See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  ‘I know,’ she said, as she took her fingers away, saw him take sharp intakes of breath, took hold of his belt, undid the buckle and saw him gulp and blink, ‘and that’s the whole point.’

  ‘Shit, we have to be quiet,’ he said, placing a hand on each of her breasts.

  ‘We have to be very quiet,’ she said, feeling a throbbing dick in her hands for the first time.

  Veronika wakes up. Her cheeks are warm and it is Thursday morning. She opens her eyes and closes them right after, as though what she’s going to see is an enemy of that which has occurred.

  She has no choice but to go far today, too far perhaps.

  71. MOON AND SUN, WIND AND CLOUDS, SISTER AND BROTHER, DEATH ENSHROUDS(Jan Inge)

  ‘Oh … Jan Inge … I didn’t know you were in here.’

  Jan Inge swallows. He looks up at Cecilie. She has those threadbare jeans of hers in her hands, as well as an old bra. She’s only wearing the large Europe T-shirt. It looks like a tent.

  She crouches down.

  ‘Hey? You okay?’

  Jan Inge nods ever so slightly. He meets her eyes for the briefest moment, then looks away again. It’s not a good idea to look deeply into Cecilie’s eyes, too much to see in them.

  ‘Oh God, Jani, bruv, are you crying?’

  It’s not so easy after all. Always having breakfast ready. Never falling apart. Forever being in good humour. Being in control at all times. He saw it. In that programme on TV, the one about leadership. A Microsoft executive. Show emotion, he said. Demonstrate that you’re a person and not a machine. It makes for a good leader. And why? asked the Microsoft guy. I’ll tell you why, because you work alongside people. They need to see that you’re like them.

  Jan Inge reaches out and tears off a few sheets of toilet paper. He blows his nose. Swallows.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why are you sitting here crying?’

  Jan Inge raises his bulk from the toilet seat. He takes a few steps towards the bathroom mirror. He sniffs, clears his throat, spits in the sink and rinses his mouth. In the reflection of the mirror he can see Cecilie pulling down her knickers, flipping up the lid of the toilet, sitting down and peeing. She actually looks quite nice when she’s sitting like that. Those eyes, set far apart, open up her face kind of like a book; she looks like she did when she was small, when they roamed about the house wondering what to do, when Mum had died and Dad had gone to Houston.

  Those compassionate eyes. More gut-wrenching looking into them than meeting those tetchy eyes she glares at you with most of the time.

  Jan Inge finds a spot in the air and fixes his gaze upon it. He straightens up: ‘Cecilie. I’m sitting here in the toilet. It’s an important day. I’m here enjoying a few moments of peace early in the morning. I’m meditating. I’m like the Chinese. Do you see the bowl of rice between my hands? Do you see the wind playing in the hazel trees?’

  Cecilie gets up from the toilet, flushes it and tries to make eye contact, but he avoids it.

  ‘Jani,’ she says, sitting down on the edge of the bath, ‘you know I’m not always able to follow what you’re saying when you talk like that. What do you mean?’

  ‘I just mean that I’m thinking.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  He looks her in the eye. He’s able to now. ‘About my life,’ he says. ‘About our lives. About Tong getting out today. About Dad in Houston. About Mum in Hell, barbecuing rats with the Devil. I’m picturing the grease dripping from the side of her mouth. Is she riding the Devil, Cecilie? It wouldn’t surprise me. I’m thinking about the job we have on tonight. I’m sitting here in the toilet – the last bastion of privacy. And yes. Perhaps I shed a tear. Yes. Perhaps life overwhelms us all at times.’

  He turns to the sink, puts both taps on, waiting for the water to become lukewarm before placing his hands under the jet. Warms them up.

  ‘Yeah, of course it does,’ says Cecilie.

  ‘Do you not think I harbour dreams?’

  ‘Sure, of course I think you do.’

  Jan Inge turns off the water and takes hold of the towel hanging beside the sink. ‘Do you think it’s fun for me to have become so fat and got a bald patch to boot? Do you not think I’ll do anything to keep this gang together?’

  ‘But Jan Inge—’

  He sits down on the edge of the bath, beside her.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, Cecilie,’ he says. ‘When Dad went away … one night after I’d put you to bed, I went down to the basement. Dad had left behind some tools in case we had to fix something in the house. We did become independent, you and I, by the fact of him leaving. I’ll give him that. I found the toolbox and took out the hammer, Cecilie. I took it in my hand and carried it with me up the stairs, carried it through the hall here, held it while I opened the door to your room, clasped it as I made my way over to your bed. And once there, I raised my hand over my head and saw the shadow of the hammer on the wall behind you.’

  Jan Inge pauses.

  He is aware of the heightened atmosphere in the bathroom.

  Cecilie sits camly beside him. She listens as though what he’s saying is on celluloid. An intense film about a brother who’s going to take his sister’s life. Because their mother has kicked the bucket and their father has moved to Houston.

  But it isn’t a film.

  It’s this shitty life.

  But that’s just how it always is.

  It’s never a shitty film.

  It’s always life.

  Cecilie nods, as if remembering what he’s telling her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jan Inge says, turning to look at her. ‘I can’t explain what I was thinking. Maybe I thought things would be easier if you were dead. Maybe I was afraid of having to look after you for the rest of my life.’

  ‘But that’s what you hav—’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘You’ve really looked after me, Jani.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Good thing you didn’t crack my skull open with the hammer anyway.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘But listen, I need to take a shower and be on my way to pick up Tong.’

  Cecilie puts her skinny arms around his big body. It feels good. She radiates warmth even though she’s ever so small. Jan Inge remembers the song he made up that time he was standing over her bed with the hammer in his hand. Moon and sun, wind and clouds, sister and brother, death enshrouds. He stood there with the hammer raised and sang. He can still hear the choirboy pitch of his own voice. How nice it sounded. While he looked at the shadow of the hammer thinking that now Cecilie had to die. Moon and sun, wind and clouds, sister and brother, death enshrouds.

  Cecilie loosens her hold around him, her body gives a jerk and she lets go of him. She swallows and gulps, then makes an abrupt dive for the toilet where she leans over the bowl and throws up.

  Jan Inge blinks. Repeatedly. ‘Yeah,’ he hears her wheeze, her head down the toilet bowl, ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you, Jani, I know what you’re thinking.’

  Blimey.

  Jan Inge picks up his inhaler from the washstand. Breathes in.

  Hah.

  Sometimes life is fascinating.

  It’s right in front of you, day in, day out, but no danger of you catching sight of it.

  Jan Inge nods to himself. This is fantastic news. He can feel a swelling inside. He’s aware of tears in his eyes. A child. My God. Now there’s going to be some life in the house. Now things are going to happen. Revenge. That’s what he feels, a sense of revenge, like an axe cleaving a skull, because now the Haraldsen name will be carried on, yes, it’s almost as if it’s his own child coming into the world. There’ll be life in the house, the genes will be shuffled and who knows what the child will be like. Will it inherit Cecilie’s capricious nature? Jan Inge’s characteristic astuteness? Its father’s levity?

  ‘Uncle Jani?’ he asks. ‘Me? Uncle Jani?’

  Cecilie, her back to him, nods. She reaches into the shower and turns on the water.r />
  ‘Wow. Chessi, I—’

  Cecilie turns her head and fixes her brother with a fiery look. ‘Yeah,’ she says, while holding her hand under the jet of water. ‘But you’re not to tell a bloody soul.’

  ‘No no, I—’

  ‘Because I don’t know who the fucking father is.’

  ‘Wha?’

  ‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen,’ Cecilie lowers her voice, which doesn’t serve to reduce the intensity. ‘I don’t know if it’s Tong or Rudi—’

  ‘Ton—’

  ‘You’re not to say a single word. Not one word, you hear me.’

  ‘No, but to … to … I mean he’s in—’

  Jan Inge stops himself.

  ‘Åna,’ he says in a quiet tone.

  ‘Not another word now,’ Cecilie hisses. ‘Not to me or to anyone else.’

  Jan Inge nods. She’s right, he thinks. Sometimes you’ve really just got to shut up. Keep your lips sealed and gulp down.

  ‘You go out and think about what you’ve heard,’ continues Cecilie. ‘Go out and let me shower and be alone with my own thoughts and my own life and you get your own ass in gear. You don’t need to go round feeling sorry for yourself, Jani, because you’re not the one with problems – I’m the one with problems. And put on some coffee will you – aw! Bloody shower! Either too cold or roasting! Why can’t things in this house just work like they do in normal peoples’ houses!’

  ‘Right, I’ll—’

  Cecilie pulls off the Europe T-shirt. Takes off her knickers. Gets into the bathtub. Pulls the shower curtain across. Jan Inge sees her silhouette, hears the running water, the sound of her voice: ‘And don’t start crying, all right? No crying, okay? We’ve done enough crying, you and me, yeah?’

  72. THEY’RE SO PERFECT, THOSE TITS OF YOURS (Daniel William)

  Veronika is standing in front of him as he comes into the hall. She’s leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone to take a photo of her. Jesus, she looks good. Her hair tousled, sticking up in all directions, her mouth haughty and red. He makes to go past her towards the kitchen, force her to cede this edge she has over him, but she takes a step forward, blocking his path.

  She grins.

  ‘Manage to sleep?’

  He shakes his head with a fatuous smile. He doesn’t like to appear so exposed, feels like a bit of a wuss, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

  ‘Me neither,’ Veronika says, leaving her lips slightly parted when she’s finishes the sentence.

  He returns her smile, but again his is puerile and foolish, while the smile blossoming in the lattice of fresh cuts on her face speaks of self-assurance, and rather than divesting her of authority – it bestows it.

  Ah.

  This business of being in love with two girls at the same time is a right pain. One of them is going to lose and one of them is going to win. It’s the flesh that decides. The fuckplan, what happened to that? If the whole point of living was to fuck and get rich, find a woman willing to put out once a day, then how’s the plan looking now?

  Which of them will win?

  Daniel tries to swallow his smile like it was a morsel in his mouth. He needs to ward off his weakness with something so he lets his gaze wander over her body, the body he possessed a few hours previously. The feet he held in his hands, the long legs he ran his fingers over, the thighs he parted, the loins he kissed, the tits he tongued and cupped in his hands, the ears he panted into, the red hair he clutched and the mouth he couldn’t take his eyes from as they had sex.

  Veronika closes her mouth as he looks her over. She puts her head to the side, her eyes are pert and alive, anything flushed or childish about her disappears.

  Daniel takes hold of her hand, she backs against the wall.

  ‘Listen,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

  ‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking,’ Daniel says, aware of how right it feels when he utters the words, even though it’s a lie. Thinking? He hasn’t thought at all, he’s been fucking. To put it bluntly. Veronika was a whole lot different from Sandra. Sandra made him small and uncomplicated. Veronika made him big and uncomplicated.

  ‘Me too,’ she says.

  ‘Okay,’ Daniel says, surprised, ‘you first, so.’

  ‘No, you,’ Veronika says.

  ‘All right … well, you know. Sandra.’

  Veronika nods.

  Good. She could have gone for him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Daniel continues, ‘she’s going to lose it when she hears about this. So, we’re going to have to, well, deal with that. Some way or another.’

  Veronika nods.

  ‘And then there’s your mother. How do you think she’s going to react? And then there’s that business with the father of those two girls, Tiril and Malene…’

  Veronika stops him. ‘Don’t speak so fast,’ she says. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just stressed out. Tiril. And Malene.’

  ‘What about them?’

  Daniel walks towards the kitchen and she follows after. He turns on the tap, places his mouth under it and drinks. His mind is reeling. There’s too much going on. Why should he care about that Pål guy? The people in the woods, the loser in the Metallica T-shirt, the sisters – how come he’s not able to sweep it aside?

  ‘What is it, Daniel? I don’t understand?’

  That hollow, deaf voice of hers; is he going to have to put up with that for the rest of his life? Christ, his throat is dry. He puts his mouth back under the water still running from the tap and drinks; it’s like he’s dehydrated, and now his vision is beginning to flash, no, not this, not now, he sees blood, sees hands being raised in front of a face, hears screams and his body is so dry, his body is so dry it feels as if it’ll crack like parched earth and tiny brown animals will emerge: ‘Shut up!’

  He turns to Veronika. He moves swiftly towards her, one hand clenched into a fist while he uses the other to take hold of her hair, pulling her head closer to his, roughly: ‘Can you just shut the fuck up?’

  Veronika smiles.

  ‘Are you going to hit me, Daniel?’

  He pulls her head back forcefully, making her yield to his will. Or does he? Is it he who’s won now or is it her?

  ‘Daniel? Are you going to hit me now?’

  He can’t make out what’s what, but Veronika continues smiling at him and he hears her say: ‘Daniel, I’m going to look after you. Listen to me. Breathe in, breathe out. Let go of me. That’s right, yeah. Sit down, listen to me. Daniel, Daniel. Tell me what happened to you.’

  Fuck.

  Is he going to start crying in front of a girl?

  He puts his head against her chest, feels her breasts against his cheek.

  It’s part of the fuckplan, Daniel thinks. It’s bigger than you think, that plan. More dangerous than you believe. It’s carrying a whole world of shit along with it and in the end you’ll stand there watching the blood flow.

  Daniel sniffles. ‘Jesus,’ he whispers, ‘they’re so perfect, those tits of yours. I’m not really into big tits, but fuck, I like yours.’

  Veronika nods.

  ‘I’m in love with two girls,’ he sighs.

  ‘I know,’ Veronika says. ‘But it won’t last long.’

  He looks up at her, gulping back mucus, his teeth clacking together. His mouth foaming. He says: ‘Come on, we’ll hop on the Suzuki and just leave, okay? We’ll go as far from here as we can and never look back.’

  73. TOUGH JESUS (Sandra)

  Maybe you were right, maybe DW is a coward. Outside his block of flats now, have no clue what’s going to happen. If I die, I die for love.

  Xx S.

  Yet another brisk September day. The sun has come up, white and reigning supreme in a sky where not a cloud is to be seen. People have begun going about their morning business, a few early risers have already exited the tower block, mostly adults
on their way to work. It’s still too early for any schoolkids to put in an appearance. Fortunately. Sandra doesn’t want anyone to recognise her standing here.

  She puts the phone back into her pocket.

  If he comes out with that skank of his it makes no difference. If he has that slashed-up slut with him, then the blood will gush from those faulty ears of hers and if he comes out alone, then he better have an answer for her. She doesn’t want to hear any more bullshit, what she wants is a simple yes or no, and the question she’s going to ask is: Am I the one, the only one you want, for all time?

  She’s going to be tough. Both she and Jesus are going to be tough.

  Sandra brings her finger to the panel with the doorbells. She buzzes. A few seconds pass before a click sounds on the intercom and his voice, metallic and uncertain, can be heard: ‘Yes?’

  Sandra doesn’t reply. She takes two steps backwards. Stands there looking at the name below the buzzer.

  ‘Yes, hello?’

  She’s not going to answer. You’re going to have to come down, Daniel, and show who you are.

  The line goes dead. She approaches the panel again. Lifts her hand. Rings once more. Longer this time, keeping her finger pressed hard against the button.

  The response comes quickly: ‘Yes, hello?’

  Not nice, that voice. It has been so warm and deep at times, spoken right to her and she’s trusted it. But this voice, she’s not about to reply to that.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

  Once again, Sandra takes two demonstrative steps back from the panel of buzzers.

  ‘Listen, enough of the dinging already, yeah?’

  The intercom goes silent again. A woman passes behind Sandra, walking a drever on a lead; it makes for her legs but the woman gives the leash a yank and they continue on. Sandra steps up to the buttons for a third time, breath rising in her throat, sweat beading on her hairline. She presses the buzzer.

  A couple of seconds. Intercom crackle. A girl’s voice. The skank: ‘Give it a fucking rest, all right?’

  The fact that she even dares open her mouth. It sounds so retarded. She talks like a mongoloid. Sandra puts her lips to the intercom, bunches her tongue against her uvula and imitates Veronika: ‘Give it a fucking rest, all right?’