and that Shelley was right and Jesus isn’t a coward, Jesus is the master of vengeance: He spins the cylinder of the revolver and turns the other cheek to hate.
Her finger stops.
There’s a dull thud from inside like someone unloading a pallet off a truck. The lift reaching the ground floor. A figure behind the glass. It’s coming towards her. Shit. She makes to move, but doesn’t have time to run and ends up crouching down to tie her shoelace. Who is it? Sandra is on one knee, the door opens and a woman in a red jacket and tight jeans comes out, a woman in her late thirties.
It’s Veronika’s mother. Daniel’s stepmother. She mustn’t recognise her. Sandra keeps her eyes fixed on her shoes, her breathing rapid. The woman glances at her, but is in a world of her own and doesn’t take in what’s in front of her.
The door slams shut behind the woman, who walks quickly away along Jernalderveien.
Sandra straightens up. It’s getting bright. Day is dawning. She brings her finger back to the panel of doorbells. She moves it, purposefully, across to the occupants of the twelfth floor.
‘Inger and Veronika Ulland. Daniel William Moi.’
This is what hate is. It’s good to know it’s alive and kicking.
68. MUMMY’S JUST TALKING RUBBISH (Cecilie)
Just like little fish. Small, glittery fish darting through the water, stopping, beating their tails a little, then turning around, bodies twitching before swimming to another part of the ocean she carries within.
That’s what they say. She’s read it in magazines. Fish. Or bubbles. As though little bubbles are bursting inside her. After sixteen weeks, they say. Then you can feel life. When is that? Sixteen weeks? How far along is she? She doesn’t know, maybe five weeks, maybe six. She has to go to the doctor soon, needs to get that cleared up.
Cecilie lies quite still with her eyes closed, like her own mother must once have lain, with a little girl inside her. She can sense the day approaching, a thin strip of light slipping into the room. It’s going to be warm again today. What time is it? Seven? Waking up early these days. Must be the baby, I suppose.
In a few months there’s going to be an infant lying beside her. In its own cradle perhaps, alongside the bed. Maybe it will look like her, might come into the world with crooked lips and ash-grey skin. Maybe it’ll have a rattle in its hand and a mobile hanging over its little baby head. Maybe it’ll lie there whimpering. The way she herself must have lain, beside her own mother.
Cecilie opens her eyes. She raises herself on to her elbows, feels the nausea spread. She looks over at Rudi. His long form, stretched out beside her, half covered by the duvet, his huge cock like an eel dozing on his pale stomach. Lots of scars and blemishes to be seen on that body. Marks, all over the skin, covered in moles, nicks, pocks and craters from old spots. Handsome, he most certainly is not.
The baby might not survive, may well die inside. Wouldn’t surprise me, she thinks, if it croaked in my sea of ash – not as if anything could grow there. And if it is Rudi’s kid then there’s no telling what kind of creature it will be. Might be just as well it dies before the world gets to see it. Maybe it’ll be an alien pops out of her in seven or eight months’ time. Maybe an alien head is going to be sticking out from between her legs. Euuuugh! Sister! What an ugly fucking kid! Jesus, what a pigugly smurf!
Nobody wants to look at kids like you.
Nobody wants to be with kids like you.
Cecilie sighs and rubs two sleepy, clammy hands from her hairline down to her chin.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘Mummy’s just talking rubbish. Mummy’s always a little like this in the morning. Mummy doesn’t mean anything by it. We’re going to get up now, you and me, get some coffee. Your granddad, the one who lives in America, he needs his coffee first thing in the morning too. Says he goes nuts otherwise. Once he gets his coffee he’s a funfair for the rest of the day. Did you know he runs his own company, your granddad? That’s right, baby, he does. Southern Oil. He’s the president, yessir, Thor, president of Southern Oil. Yeah, yeah, but don’t spare him a thought, he’s a spineless shit. Now, we’re going to have our coffee, baby, take a quick shower and then get out of this house of horrors, because we have to go pick up the man who may be your father.
Rudi turns, half-asleep.
‘Mmmmm, Chessi…’ he mumbles, ‘who are you talking to … lying there yakking away … Southern Oil … Granddad?’
Breathe in. And breathe out.
Cecilie leans over to Rudi. She places her hand on his forehead. Then brings it slowly down over his eyes, his already quivering eyelids, straining to open at the approaching day. She kisses him, even though he stinks.
‘Rudi,’ she says, in a low voice.
‘Oh yeah,’ he murmurs, ‘just talk away to it, then I’ll impale you, just say the word and I’ll be ready…’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ she says softly, ‘you just sleep. I’m getting up to go get Tong. Sleep some more, Rudi needs it. You’re so tall, you know, you need a lot of sleep.’
‘It’s my cock takes up all the blood…’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Cecilie whispers, ‘go to sleep now. It’s early, even Jani isn’t up yet. Go back to sleep now.’
Rudi focuses his gaze on her, his eyes are gleaming. ‘Like being in a nursing home, this is,’ he says, in a raspy, morning voice. ‘Care. A care home. That’s what you should’ve been, Chessi, a nurse. You’re one awesome lady, you know that?’
Rudi raises his head. Keeps his eyes fixed on her.
It’s hard to hate a man who loves you much.
But not impossible, she thinks, sending him a kiss with pouted lips before picking up her jeans and bra and making towards the bathroom.
‘Just watch out,’ she hears from behind. ‘After that job tonight there’s going to be cock in your house. He’s going to be hunting through your halls tonight! Jesus! There’s a mad dog here! Holy shit, he’s got the biggest cock in the world! Heh heh. You’re one awesome lady. We should get a place of our own soon, eh, Chessi? Tonight, Lady Gaga! Tonight!’
‘Go to sleep now,’ she says. ‘If you want some pussy after work then you need your sleep.’
‘Ooops! Surethingboss.’
Cecilie shuffles along the carpet in the hall. It’s hard and dirty. It needs to be changed. She yawns, the nausea is heavy and constant. She doesn’t need to throw up, but it feels as if everything would be better if she did. So, when she’s moving around, is the baby staying still, is that how it is? Or has it already begun to move around itself? It soon will. If it’s not already dead. Dead baby. Soon start moving. Tiny fish. Soon stretch out its tiny fingers and tiny toes, its little head will turn around, its little eyes will try to figure out what’s going on. But the baby’s asleep right now. It’s following Mummy’s movements. Just as though it’s holding its breath. What is Mummy up to? Where are we off to?
Was it like that for Mum as well? Back when she was a little mite inside her own mother? Did she wonder if the baby was already dead?
Cecilie opens the bathroom door. She gives a start when she catches sight of Jan Inge. He’s sitting fully clothed on the toilet sea
t, his feet dangling a little above the floor. He has dark, blue rings beneath his eyes, one finger stuck into his mouth. He’s chewing on a nail and doesn’t look up at her. He blinks, his eyes going from side to side. He’s been crying. He looks about twelve years old. He looks like he did when he was twelve. Back when he was in here biting his nails, crying and shouting to her outside in her nightdress: ‘Cecilie! Don’t come in! I need to think! I need to think!’
69. MORNING IN THE HOME OF A FATHER OF TWO TEENAGERS (Pål)
‘Tiril? Malene? Breakfast!’
He has his foot placed in a jaunty fashion on the bottom step, his chin tilted towards the first floor. Zitha stands beside him, her tail wagging, the end of her snout also raised, as though imitating him. Pål lifts his eyebrows, elevates his cheeks, arranges his features into a pleasant expression, as if this were a summer day and he were a father from a film on children’s TV. In his hands he holds a milk carton and a plate of sliced cucumber, tomatoes and pepper.
‘Come on, girls! Breakfast!’
That’s the way. He keeps his back muscles tensed as he returns to the kitchen. Setting down the milk and the plate on the already set table, he takes the matches from the mantelpiece and strikes one off the box. He lights the candles and glances at the coffee maker gurgling by the window. Sides of meat, cheese, pâté, sliced fruit and veg, lettuce even, as well as milk, juice and coffee.
This looks good. This’ll do the trick.
‘Zitha! Good girl. Lie down now.’
This day exists. And it doesn’t.
He hears Tiril’s footsteps, firm and lively, coming down the stairs, ostensibly saying everything about his youngest daughter, the trampoline kid, as Christine once called her. She could be like that now and again, original in her choice of words, as if she ought to have been a writer as opposed to a businesswoman. Behind Tiril he hears Malene’s footfall, steady and mature. The difference in their footsteps is like hearing his wife and himself. Back before the break-up, back when she jumped out of bed in the mornings, after a good night’s sleep, already at work long before she had actually stepped out the front door and got into the car. He takes a little longer to wake up – usually about twenty minutes before Pål is ready for the day. Christine was awake before she awoke. As soon as she opened her eyes her energy level was running at maximum. He smiles to himself at the memory, which was annoying back when it was reality and not reminiscence. The recollection of Christine drinking coffee while she dressed, putting on make-up, preparing the kids’ lunches, reading the paper and hey presto – suddenly she was in front of him, radiant and ready, car keys in hand, giving him a routine peck on the cheek before telling him he had to ‘have a nice day’ and then disappearing out the door.
A mutual tempo of sorts was something they never shared. Pål would make an effort now and again to get up to her speed. He convinced himself that somewhere within him lay a kind of variant of her that he could be. He planned the day in accordance with her pace, attempted to imitate her. If she took it upon herself to start vacuuming on a Saturday morning, he would let breakfast wait while he got stuck into the dishes from the day before. But it just drove Christine round the bend. Jesus, Pål, please, this here is just weird – do you have to shadow me?
Tiril’s body is electric, she has headphones on and she’s sharply defined in black-and-red attire.
‘Hi, honey,’ he says, in as friendly a tone as he can, stopping her with his arms outstretched, but she ignores his invitation to hug. He drops his arms without making a fuss about it. Tiril forces a smile, he can hear the music from her iPod, stripped of bass; she has no time for Dad now, she needs to concentrate.
‘Christ,’ she says, pointing at the breakfast table, ‘somebody die?’
He laughs, even though he doesn’t find it funny. ‘Just wanted to make you a nice breakfast, with you having such a big day and all,’ he says, feeling a swelling in his chest as though what he was saying was pure and true. ‘Sit down there and I’ll get you some coffee. Can you take off those headphones, just while we’re eating?’
Tiril raises her darkly pencilled eyebrows, but leaves the headphones on. She takes her mobile from her pocket, flips the cover up and begins texting.
‘I need an iPhone 5, Dad,’ she says, without looking up, ‘but I don’t suppose we can afford that?’
The door of the hall toilet can be heard opening and moments later Malene appears. She looks tired and unwell. Pål grows anxious and forgets Tiril’s complaint, but he thinks how he mustn’t allow the feeling to take root, probably just a morning thing, soon blow over – talking about your troubles only makes them materialise.
‘Hi, Dad.’
Malene bends down to greet Zitha, giving her a rub before coming over to Pål. She looks towards the kitchen table.
‘Wow, what an amazing-looking breakfast.’
He strokes her hair. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Not really,’ Malene says. ‘Do we have any bread?’
‘Yeah, of cour—’ Pål stops himself. ‘Hold on, of course we’ve got bread…’
He scurries over to the breadbin, feeling the girls’ eyes on his back as he lifts the lid up. A little bag with a stale heel. He places his palms on the worktop. Turns to the girls. Malene has dark rings under her eyes, it won’t soon blow over. Tiril’s thumb works away at the screen of her phone, the treble from her iPod hissing about her head like a swarm of wasps.
‘Ryvita?’ Pål asks, hearing how poorly his voice is carrying.
Malene shrugs. Tiril scrolls on her mobile and moves her lips, but no sound escapes her.
Pål breathes in, fastens a smile on his mouth, brings his palms together with a clap and says: ‘Ah, it’s going to be a lovely day. Thursday. I’ve taken the day off work, thought I might get us something really nice for dinner, tidy the house and live it up, the three of us, and then, yes, then it’s – eh, Tiril?’
He walks over to her. So much make-up, where’s the girl under there?
‘Eh?’
He stands in front of her.
‘Eh? Your big day, isn’t it, eh?’
She removes the headphones, puts down the mobile: ‘You coming to watch?’
He keeps his smile fixed and brings his hands to her face, one on each cheek: ‘Of course I am, honey. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Tiril’s phone vibrates, reverberating on the tabletop. She frees herself from his hands but he can see the joy in her eyes, the effect his assurance has had. She picks up the phone, taps the screen. Her features contort and she rises from the seat, her head shaking. Then it vibrates again and she reads once more.
‘Jesus,’ she says, not looking at them, ‘asshole.’ Tiril breathes through her nostrils and looks up from the display. ‘This here, this is seriously screwed up. Sorry, I gotta go. Kenny has kicked the shit out of Shaun and Sandra is flipping out. Malene, you need to come along, let’s go. See you tonight, Dad.’
70. THAT’S THE WHOLE POINT (Veronika)
Night arrived with creeping darkness. It covered Madla, covered Stavanger, the west of the country, Norway, Europe, the world and the universe in the same ever-increasing circles she’s pictured since she was a little girl, back when she could hear. She was six years old when she lost her hearing and her memories of sounds are as clear as glass, but she doesn’t like them; her mother’s voice, the sound of a toilet flushing, a car starting. It’s nicer to think of the noises she’s never heard.
Mum seemed knackered when she said goodnight. She stood in front of Veronika with her head to one side and placed two fingers on her cuts, tracing her fingertips along them, just as Daniel had done in the kitchen minutes previously.
‘Don’t stay up too late, okay?’
‘I won’t.’
It was as though his very hand had sowed desire in her groin. The firm grasp he had taken of her was hard and insistent, painful almost, but the craving in his palm, the hungry pressure he put against her pubis, made her body ignite, and when he took his
hand away all she could think was do it again. She felt a flailing warmth spread throughout her, also in the form of increasing circles, beginning in her crotch, describing a ring round her loins, a ring round her stomach and thighs, around her breasts and calves, a ring around her entire body.
The bathroom door opened. The sound of her mother’s feet going in the direction of the bedroom and out of sight.
‘Night, Mum.’
‘Good night, Inger.’
Daniel was sitting at one end of the sofa, feet up on the table, neck resting on the back of the cushion, one arm over the end of the sofa, the other resting on his stomach. Veronika sat up for a moment, pretended to fix her clothes, then sat down again, closer.
He got to his feet without looking at her, his lips moved, but she wasn’t sure if he said something or merely sighed, snapped for air, like a guppy. He went over to the window, closed it and remained standing looking out at the darkness with searching eyes.
He did say something, but she couldn’t make it out. ‘What?’
He turned his mouth away again. Too much shit here now? Was that what he said?
Veronika got up and went over to him. ‘What are you saying?’
He avoided her gaze. ‘Dunno. School. Can’t face school tomorrow. Need to think.’
She drew as close to him as she dared. There was a long pause. Veronika’s breath had less and less space to draw in air from.
‘And what is it you need to think about?’ she asked.
He turned to her. His face glistened, his teeth shone like polished ivory, his eyes had yellow spears in them and his tongue was long and cruel.
‘You fuck me up,’ he said.
‘You fuck me up,’ she said.
Daniel put his hand back where it belonged, he pressed harder and she felt how that was the way it was supposed to be. Her hand went to his jeans, rubbed him across the flies and she saw his mouth open, saw his chest heave and his jaw clench.
‘You really fuck me up,’ he said, gritting his teeth as his torso rose and fell.