Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Malene nods.

She hurries to the kitchen, runs her hand across the hob, goes through the living room and checks no candles are burning, tries the handle on the veranda door. Out in the hallway she reaches for her shoes. Slips her feet into them, grabs the green jacket from the peg and puts it on.

She goes out. Because there’s something wrong with that smile and she is the daughter of her father, Adidas Superstar.

Love endures all things: There’s a tingling on her tongue, as though tiny creatures were dancing across it.

The shop has to be inviting, that’s what the manager said when she got the job. When people come through the door in the morning they have to feel welcome. Of course, Mr Spar. They’ve been happy with her up to now, hard to find fault with Sandra. A good girl, no denying she always has been. Always did her homework, got good marks, kept her room tidy and folded her clothes neatly. Sandra has never been able to live any other way, she gets a guilty conscience from just thinking about not doing things in a neat, proper and orderly fashion. Oh yes, her mother usually says when they have family over, you know Sandra, she was already tidying up toys when she was just a little tot.

She’s done her part of the job. The floors are clean. She can go.

‘Sandra?’

She gives a start. Suddenly aware of Tiril behind her, standing by the bottle return belt. Her hair is lank, make-up heavy, fingernails black and her gaze harsh. Headphones on. Does she always have to look so angry, is it necessary? Does she have to look like everyone’s going to die at any moment?

‘Where’re you going?’ Tiril asks, chewing her gum slowly and pulling off the headphones.

Sandra’s can’t bring herself to meet those eyes. ‘My mum and dad are waiting,’ she says, stepping into her shoes. ‘You’ll lock up, won’t you?’

‘Yeah, did you think I was going to leave it open or something?’

Tiril responds as if someone has had a go at her. It’s weird to think that girl is going to sing in the gym hall on Thursday. She seems like she hates everything and everybody, what is it she’s trying to prove? Sandra feels her anger form an aching lump in her chest. She does everything she can to be kind to people, to be open and understanding, everything she can for people to like her. She’s used to people being polite. There’re a lot of things you could say about Mum and Dad, but she agrees with them that the least you can expect from people is that they’re friendly and polite, we only share a short time on this earth together so it’s important to meet one another with love and kindness, that’s the message of Jesus and the message of love.

Daniel, I’m coming now.

‘No, no, I just meant … anyway, look, I’ve got to run.’

‘Okay, so run then.’

Sandra feels a nauseous surge in her stomach. ‘Do you know what?’ she says firmly, her own boldness making her nervous. ‘Do you know what? You can choose, are you aware of that?’

Tiril blinks for a fraction of a second but maintains her composure. ‘Choose fucking what?’

‘The light or the dark,’ Sandra says quickly, startled by herself. She turns and hurries towards the exit.

‘How sweet,’ says Tiril. She goes back into the shop.

Sandra takes a deep breath, as though she’d done something illegal. She brings her tongue across the dry skin around her mouth and stops in front of the mirror hanging by the back door.

Now Jesus isn’t the one I’m going to kiss any more, she thinks. She’s never told anyone that she used to kiss Jesus. She’d turn out the light, creep under the duvet, close her eyes, blush, begin to move her lips and then she’d kiss Jesus. Her body would tingle, making her feel warm. But all that has to end, now that she’s got her boy.

‘Daniel,’ she whispers, allowing her lips to part.

‘Daniel,’ she repeats, while applying a layer of lip gloss.

‘Daniel,’ her lips mouth, as she adjusts her new bra, trying to get her boobs to sit the way she thinks he’d like.

‘Daniel,’ she whispers while she fixes her fringe, moves the silver cross into place in the notch of her neck, dries the sweat from her forehead and tries to find that particular facial expression, ‘I’m coming now.’

Then she opens the door, feels the air hit her, and she runs.

Rudi sees a wizened hand run through her fringe, wiping her teary eye, then a smile play across her mouth.

‘Rudi boy,’ she says again, and it’s so bloody good to hear a friendly word from her that he almost breaks down with joy. ‘Yes sir,’ she says and sighs, ‘you and me, twenty-seven years,’ and she has such a beautiful ring to her voice when she talks like that, ‘Europe and all kinds of weird and wonderful.’

‘Caaarrie, Caaarrie,’ sings Rudi, his shoulders swinging.

‘Right sexy, that Joey Tempest,’ Cecilie says breathily.

Rudi starts slapping his hands on the dashboard, aided by the liberating feeling of drama hour now being over. He overlooks the fact that she just drooled over another man, turns his head and grins at Cecilie.

‘You know what,’ he says, ‘I think you should take a little trip down to … that … you know … that place … you know. Daddy’s treat!’

He sees how flushed she becomes back there, her face shining as though a light’s gone on, and Rudi feels he’s the one who’s flicked the switch.

‘Uh-hm,’ she says, ‘Mariero Beauty.’

‘The very place,’ Rudi says proudly. ‘The name makes no odds to me, could be called Mariero Ass for all I care, but nobody can say Rudi doesn’t respect his woman and pay her bills, and if what she needs to feel good is to have sludge and cucumbers and sundried tomatoes smeared all over her face, then no one is going to say that Rudi didn’t fork out. Eh? Have I ever once refused to pay for something you wanted? Including the times I thought what you wanted to do was bloody idiotic, like lying under a palm tree or—’

‘There’re no palm trees there, you’re—,’ she cuts in, but Rudi wants to finish what he’s saying:

‘Metaphors, baby, they’re metaphors — do you know what metaphors are? Pictures. Pictures of things. You say one thing but mean something else and in lots of ways get to say two things at the same time. No, buggered if I know what you’re lying under or not lying under as long as it’s women tending to you and not men, you can lie down on a bed of oregano as far as I’m concerned—’

‘Oreg — heh heh, there’s no oregano.’

‘No, well, what would I know about what’s there or not,’ Rudi says, delighted she’s happy again, ‘but, all the same, as you well know, I have never—’

‘No, you have nev—’

‘Got in the wa—’

‘No, you have n—’

‘Or been tight wi—’

‘Money, no, you have n—’

‘Or let you f—’

‘You certainly have not, Rudi boy,’ Cecilie says, a wonderful firmness to her voice.

No, he thinks. I treat my woman the way women should be treated. Rudi forms his mouth into a determined pout, moves his hand to his inside pocket, takes out his wallet and pulls out a five hundred note.

‘Here,’ he says, reaching his right hand back between the front seats. ‘Go and make your face shine. Stick it in a bucket of spinach. Yes indeedy. Say hello to Mariero Beauty from Rudi and tell him your face is worth the money. And tell him who’s paying.’

‘Thank you so much,’ he hears from the back seat. ‘You’re really good to me.’

‘Damn right I am,’ says Rudi, feeling just how much love is crammed inside the little Volvo.