by Tore Renberg
It goes quiet on the other end. That gave them something to think about. Sandra smiles, puts her mouth to the speaker again, makes her tongue thicker, her voice quaver, trying harder to mimic the deaf tone: ‘Huuunnh? Are you able to speak? But you’re not able to hear what I’m saying. Huuunnh? Maybe you’ve got someone there to translate for you, have you?’
The line goes dead again. That should do the trick, thinks Sandra. Now they’ll come down. She hurries round the corner of the tower block, puts her back against the cold brick and her feet on the grass, banking on them not catching sight of her. Now she’ll be able to see how they behave. Before she snares them, she wants to see what happens.
A minute crawls by; she counts the seconds like she’s counted the seconds while waiting for Daniel in the last few weeks, waiting in smitten bliss. That naïve girl seems far away now, as though they had never been the same person. Then she hears the door open. The sound of footsteps emerging. One person. Two people. The footsteps stop.
‘No one here.’ His voice
‘Little shits.’ His voice
‘Fucking cheek of them.’ His voice
‘If I get hold of them I’ll beat their faces to a pulp.’ His voice.
Sandra feels a swelling in her throat and she tries to swallow. Daniel is sticking up for the deaf girl. His voice is clear, deep and warm. The words sound just as real as they were when he spoke to her, in the woods and at the shop. Sandra gulps once more, the tears come; she gasps and presses her tongue against her crooked front tooth. She hears footfall. The sound of a jacket being unzipped. Is he opening her jacket, putting his hands inside, comforting her? Sandra goes as close as possible to the corner of the block: is it her opening his jacket? Putting her arms around him? Are they kissing?
‘Is there anyone who’s got it in for you?’ His voice.
‘Veronika. Answer me. Has this happened before?’ His voice.
‘No.’ Her voice.
‘We won’t give a shit. Okay?’ His voice.
‘Yeah.’ Her voice.
‘Let’s just leave, all right?’ His voice.
‘All right.’ Her voice.
Leave?
‘You and me.’ His voice.
‘Yes, Daniel.’ Her voice.
Leave?
‘Daniel is going to look after you, you know that, right?’ His voice.
‘Yeah.’ Her voice.
Sandra’s knees are giving way; she just about manages to remain standing and has to support herself against the wall. Leave. You and me. She hears the trust implicit in Veronika’s reply; she hears how steady his voice sounds. Sandra feels pulverised; there is no tough Jesus here, just this caustic pain.
‘Right, come on.’
Footsteps. They’re moving. Quickly.
Sandra takes a few small steps towards the corner, puts her head around and sees them. Daniel William and Veronika, jogging along in front of the tower blocks, hand-in-hand, him slightly in front of her.
Why am I not strong? Why don’t I shout out to them? Why don’t I lift my hands to the sky and scream? Why am I just standing here?
Sandra sniffs, then draws as much air as possible into her lungs and begins to run. She keeps close to the wall of the buildings so as not to be seen, running as fast as she can, her knees touching and hips swinging. What’s important now is not to think, just act, just be a seething jealous heart. When she gets to the end of the third block she sees them. Daniel has his helmet on and he’s mounting the moped, Veronika standing beside him. After he’s straddled it she climbs on behind. They haven’t spotted her. They’re too preoccupied with one another. Veronika puts her arms around his waist. She leans into him. Her chest presses against his back.
He starts the engine, reverses with his feet a couple of metres, then rides out of the car park, her red hair lifting up on the air like a pennant.
Just where Daniel and Veronika come out on to Folkeviseveien, there’s a bend in the road by a bus shelter before it continues on towards the big roundabout on Ullandhaugveien. Sandra has no choice. She can’t let the one she loves ride off with the one she hates. So she runs. She runs right across the green area backing on to the bus shelter and emerges on Folkeviseveien at the same time as the moped rounds the bend. Sandra runs on to the road, halts suddenly, and the rider of the moped can’t manage to stop. He is unable to manoeuvre round the girl who has dashed right out into the road and he runs her over.
It doesn’t hurt, Sandra thinks at the moment of impact, not me anyway. She takes a heavy blow to the head as her body is thrown to the ground. She tries to keep her eyes open because she wants to see what’s going on, but it’s difficult when it feels like something is cracking inside your head. What she thinks she sees is this: A boy, he’s called Daniel William Moi and she loves him, a boy running towards her with a moped helmet in his hand, a terrified-looking boy, a boy who shouts: ‘Fuck! Sandra! What the fuck?’ Behind him a girl standing beside a moped, a red-haired girl with a cut-up face, waving her hand about, shouting: ‘Leave her there! She did it on purpose! Leave her there!’ The boy she loves brings his hand down over his face, shakes his head and runs to the moped. Starts it up. Rides away. With his girl on the back.
You were tough now, Jesus, she thinks, and loses consciousness.
74. KEIN PROBLEM, MEIN SOHN (Rudi)
We may well be criminals, Jan Inge always says. We may well live outside the law. But that doesn’t mean we live without laws. We are prinicipled criminals, says Jan Inge, we have some ground rules. Which we live by. We won’t have any divergence between theory and practice, got it? They’ll be as one, you hear me?
Jefe Haraldsen.
One prize idiot after the other has come and gone. If the gap between theory and practice has been too wide then Jan Inge has asked them to sling their hook. Hansi, Tødden, Donald, Kjabbe, Sorry and Poster. Every one of them was kicked out over something that violated the fundamental priniciples. With the exception of Tong. He’s the only one who’s been let be even though there’s been a pretty big gap betwe—
Rudi shakes the urine off his cock. No, he thinks, there hasn’t been a big gap between theory and practice with Tong. He puts his cock back into his briefs, reflects on how cute and snug it looks all limp and curled up, and he washes his hands. The fact of the matter is that Jani has accepted Tong. Sort of like how it is with Lemmy. He can knock back as much Jack Daniels and do as much speed as he likes, but that doesn’t mean that other people can do it. Even Lemmy himself has been clear about that.
Rudi leans towards the mirror, opens his mouth wide, bares his teeth and picks out some food wedged between them.
Whilst the others have abided by Jani’s management priniciples, Tong has been allowed to step outside. Porn, dope and what have you. It’s a bit annoying and Rudi does feel slightly jealous. But what can you do. Solo-playing virtuosos have to be allowed to live outside the law.
And one of the management principles, Rudi thinks as he dries his hands and opens the door to the hall, is going into play today. We’re not junkies, but when we’re on a job we rack up a few lines. It’s a great fucking principle. Not so much as a gram in normal, everyday life. Just at work. An ever so little line of speed. Rudi loves amphetamine. Who doesn’t? Show me the man who can stand up and say, in all honesty, that speed isn’t a gift to mankind.
‘If everyone was as principled as us,’ Jan Inge says, ‘there’d be precious few problems in the world.’
Rudi enters the kitchen and is surprised not to be met by the sight of a table laid for breakfast. The wheelchair sits there, forsaken. Breadcrumbs on the worktop. An opened tin of pâté. A carton of apple juice with the cap off. The menstrual odour of a coffee machine that’s been on for hours. The time? Soon be half eight. Looks like people have been up a while. Chessi is probably just about arriving at Åna. Rudi rubs the back of his neck, opens the fridge and takes out the milk. He feels his faith being restored. Christ, she was great this morning, Chessi. No way she wants to screw
that Pål guy.
Rudi makes himself a big glass of chocolate milk.
Where has Jan Inge got to?
He downs it in three gulps while looking out the window.
Another cracking day. Global warming, you’re more than welcome. Tong. Speed. A time-honoured classic. Ride Chessi.
‘Hey, caballero?’ He plods into the living room. ‘Jefe? Mein Führer, wo bist du? Dein Schweinhund ruft dick an!’
He looks in the direction of the hi-fi. There’s a bag on top of it, half-hidden under the shelf above. Rudi takes a few quick steps, gets hold of the bag, takes out the CD, opens the cover, presses eject, waits for the drawer to slide out then places the CD in. He does it all quickly so he won’t have an opportunity to stop himself. About time. He scans the back of the CD cover. Number seven. He skips forward. Turns the volume up. Waits two seconds.
Jesus. That is so good. Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du, du-du-du…
‘Hey!’
Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du, du-du-du du-du-du du…
‘Hey!’
The sound of Jani’s high-pitched voice cuts through the music. Rudi blushes and grins. ‘What the hell? What are you doing jumping round singing along to … what is that? The Bee Gees?’
The state of Jani. Dark, heavy rings under his eyes. Eyes flitting this way and that.
‘No, I – okay, brother. Mea culpa. You’re going to hate me for this, but – sorry. I must be getting old! I’ve hit the mid-life MOR crisis. I’ll soon be sitting here with a monocle and a bowl of lentil soup listening to Radio 4. It’s Coldplay. And yes, Rudi loves it. Kill me. Do away with me. That’s just how it is.’
Jan Inge shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ he says.
Huh? Rudi screws up his eyes.
‘We need—’ Jan Inge clears his throat and looks out the window, ‘we need to make a start on the day. Look at that garden. We’ll have to clear it out soon. But anyway. We’ve got a busy Thursday ahead. We have to drop round to Stegas—’
‘Hell yeah! Stegas!’
‘Yeah,’ continues Jan Inge, still somewhat awkwardly, ‘and we have to welcome Tong back—’
‘Fuck yeah! Tong.’
‘Can you calm down a little? Welcome Tong back – and then we have a moving job.’
‘Have we?’
‘A grand piano. Over in Våland. Furras Gate.’
Ah, for Christ’s sake.
‘A grand piano. I fucking hate humping pianos around. Seriously, Jani, how much longer do we have to—’
‘Rudi! I’m not getting into this right now. We need to make clean cash, you need to get that through your head! How many times do we have to talk about this? We run a moving company, that’s what it says on your tax returns, on my tax returns – it’s the reason no one can nab us, don’t you get that? You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re retarded. We’re respectable people, we have jobs, and as you’re well aware, there’s nothing better than having a moving job on the same day as we have … well … other jobs!’
Rudi takes a step back. What’s up with the guy? Jan Inge has sweat rings under his arms, all worked up and giving out like a headmaster or something.
‘Hey, brother,’ Rudi says cautiously. ‘Take it easy, yeah? What’s gotten into you? You need to use the wheelchair. Every day. You just tire yourself out spending so much time on your feet.’
Jan Inge takes a deep breath. He nods. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right,’ he mumbles. ‘Sorry. It’s nothing. Didn’t get enough sleep is all. You know yourself. Too little sleep will stress anyone out. You remember Tone-Tone? The one who hanged herself, remember her?’
‘Mhm.’
‘Yeah, hanged herself in the kitchen, and people said it was because Donald was having it off with Kjabben’s girlfriend and she walked in just as he was rimming her, but that wasn’t it. It was because she slept too little. She lost it. Put the noose round her neck one morning when she couldn’t take it any more.’
Rudi nods. ‘Tone-Tone, yeah. You remember her sister? What was she called again? Li … no, Lu … no—’
‘Lene-Lene.’
‘The very one. Whatever happened to her?’
‘Something in IT, I think.’
‘Like most of them. End up working with computers. You liked her, eh? Lene-Lene. Fuck, Jani. Maybe that’s what the matter. You should find yourself a woman. You know what Gran said, a man without a woman is half a person.’
Jan Inge nods. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got enough on my plate. Will we get a move on here?’
Rudi straightens up. ‘Aber klar, mein Führer!’ He performs a Nazi salute and laughs.
‘Tong will be here,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘that’ll be good. We’ll score some speed. We’ll move a piano. We’ll work a nightshift. Kein Problem, mein Sohn. But enough of the Bee Gees. This is a house of horror. A house of metal and country music. That Coldplay stuff isn’t even funny. It just makes for a bad atmosphere.’
‘No, no,’ Rudi says sullenly, turning off the CD. ‘Did you see Chessi this morning?’
Jan Inge turns around and starts walking towards the kitchen.
‘Mhm. Why?’
Rudi squints. ‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘She was in such a great mood.’
‘Yeah, she’s in good humour all right.’
Jan Inge disappears into the kitchen.
Rudi ejects the CD, puts it back in its case. No, he thinks. Becoming more and more obvious that this house is beginning to get a bit cramped for all three of us. More and more obvious that Chessi and me need to find a place of our own.
‘Did she not have a massive pair of jugs?’ Rudi calls out in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Who?’
‘Lene-Lene!’
‘No, that was Tone-Tone.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I notice that kind of thing.’
‘Yeah, you like that.’
‘Huh?’
‘Big jugs!’
‘Wouldn’t say I dislike them.’
‘Frank and forthright.’
‘Wha?’
‘Frank and forthright, I said!’
‘That?’
‘Wha?’
‘Wank what?’
‘Frank and forthright, I said! That you like big jugs! I think they can be a bit much. Speaking of which, do you think Cecilie’s tits have grown bigger lately?’
‘What?’
‘Your sister! Her tits! Gotten bigger!’
‘No, no!’
‘Fuck. Probably just in my own sick head.’
Jan Inge walks back in. ‘Enough about tits now,’ he says, looking serious. ‘We’ve also got this thing with Tommy to take care of.’
‘Shit,’ Rudi exclaims, slapping his palm to his forehead. ‘Shitshitshit.’
‘You’d forgotten about that, I take it.’
‘Shitshitshit.’
‘We’re just going to have to deal with it. Simply go about our day as though he could show up here at any given moment. And the sooner he does the better.’
‘Okay, what about Cecilie – have you told her he’s coming?’
‘No, I have not, the fewer people that know about it the better,’ Jan Inge says, heading back towards the kitchen.
Rudi takes a breath and lets it out; he feels the urge to spit and spin right round. Difficult to deal with when the atmosphere in a room changes. When the boat rocks. That’s the reason he’s never believed in all that stuff about revolution – it makes people so insecure.
‘You should at least listen to the lyrics,’ Rudi says in a lower tone, to himself really. ‘Seeing as how you plan to become a writer and all that,’ he adds, as he stows the Coldplay CD on the shelf behind some old magazines. ‘It’s about a king who’s no longer a king.’
75. I SPIT-ROAST MY OWN SQUIRRELS HERE (Tiril)
‘Seriously, Mally, this is insane, Kenny has beaten up Shaun!’
Malene hurries after Tiril as they rush along Ernst Askildsens Gate, up towards the green area overlooking the neighbourhood o
f Tjensvolltorget.
She can’t take much more of this. Malene wants to return to the world where she goes to school, does her homework, eats her dinner and then heads to gymnastics practice and hears Sigrid’s voice resound through the hall: ‘Malene, now! The double!’ Train until it’s late, sail through the air and enjoy the sensation of it. Focus her mind and body, shut everything else out and feel herself growing stronger. She doesn’t want to be in the midst of this muddle of unpredictable interpersonal relations that’s been stirred up over the last couple of days, with Dad acting so strangely and Tiril going off her head. Malene herself feels as though she’s being opened and closed every other minute, to the point where she hardly recognises herself.
‘And Sandra – holy shit – here, check out this text.’
Tiril comes to an abrupt halt and hands her the mobile: 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.
‘What’ll we do?’ Tiril continues. ‘Eh?’
Malene lifts her hands in a gesture of resignation: ‘I’ve no idea…’
‘And what about Dad, breakfast banquet for no good reason? He really needs to get a girlfriend. Or a new car. Something.’
Tiril stops when she sees a football lying on the tarmac. She looks at it as though it’s a person who’s done her wrong, knitting her brow before giving it a boot with her right foot.
‘Where’s Shaun?’ asks Malene, watching the ball go in the direction of the tennis courts. ‘What did he write?’
‘That was all,’ says Tiril, while they watch the ball disappear out of sight. ‘He didn’t write any more. Kenny beat the shit out of me.’
‘Where is he?’
The sisters walk up the hill towards the green belt of land around the pumping station, known locally as Vanassen. There’s a park of sorts up there. It’s laid out as if the local authority had intended it to afford outstanding views over the area: lying high up, on a grand scale, with the water of Hafrsfjord in the west and the peaks of Ryfylkeheiene to the east. But it’s almost as though the people in the council lost interest midway, they couldn’t stay the course and what remains seems half-hearted and hopeless. A miserable gravel path, a dry-stone wall, four garish benches with two matching tables and the land around always overgrown, any surfaces invariably graffitied. It’s windswept up there, even when there’s not the slightest hint of a breeze anywhere else.