Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Pål clears his throat.

‘Okay, Pål?’

He nods.

‘Good. Then there’re just a few things we need to go through with you, okay, Pål?’

Pål raises his eyebrows.

‘Okay, Pål?’

This truly is Cecilie at her absolute best. It’s just a shame that this social, feminine and tremendously perceptive side only comes to the fore when we’re at work. Imagine if it was more evident on the home front, if she was like this when the house needed cleaning or when she got up for breakfast. But, it’s important to look ahead. Jan Inge harbours hope that she’ll be filled from top to toe like this after she gives birth. He has faith that this child, who may be Rudi’s, or Tong’s, but for God’s sake must remain unspoken of for the next while, that this child will fill her with maternal joy.

Pål sniffles and clears his throat again. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘Great,’ Cecilie says, reminiscent in no small measure of a nurse who has done something unpleasant to a patient, but who still has the ability to coax a smile, ‘great.’ She turns to Jan Inge, giving him a barely perceptible nod. ‘Jan Inge? Will you present Pål with a quick run-through of what’s going to take place?’

Jan Inge takes a step forward. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Rudi has wandered over to a workbench at the end of the garage where he is standing messing about with something. A bird table?

‘Rudi!’

‘Heh heh. Oops! Ich komme, mein General !’ Rudi puts the bird table aside. ‘Yess, the Rudi reporting for duty. What’s going on?’

Jan Inge ignores him, he knows this is how Rudi reacts to speed, straight into his bloodstream at the start, but stabilises pretty quickly.

‘Yes,’ Jan Inge says, hiking up his black work pants, taking hold of the belt and trying to almost hook the trousers over his ample hips, ‘shall we go inside?’

‘Sorry,’ Pål says, showing the way, ‘it’s through here.’

‘A door from the garage right into the house,’ Jan Inge remarks, clicking his fingers. ‘I like that. Pål. I like it a lot.’

They enter a hall. A series of family photos in IKEA frames hang along the walls. Two girls aged about ten with a large cod in their laps, a girl with a ponytail wearing a purple leotard with silver stars on it, holding a trophy in her hands, a girl sitting in a little car in what must be Legoland. The four of them are dressed in black and focused, they carry their black bags, all having taped the gaps between footwear and trousers, between sleeves and gloves, all wearing blue shoe bags, all with hairnets and hats. Pål leads them into a spacious kitchen. An ordinary kitchen table. Five chairs. A plastic tablecloth. A coffee maker, toaster and radio. Curtains drawn, very good. Pål pulls out the chairs and the four of them sit down at the table.

‘Great, Pål,’ Jan Inge says, with a satisfied smile and a real warmth in his cheeks, ‘we’re off to a good start.’ He glances at the clock on the wall. ‘Okay. We need to be relatively efficient here. As I’m sure you understand.’

Pål presses his lips together and rests his elbows on the table. A padding, shuffling sound comes from the stairs to the basement and a moment later a dog’s head appears in the doorway.

‘Pål!’ Jan Inge lifts his hands up in exasperation. ‘Did we not talk about—’

Pål hurries over to Zitha and grabs her by the scruff. ‘I must not have — sorry, I’ll make sure to—’

‘You’d better,’ Jan Inge says sternly, watching Pål pull Zitha down the stairs while admonishing her. He returns a moment later.

‘There. Now she’s well secured to—’

‘We won’t talk about it any more, Pål,’ Jan Inge says calmly. ‘Now. Before we start, would you put some coffee on, just so it looks like we’ve barged in while you were going about your daily routine? You could also put out a loaf of bread on the worktop, you might want to take it from the wrapper and cut a slice, and place some salami beside it and leave the fridge door ajar, then it won’t look too far off.’

Pål jumps up as though having received strict orders, nodding with reassuring appreciation, does exactly as he’s asked and does it quickly: takes out the filters, measures out the amount of coffee, fills the water, turns on the coffee machine, takes the bread from the bread bin beneath the window and opens the door of the fridge.

‘Very good, Pål,’ Cecilie says.

‘Cheese, is that all right?’

‘Can’t go wrong with cheese, Pål. I like your willingness to cooperate,’ Jan Inge says. ‘If everyone was like you, things would be a lot more tidy in our line of business. In any case,’ he continues, feeling an almost Mediterranean warmth spread through his stomach, ‘our purpose is to leave you in a sufficiently altered—’

‘Altered!’ Rudi bangs his fist on the table. ‘I love that fucking word so much I want to screw it!’

‘Rudi! That’s enough!’ Jan Inge clicks his fingers loudly at Rudi. ‘I beg your pardon, Pål. The purpose, as I was saying, is to leave you altered to the extent that there’s no doubt as to what has taken place. It’s in your interest and our interest. You need the money. We don’t need the attention. And the dog stays in the basement.’ Jan Inge sees Pål nod energetically. ‘That’s great. You maintain the first impression you make. Have you always done that?’

‘Eh?’

‘Have you always maintained the first impression you make?’

‘No, I don’t quite — what do you mea—’

‘Something I often think about. That a person presents themselves in some way or another. Appears to be a certain way. And then a winter passes and spring rolls by, and suddenly the birch trees are in bloom and you see that this person isn’t what they sold themselves as. While in other cases — yours? — you get what you pay for.’

‘Well, I, yeah—’

Jan Inge holds up the palm of his right hand to signal that they don’t have time to get any further into this, in itself, compelling topic.

‘The alteration. We have to cause you sufficient damage so that nobody can suspect it’s self-inflicted.’

Pål clears his throat once again, deeper this time. ‘Right. Sure. Okay.’ His gaze wanders over the surface of the table. ‘Are you going to have some coffee too? Or will I just leave it on?’

Jan Inge casts a quick glance in Cecilie’s direction, to let her know that she may perhaps need to step in again and behave in a soothing, maternal fashion as the subject is displaying nervous tendencies, but now she doesn’t appear to be paying attention.

‘You can let it sit there,’ he says. ‘We’re not exactly eager to leave any DNA traces. Crime scene investigators these days, they’re a skilled bunch. We do have to cause you some damage. But we’re no more fond of violence than you are. On the contrary, we’re anti-violence, almost pacifists in fact; you don’t need to be worried about permanent injuries. Come and sit down now, Pål. Don’t stand there getting all worked up. No good will come of it. Are you worried?’

Pål lets slip a despairing smile and shuffles back with his head hanging limply, which makes him resemble his dog, before he sits down at the kitchen table with the others.

‘It’s quite understandable,’ Jan Inge says, becoming aware of a mild irritation creeping into his gut over Cecilie no longer being at the ready with that nurselike warmth. ‘But listen.’ He places a soft hand on Pål’s wrist and gives a gentle squeeze. ‘You. Dogman. Father to two beautiful girls. The man who will soon be free.’

‘Hear, hear! Cry freedom!’

‘We know how to punch and kick a body,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘we know what can be broken and what can’t without it having serious consequences.’