Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Oh, do you have to go?

Yeah. I have to.

I hate this.

Me too.

Don’t go.

I have to.

I hate this.

See you tomorrow, yeah?

Yeah.

If not I’ll die.

Yeah.

You’re mine.

I’m yours.

See you tomorrow.

And now?

Now it’s serious. Sandra runs across the football pitch and Sandra has decided: she’ll lie down, she’ll be brave.

She gasps when she catches sight of him by the substation. A pressure lifting from her chest; he hasn’t left. She runs faster, as fast as she can and throws herself into his arms.

‘Daniel,’ she sobs.

‘Hey…’

‘I’ve missed you so much! I thought you’d be gone! I didn’t think you — I thought—’

‘Hey, come on…’

He takes her face in his hands.

‘Hey, hey…’

He tilts her chin up with two fingers.

‘You…’

He looks her in the eyes.

‘Hi,’ he says, holding her gaze. ‘Do you think Daniel would leave you? Eh? Do you not know Daniel would wait until Friday, until next month, Jesus, until it bloody well started to snow, if it’s you he’s waiting for?’

She sniffles and feels the tears roll down her cheeks. A ‘hhha’ escapes her mouth, and Sandra stretches up on her toes, closes her eyes and kisses him, for a long time.

‘You taste of salt,’ he says, laughing.

‘It’s the tears,’ Sandra says, sniffling. ‘Tears of joy.’

‘They taste extra nice,’ he says.

Then they begin walking into the woods while holding each another. Daniel with his arms around her slender waist, she with her arms up along his back, him backing up, her following his steps. It looks like ballet and that’s probably what it is.

Sandra unbuttons her top.

They totter further into the woods. Their breathing is heavy, his hands rove over her backside, she undoes the last button, they kiss one another, whisper ‘Here?’

‘No, not here, it’s too exposed.’

‘Further in?’

‘Yeah, further in.’

‘What about here then?’

‘No, across the road, the forest is denser there and no one can see us…’

Then they stop. Sandra is naked from the waist up. He stands there gasping. He places his hands on her breasts and sighs.

‘Do you want to do this?’ Daniel whispers.

‘Yes,’ she whispers, closing her eyes, ‘yes, it’s what I want.’

‘Do you want to do this every day for the rest of your life?’

‘Yes,’ she whispers.

They sink down on to the ground.

‘No matter who I am?’

‘Yes,’ she whispers.

‘No matter what has happened to me?’

‘Yes, I want to do this every day for the rest of my life.’

‘Cool,’ says Daniel, ‘that’s really fucking cool of you.’

Rudi strides through the woods. He’s a tall man, well over one ninety-five with long arms which don’t always know what to do with themselves. His face is pockmarked, his whole body is lopsided and he looks like a roaming tower moving across the ground.

He stops for a moment to think.

Not many men have as good a woman as he has. Anyone thinking of laying a hand on her better fucking watch out. You can call it what you want, call it being a psycho, call it jealousy, I call it love and Chessi does too. Do you not think I’ve looked after her? Do you not think Rudi has given her what she wants? Didn’t she get to see Aerosmith at Sweden Rock Festival? Dream until your dreams come true!

Rudi froths saliva between his teeth and continues pounding across the forest floor. Hasn’t he taken her to both Rock am Ring and Rock im Park, hasn’t he laid the tickets on the table and paid for the whole shebang? Weren’t they a fixture at Norway Rock in Kvinesdal until the festival went bust, doesn’t she get as many thousands of pints of beer as she wants, didn’t she stand and almost weep with joy in front of Motörhead and didn’t she almost come when Twisted Sister played ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’? Didn’t he hold her and rub her back when she puked in the tent in the middle of the night. And hasn’t she got an amazing fucking metal tattoo on her back that he paid for? And isn’t she allowed to go to that skincare shit, even though he thinks it’s disgusting.

Rudi spits into the woods, feeling strong and fair.

She’s grumpy and electric, always has been. She’s not approachable in the morning, you need to stay weeeell bloody clear of her until she’s had her coffee. But those are the kinds of things you just have to cope with when it’s love that’s at stake, you need to be generous, you need to let her sit in her room and mope — yeah, she can keep that room until she dies, every girl needs to have a room of her own.

Rudi spits again, before halting in his tracks and spinning all the way round.

Here. A wistful feeling sneaks up and strikes Rudi. Gran’s cabin could have stood right here. God bless the old bag of bones, they were the good old days. Land, fields, sheep and cows and no mobile bloody phones, no interfuckingnet and nobody ringing up to ask if you’re interested in faster broadband; no, mister, I’m interested in your dick on a skewer. Good thing for you, Gran, that you didn’t have to live to see this shit.

Focus.

Rudi peers into the forest. He pricks up his ears. A sound? His eyes dart back and forth in the darkness, trying to adjust to the lack of light. He orders his pulse to slow down.

No, no sounds.

Need to get hold of that du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du song. It’s impossible to remember the name of it. Coldplay. What is it he’s singing? I used to rule the world. Chessi is going to put her finger down her throat and puke, heavy ballads all the way there. Rudi can’t stand pop either, metal all the way. But that one song there, that takes the roof off the church. He needs to get it on CD, then he won’t have to sit wondering if they’re going to play it on the radio when he’s out in the Volvo, and no way in hell is he getting any SPOTIFUCK or PISSTUNES or YOUSCREW and sitting listening to Mötley on a computer or watching the old videos on a mobile phone, that’s an insult to all music.

Tapes. And CDs.

Rudi nods to himself.

He never got into vinyl. Jan Inge likes records. He’s got those old country records his dad left behind when he went to the US. Might be hi-fi, but it’s just scratches and stress. Rudi has always been of the opinion that if it’s good sound you want, just turn up the volume, then you’ll hear everything loud and clear. But each to their own, he thinks, I mean, it’s not like I sit doing my nails with silver polish and read poetry while the moon glimmers behind a cloud either.

Pity you never had the chance to meet my woman, Gran. Cecilie’s her name! Lots of sharp edges but you’d be hard pressed to find better. Granny would’ve liked her. She’s sitting on a silver cloud up there in heaven with flowers in her lap, and one day she’s going to say: Rudi. There you are. Welcome to heaven. Is that right? You became a crook, I see, well, to every man his own life, welcome to heaven! She had a lot more respect for an individual on God’s green earth than the rest of that unspeakable family of his: Get thee behind me, Beast from Sandnes. Is that what a brother is supposed to be like? And is that what a sister-in-law is supposed to be like? Spitting in your own brother’s face at Gran’s funeral? Telling him you never want to see him again as long as you live?

Rudi breathes in and out deeply.

Who are you, Pål?

The question is: should they move? Away from Jani. Get their own place. A damn hard question. Hard in every way. It’s by no means certain Jani could handle it. It’s by no means certain it’d be good for the company. It could actually ruin everything . A damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn hard question.