by Tore Renberg
It looks real.
‘What?’
He looks at her, shakes his head a little.
It looks genuine as well.
‘Sorry, I’m such a numbskull—’
‘What?’
‘The candles. I—’
She rolls her eyes.
It’s working.
‘Pål, Pål, Pål.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Candles in September?’
‘Mhm,’ he nods and points. ‘I won’t be long. You go on ahead, that’ll be even cooler, you coming on your own. Five minutes, tops, that’s all it’ll take me.’
Then he runs.
‘Candles in September,’ Pål mumbles while he looks at the tarmac blur under his feet and has a horrible feeling of having deserved all of this, the hate Tiril is going to dish out when she realises what he’s done, the disappointment Malene is going to dish out when she realises what he’s done, the disgust Christine is going to dish out when she realises what he’s done, and the violence Rudi is going to dish out to him very soon.
Pål makes it to his own street. As he nears the house, he hears Zitha barking and he remembers how that was the first thing that entered his head the day Christine told him she’d had enough: I’m going to get a dog. You’ve refused me that all these years and that’s what I’m going to get and it’ll be such joy. Four weeks later a little puppy was running around on the carpet, gnawing at chair legs, chewing on slippers, paring its teeth down until they were sharp as scissors, snipping holes in the carpets, peeing on the parquet flooring, wagging its tail every day the girls came home from school, jumping up in their laps, licking their faces and looking up at Pål with almost unbearable trust as it lay in its basket whimpering for fifteen seconds before falling asleep. And it turned out to be true, what that idiot Bjørn Ingvar Totland said during the Christmas party at work a couple of years ago, when he knocked back a beer, looked over at Pål and said that a dog is man’s best friend and a woman man’s worst enemy.
‘Yeaah yeaah, Zitha, Daddy’s coming, yeeah.’ Pål looks at his mobile.
18:45.
93. NANCY ROSE BOTNEVASS (Rudi)
Rudi has a secret. He has it tucked away in a place of such impenetrable darkness that it’s almost hidden from him. He’s dug a hole in his soul and consigned it to the depths. Then he covered it with earth, with stones and cemented it over. He’s promised himself never to go down there again. But the mind cannot be compelled to be silent. The foulness seeps from cracks and fissures no matter how much Rudi tells it to remain below. The foul matter comes before him, presents itself. Oh no. What is it the Gospel of Luke says about repentance? ‘If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him.’ Wise words, Luke, but to whom can Rudi speak of the unspeakable? How can forgiveness come about when what we’re speaking of is the unspeakable? Who can Rudi apologise to? And if he was to be granted forgiveness, how can he undo the thing he has done?
It isn’t possible.
That’s the truth, Luke.
What you have done can never be undone.
Some nights are like that: Rudi cries. He lies beside Cecilie, weeping as silently as he can while listening to her breathing in the darkness. He clenches his powerful fists and whispers: ‘I’m sorry, my love. You must never find out, that your Rudi did the unmentionable. That your Rudi went with another woman into the deepest woods. That your Rudi went down on her, and she went down on your Rudi, that once, for a few weeks, almost fifteen years ago I was not myself. I did everything a man is capable of doing with a woman, and that woman was not you, but the daughter of the Devil, Kvinesdal’s very own poisonous flower, Nancy Rose Botnevass.’
Then Rudi sniffles. As quietly as he can. ‘What is it the Lord says,’ he whispers. ‘Keep thee from strange women’. He strokes Cecilie across her tattoed back, running his fingertips along the eagle’s wings of the Aerosmith logo, feeling the tiny goosebumps on her skin and listening to her heavy breathing. ‘And you must never,’ he whispers even lower, ‘you must never get to hear of this, Cecilie. Or to put it another way, you must never catch sight of my cock – your cock – on a TV screen. Thank God nobody in this house can stand porn.’
He gradually slips into her rhythm and falls asleep. And every morning he awakes. The sun rises in the sky and he’s aware of his own breathing, aware of Cecilie being grumpy and close by; he’s happy he gets to live yet another brilliant day on earth, and in high spirits he breaks bread with pleasure and plunges into the day.
He wept last night, but now he’s ready. The beanpole stands in the basement. He’s dressed in black. He’s confused. He hardly dares think his own thoughts. Outside the sun is sinking, the evening is on its way. Jan Inge and Cecilie are back after parking the moving van in Sandal. Rudi has two fully packed bags in his hands. Baseball bats, hand weights, knuckle dusters, balaclavas and tools. A roll of blue plastic shoe covers, a roll of tape. Scissors. Everything they need to go to work. But he just does not understand what is going on. The way Cecilie has suddenly been behaving. Snogging him as though he were Steven Tyler. It scares the pants off him. And the way her eyes were sparkling and one thing and the fucking other, and acting all sexy like she never has before. And then complete silence. Total shut off. And Tong? He should have stayed behind lock and key. And Tommy Pogo? Turning up all over the place?
Fucking Thursday.
Right, time to get to it. A man needs beating up.
‘Are you lot almost ready?’ he calls out in the direction of the stairs while he scans the room. At some stage this screwed-up family probably harboured ideas about what this room would be used for, a pool table for the kids, carom, board hockey, maybe a cosy den, a little bar, who knows, some kittens in a basket. Now it smells strongly of mould and it’s minging everywhere. Rudi relaxes his facial muscles and shakes his head before setting his foot on the bottom step and ascending the staircase.
Tong is in the hallway, dressed in black, his body taut. Everything has gone to hell since he came home. You’d think it was Tong’s fault that troublesome air abounded. Rudi can’t be bothered saying anything to the little Korean. He just nods and avoids looking at Tong, who bends down and begins to tie his shoelaces without responding.
Jan Inge waddles out, dressed in black and looking fat – he needs to consider cutting back on guzzling now, bit much flab bursting out. Jani doesn’t say anything either.
Eventually Cecilie joins them, dressed in black and looking anxious. She slips her little feet into her shoes.
Rudi knits his brows when he sees Jan Inge open the closet door beneath the stairs and take out the pump-action shotgun. Cecilie stops tying her shoelaces. Tong raises one black eyebrow ever so slightly.
‘What’s the story?’ Rudi asks, as he watches Jan Inge put a box of shotgun shells into the bag.
Jan Inge gives a faint shrug.
‘Is there a meeting on in the Arms and Armour Society? What’s with the shooter? Are we not anti-violence?
‘Yes, we are.’
‘So? We’re not planning on putting someone in a coffin, or have we started with that now?’
Jan Inge shakes his head slightly. ‘Rudi, Rudi. Take it easy. We’re just raising the level of security a notch. You know. Pogo. Tampon.’
‘You’re going to shoot a cop?!’
‘Rudi. Look at me. I’m not going to shoot anyone. It’s just for … security.’
Cecilie finishes tying her laces, Tong listens with his mouth shut and Rudi yields to the leader.
‘So we’re ready?’
Jan Inge’s eyes sweep each of them in turn.
‘Yeah,’ says Cecilie.
‘Can’t wait,’ says Tong in a sarcastic tone.
‘Headgear, hairbands and hairnets, footwear and shoe covers, handgear, gloves, tape?’
Cecilie nods.
‘Knuckle dusters, baseball bat, table leg, hand weights, speed?’
Rudi gives the bags in his hands an affirmative shake.
‘Good,’ says Jan Inge, ‘then we just need to get on with it.’
This is depressing. The lousy atmosphere is so thick it fills the room like exhaust fumes. No more snogging now. Not even Rudi, who prides himself on his ability to raise a smile, could turn this room around. Strike a warm blow for love.
Because everything, Rudi feels, is a matter of love.
Nancy Rose Botnevass didn’t have hips like shelves, or nubbly skin, or eyes set far apart that made her look like a burrowing animal, or crooked lips and tiny little mollusc eyes. She smelt of randy soil and salt ore, had lips like a bitch, drove a tractor and went elk-hunting like a man. She was a poisonous flower with a gap between her two front teeth, a she-devil with enormous thigh muscles, so greedy she ate your house clean and it was impossible to keep your hands from her skin, because it was nature at work. Everyone who’d been near her knew that she was born with an electric fervour and if she wanted something, she got it. In the valley, people said that nobody had ever seen a smile cross Nancy’s face, they said she never slept at night, but went up on the heath, sniffed at the moss, talked to grouse and killed adders with just a look, and there were rumours that it wasn’t Solomon the priest who was her father, but a lynx from up on Krokevasshei, and that Rose Marie wasn’t her mother but an eagle from Mjauntjønn.
You smell like a bull, Rudi, she had whispered.
‘Okay,’ Jan Inge says, opening the door on the last light of the September day and on the van outside, ‘let’s drive up to Pål Fagerland’s and give him a good working over.’
The loudest screams you hear can be your own.
94. THAT’S NOT GOING TO BRING YOU AROUND (Tiril)
Tiril enters the backstage area with her jaw muscles tensed and her eyes narrowed. The room is packed with people, the air buzzing with different languages and diverse English pronunciation. The make-up group fit masks on the Finnish girls who are going to perform a dramatic piece, the wardrobe group have put out the clothes people will wear, numbered the hangers and hung up an information sheet at the entrance. People tiptoe nervously around, Svein Arne wanders this way and that, curly hair dancing and forehead sweaty, some people are biting their nails, and everyone has a serious look in their eyes because they all know there’s a girl in hospital and they all agree with Frida and the headmaster: we’ll perform for freedom, democracy, solidarity and for Sandra.
Tiril doesn’t want any help. Not with make-up. Not with clothes. She doesn’t want smiles from people and she doesn’t want to smile back. She has no idea who a third of them are and she doesn’t have time to get to know them. This is make-believe, but my day is authentic. I am Amy Lee. I’ve grown up by the Arkansas River and this is much too real. I’m going to fill the hall with pain, let it bleed out of my mouth and eyes so those poetry-reciting, guitar-playing, dancing kids know they’ve been totally parked.
‘It’s not really on, arriving so late, Tiril,’ Svein Arne says. ‘You do know that?’
She looks at him, feeling her gaze send a spear between his eyes, penetrating the flesh.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘I know everything.’
Thea hurries past: ‘Have you seen my shoes?’
Tiril gets changed. Because now she’s going to be someone other than herself. The black tights. They have a nice sheen to them when they’re stretched tight across her skin. The black shoes with the high heels. The black skirt. The black top. The black shawl. The bold, red lipstick. The purple eye shadow. Her fringe, which she takes right above her eyebrows. The shawl she’ll let drape down over her face.
Tiril studies herself in the mirror while people scurry all around her. The foreign kids Thea is so friendly with. Ulrik Pogo. Svein Arne, who’s more nervous than anyone; does he not realise how hideous those curls look, doesn’t he have a wife and don’t they have a pair of scissors in their house?
Sometimes it’s such a pain being a part of something.
Just twenty-fours ago this was all she wanted.
Now it’s the exact opposite.
They’re the fourth act on. First out is a girl from Nicaragua, who’s going to deliver a speech on peace. Then Ulrik, who’ll play ‘Stairway to Heaven’. People will no doubt sit with their heads cocked to the side, thinking he’s so cute that it’ll seem like the whole hall is dipped in honey. Everyone remembers what Frida Riska said the day he began at school, and some said she was actually talking about herself: You are so pretty, Ulrik Pogo, that a lot of people are going to have trouble being in the same room as you, so your challenge, young man, will be not to allow the dazzling looks you’ve been blessed with to govern your entire life.
After Ulrik, the two Finnish girls from Jyväskyla are performing a drama about fair trade.
Then they’re up. Tiril would have liked to be last, she said as much to Svein Arne, but it wasn’t up to her to decide. You two will be number four, Svein Arne had said. Yeah, who’s going to help us take the lights right down, then? The volunteer helpers will take care of it.
Tiril applies the eye shadow.
Mum, that witch, has said a lot of stupid things, but there’s one thing she said that Tiril will never forget: if you want something done, Tiril, then do it yourself.
Light the pillar candles. Look at the frightened faces in the audience. Walk up to the microphone.
I’m so tired of being here.
I’ll bring you round, Sandra. Watch out, Daniel, I’m not finished with you.
Tiril takes a step back from the mirror. She narrows her eyes, feeling she can shoot sparks from them. Then the corners of her mouth begin to quiver. At first she doesn’t understand what it is, and she brings her hand to her mouth as though something strange is emanating from her body, and presses two flat fingertips to the side of her mouth, but then in the mirror she sees that her eyes are shiny and she feels it in her throat, how something’s growing and she realises she’s crying.
She closes her eyes and orders herself to count to twenty.
Opens her eyes again.
There we go. Her mouth is taut. Her eyes are normal.
The headmaster and Frida Riska enter the backstage area. Frida claps her hands twice to quieten people down. She nods to Svein Arne.
‘Only two minutes to go, folks.’ Svein Arne talks in a low voice and gathers the teenagers around him. He calls each and every one of them by their name and says, in his impressively poor English, how proud he is of this production, how hard they’ve worked, and how positive it is that so many talented, hard-working people from Stavanger’s twin towns have come to make this very special cultural evening about solidarity, democracy and freedom: ‘Okay, all ready?’
The kids whistle and clap, Tiril remains rigid, and then Svein Arne’s face takes on an idiotic expression that makes him look like a mother admiring her little girls as they stand in front of her, dressed up for a Christmas dinner. He straightens the red-and-white shirt he’s put on for the occasion, turns to the teenagers one last time, lifting his eyebrows twice in rapid succession, before slipping out between the gap in the stage curtain.
Cheering and clapping greets his entrance. ‘Yeah! Gosen! Hello everybody! Wow!’
‘You ready?’ Thea shifts nervously from foot to foot beside her.
‘Of course I’m ready,’ says Tiril, while they hear Svein Arne give a speech to the audience about the value of unity and the exchange of experience across national boundaries.
Tiril looks at her. ‘Stage fright?’
‘No, just…’ Thea shifts her weight on her small feet again. ‘Hasn’t been the most ordinary of days.’
‘So?’ Tiril entwines her fingers, twists her hand around at arm’s length and cracks her knuckles.
‘Okay,’ Svein Arne says from the other side of the curtain, ‘I’m going to hand you over to the headmaster who wants to say a few short words.’
Frida nods to the headmaster and he walks out on to the stage. ‘I don’t want to keep you,’ he says, ‘but I have some information to share. Earlier today the
re was an accident at the school. One of our pupils, Sandra Vikadal, lost consciousness and was taken to hospital in an ambulance.’
There’s silence in the hall, as well as backstage.
‘We’ve decided to go ahead with this evening of culture…’ says the headmaster, pausing slightly. Frida Riska nods. ‘…Because we don’t wish to allow despair to defeat us.’
The audience claps. Tiril can hear from the sound of it that they clap the way people do when they feel they have won. But what is it they have won?
‘We haven’t heard anything new from the hospital,’ says the headmaster. ‘I spoke to them not too long ago. Her condition is critical, but stable.’
Silence spreads through the hall again.
‘We can do this,’ says the headmaster, placing emphasis on each word. ‘Now, would you please welcome back, our very devoted teacher, the man who’s put this wonderful evening together, Svein Arne Bendiksen!’
Tiril’s throat is itchy. We can do this. We? The clapping grows louder and the stage curtain is drawn aside, the headmaster and Svein Arne swap places and Frida Riska hastens to her seat. Svein Arne introduces ‘a brave girl from Nicaragua’, and the show is underway.
Tiril takes a small step forward. She puts her head slightly to the right and glances out into the dimly lit hall. There’s not one chair free. There are people standing along the walls. She directs her gaze along the rows of faces trying to catch sight of Malene, Dad and Shaun, but she can’t spot them. She sees other parents, Ulrik’s mum and dad, Tommy Pogo and his wife, along with Kia in the wheelchair, Thea’s folks, her dad with that irresistible smile of his, and there, in the first row sit the teachers, Frida Riska, Mai and the others.
Tiril sees Sandra’s face. It enters her mind with such clarity, such intensity, that she almost feels the girl is in the room. She shakes her head, shoves the image aside and concentrates. She holds the matchbox tightly.
The curtain is pulled aside again; Tiril hears the foreign tones of the girl from Nicaragua fill the room and thinks how it sounds like talking soil. Svein Arne catches her eye and lifts his eyebrows enthusiastically, twice, as if to say eh, exciting, eh.