Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘No,’ he says, ‘I don’t know about that kind of thing. Who’s she? Has someone got concussion?’

Malene nods. ‘A girl at school. She collapsed.’

‘I see,’ he says. ‘Well, I hope she’s all right anyway. Get some food in you, okay?’ He leaves the room.

He can’t face being with them right now.

A quarter of an hour later, all three of them thank him for the food and get ready to leave. There’re no feelings in the air other than those of pretence, thinks Pål. Everybody in this room is holding something back.

‘See you soon, then,’ he says, smiling. ‘Really looking forward to it, Tiril.’

‘See you later,’ she says.

‘Gonna be a real blast! Love you both!’

Malene turns as though he has said something strange. Pål lifts his hand up and waves vigorously with his entire arm, as if trying to catch their attention in a school parade: ‘Love you!’ he shouts again.

The door opens, warm air floods towards him and they disappear.

A little while later, the mobile in his pocket vibrates. Pål takes it out, reads: ‘Can I come?’

He sends a reply: ‘Yes. All clear now.’

Pål crouches down in front of Zitha and scratches her under the chin. He’s not quite sure how he’s going to get through the next hour. He has no idea how this whole thing is going to end. But he can’t picture anything other than it turning out badly.

Zitha rolls on to her back, asking to be rubbed on her stomach.

‘So, Jan Inge Haraldsen, this must be a big day for you?’

‘Heh heh, well I suppose you’d have to say it is.’

‘Indeed, what went through your mind when you heard you’d won the prize in the category of non-fiction?’

‘Well, I felt like a little God, to draw a comparison.’

‘ It’s Too Late, a study in Horror Films has sold thousands of copies and been translated into a host of different languages. What would you say was your main motivation in writing it?’

‘Motivation? Well … an exceptional number of research hours have been put into this…’

‘Yes, the material is overwhelming. Is there, in fact, any horror film you haven’t seen?’

‘I doubt it. But what you’re asking me about motivation … you have to picture an ordinary boy. Slightly overweight perhaps, mildly asthmatic, without a mother and practically fatherless. He’s captivated at a young age by the horrible world of horror.’

‘I see. And this boy, it’s you?’

‘That’s right. But then, after a few years sitting in front of the screen, I began to gain some valuable insights, and I hit upon what today forms my main thesis…’

‘You refer to it as a thesis?’

‘Indeed, a thesis. Let me paint you a picture, since you’ve come all the way from Frankfurter Allgemeine to interview me. Many years ago. An ordinary day in my ordinary life. A dark living room. An armchair. Me. And a glowing TV screen. I was re-watching one of my favourite films. It was Dario Argento’s masterpiece, Suspiria . Horror, which I love so much, filled the room, and it filled me. And then all of a sudden I began to weep.’

‘To weep? You’re telling me you began to cry?’

‘I’m telling you I began to cry.’

‘Why?’

‘Safe to say I wondered about that myself. Tears were streaming down my face and I was incapable of stopping them.’

‘My word.’

‘Yes. I was on my own that day. My sister, whom I live with, was out at work with my best friend, Rune Digervold, whom I also live with. The tears just flooded down my face. Eventually I had to stand up and pace around the room. And that was when I began to ask myself what it was that these tears contained. Do you understand?’

‘Yes … or rather, no. Did you find an answer?’

‘Yes. It was the feeling that it can all suddenly be too late. That was what the tears were telling me. That was what I had understood after so many years in the world of horror, that it’s not a horrible world, but a world of goodness, a world that struggles to lead us into kindness before it’s too late, and that this is what every real horror film is about.’

‘A remarkable thesis, Jan Inge Haraldsen, which you explore at length in your book, through in-depth analyses of a number of films, Evil Dead, Suspiria which you’ve already mentioned, A Nightmare on Elm Street… ’

‘They’re all there. As well as less well-known movies like Rosemary’s Killer, also titled The Prowler. Joseph Zito, 1981. The Golden Age of The Nasty. An important time for the slasher film in particular and the horror genre in general. What about the scene in the shower, when the girl is stabbed in the stomach with the pitchfork, just below her breasts — have you read my thoughts on that? I don’t go on about how well made it is and the type of things horror fans often do. I focus on what it’s about, in a philosophical sense. I take a large part of the horror fan base to task, the ones who sit grinning at body counts, the ones who view horror as a form of ironic humour and the people who believe it’s all about the amount of gore, which in my view, it isn’t.

‘Exciting.’

‘Exciting. That’s the word.’

‘But moving on, this is after all not just an interview with you about your book but also a profile: Who is Jan Inge Haraldsen?’

‘Oh, he’s just an ordinary, slightly overweight boy. A butterball. The Coca-Cola Kid from Hillevåg. Heh heh.’

‘What else have you done, where are you from, indeed, who are you, Mr Haraldsen?’

‘Oh, a bit of everything, this and that, heh heh.’

‘Come now, give us some impression of who you are.’

‘Let me see, an impression…’

‘Yes, an impression…’

‘Well, I can tell you this: I’ve run my own company since I was quite young. I’ve had a good number of employees along the way. My sister, as well as my best friend Rudi have always worked with me.’

‘And what does it do, this company?’

‘What does it do?’

‘Yes, what sector is it involved in?’

‘Eh, sector … we’re in removals.’

‘So the rumours which have reached us at Frankfurter Allgemeine , that you are all actually petty criminals and that Mariero Moving is just a front for your activities, these aren’t true? That for years now, ever since you were a small boy and lost your mother, and then your father abandoned you and your sister in a most inhumane manner, leaving for America to pursue his own selfish interests and start up a business, Southern Oil — that ever since you were young you’ve been involved in criminal activity, been behind many break-ins, many scams, quite brutal instances of debt collection, yes, that for a time early in your career you even pimped your sister, whom you rented out within the confines of your own home; is that also incorrect? Jan Inge? Mr Haraldsen?’

Jan Inge looks up from his plate, where potatoes, broccoli, carrots and meatballs swim in gravy, and a dollop of lingonberry jam wreathes the rim. The sun is low, casting a wavering light into the room, shining skittishly upon the old Coca-Cola poster hanging beside the fridge, in which a sailor with white teeth holds up a bottle, and shimmering tentatively on the salt and pepper pots standing on the table, one in the shape of a reindeer, the other a seal; both from Dad’s childhood home.

Motörhead blasts from the living room, ‘Stone Dead Forever.’

Nobody has opened their mouth for a long time.

SOMETIMES THINGS ARE SO DELICATE.

You would think the future would be looking brighter now.