Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Tiril lets her gaze wander and then stop abruptly.

It can’t be.

While the black curtain is still drawn, while Ulrik is given a stool and the lighting is being adjusted, she has time to confirm it: Mum.

It’s Mum sitting there. Between Shaun and Malene. It’s not Dad.

The curtain comes together, Ulrik picks the first notes of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ and Tiril clenches her fists.

Fucking Led Zeppelin.

She grinds her teeth. You leave us behind without giving a shit, you stay away year after year, and now you show up? And think everything’s okay?

‘What is it?’ Thea whispers. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No,’ Tiril replies brusquely. ‘What would be wrong? Are you ready?’

Thea nods. ‘Nervous. But, like, yeah. I’m ready.’

‘Good,’ Tiril says. She turns to Thea. ‘And when you catch sight of my mother out there in the hall, don’t flip out. I have no idea what she’s doing here. But forget it. She can do whatever she wants as far as I care. We’re going to be amazing, okay?’

‘Your mother?’

‘Forget it, all right? Are you ready?’

‘Stairway to Heaven’ finishes, to rapturous applause, whistling and whoops, wow, the length of that boy’s nails, he can sing, takes after his mother there, poor thing, must be tough for Kia having a brother like that, I mean, he’s almost unnervingly good-looking that boy, but you know what, I think there’s nearly something scary about him. No matter what Ulrik Pogo does he bowls people over.

‘Eh?’ Svein Arne calls out above the tremendous response of the crowd in the hall. ‘If that didn’t blow you away, then I don’t know what will, Gosen! Okay, now we’re moving on to something different, to the world of theatre, to a little piece about taking care of our planet, where we’ll witness the talents of two fantastic Finnish girls!’

Fresh applause.

‘I’ll be back in two minutes,’ she says, turns on her heels and leaves. Thea gawks at her as though Tiril has told her she’s off to murder someone, but that can’t be helped right now. She’s nauseous, her throat itches and something’s just not right. She walks quickly towards the door. Her throat feels blocked and her head is swirling and she needs a smoke. The sharp evening air snatches at her skin as she emerges outside.

She goes around the back of the gym hall and lights up a cigarette with unsteady hands.

I need to calm down.

That’s what Mum always said.

Don’t lose your head.

That’s rich, coming from her.

People have always said that Tiril is like her mother.

She inhales the smoke, feels it tear at her throat.

No frigging way I’m like Mum.

Sing now? And where’s Dad? Solidarity? Freedom? Democracy? Song? That’s not going to bring you round, Sandra.

Tiril takes one last drag and flicks the cigarette away. She walks around the building and up to the front entrance, where she can see into the hall. She leans towards the glass and makes out her mother’s profile. The slanted, yellow streak of a moped headlamp lights up her back.

Jan Inge sits behind the wheel, dressed in black from head to toe. Hansi’s Transporter, a grey 1998 model, will soon have 300,000 on the dial; it splutters a bit in low gear, and one of the back windows leaks, but it’s not a bad van for an old banger. Tong is in the passenger seat, also all in black, and Rudi and Cecilie sit in the back.

Tong is so pissed off that he can barely keep a lid on it, but he’s told himself that this is something he just needs to get through. Make a bit of cash, because he sorely needs to, and then turn his back and walk the fuck away from this gang. There are better people to work with out there. And if that doesn’t pan out, he can go solo, like Melvin Gausel. Melvin was head of the Kvernevik Gang, did a great job, but suddenly one day chubby chops and his shrill laughter were gone, some people said he’d been snapped up by the crowd around Toska in Oslo, some said he’d been sighted in Gothenburg, others maintained he’d been killed by Mini from Haugesund in a drunken quarrel, but then some genius began to put two and two together after a series of outstanding robberies were carried out in the region, several in the space of a month, all impeccably executed and unsolved: Melvin had gone it alone. Impressive. Lives up in Randaberg now, has an Asian wife, and works for himself. Tong could do that. Do it even better than Fat Melvin. Is there anyone in the district who knows more about security and breaking into places than Tong?

No.

Cecilie deserves a kick in her slut stomach. If it wouldn’t cause such trouble, he’d have beat her until she was lying on the tarmac and then stamped on her until she was dead. Sitting back there holding hands with Rudi. And he doesn’t have a clue, the idiot, but that’s not surprising; trust her? Trust women?

Tong leans his elbow on the door and looks out the side window as Jan Inge changes gear to ascend Ullandhaugbakken.

Those letters. Not easy to get your head around. Shouldn’t Sverre and Ragnhild have let him know about it? He left home — his Norwegian parents’ home — a long time ago. Tong was in and out of Child Welfare institutions from the age of thirteen, and those poor parents in Bømlo couldn’t keep up. Wasn’t their fault. Sverre and Ragnhild did what they could, but sometimes what you can do isn’t good enough.

They told him his Korean parents were dead, but they failed to tell Tong he had a sister out there somewhere. They could have mentioned it. They could have told him she lived less than fifty miles away in Egersund. They could have told him that she had two kids and played in the Stavanger Symphony Orchestra. Must be talented. Sharp-witted. Precise. Tong is too. Must be in their genes. A violinist in a symphony orchestra. Intense, able to concentrate, with an ability to focus. What was it she wrote? ‘We have opened the new concert hall now, it’s absolutely beautiful, we’re going to perform Electra . Are you familiar with that opera?’

Tong went to the prison library and asked if they had anything called Electra . Greek tragedy, said the librarian, Iselin Vasshus, and gave Tong a strange look. He really wouldn’t mind fucking her, he thought, and nodded. Whatever, he said. Sophocles, Iselin said, gathering her nut-brown hair into a bun in her hand. All right, said Tong, so do you have it? No, said Iselin, and gave a lopsided smile, mostly crime here. Well, can you get it, Tong asked, and pictured himself taking hold of Iselin by the hair, pushing her face down on to the desk and taking her from behind. Yes, I can order it, she said. What’s it about? Tong asked. It’s about revenge, Iselin answered — nearly all the Greek tragedies are about that.

‘Revenge?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Revenge for what?’

‘Electra and her brother, I can’t remember his name, take revenge on their mother, Clytemnestra.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she killed Agamemnon. The father.’

‘So how do they take revenge?’

‘The brother — Orestes, that was his name — murders her, I think.’

Tong clenched his teeth and nodded.

‘With a knife?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But why did the mother kill her husband?’

‘He sacrificed their daughter.’

‘Sacrificed?’

‘Yes, before the war. Iphigenia. On the orders of the gods.’

‘Hm.’

‘That’s how it is in the Greek tragedies.’

‘Hm. Sound good — the Greek tragedies.’

‘Yes, they are. They’re our heritage in many ways. But — why are you so interested in this?’

‘What do you mean by our heritage?’ Tong asked, leaving her question unanswered.