Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Why are you doing this! What do you want!

That’s Rudi’s ringtone. Jan Inge is torn away from his meandering thoughts and reaches out for the telephone. ‘Yep, Jan Inge King speaking.’

‘King?’

Jan Inge rolls his blueberry eyes.

‘Okay, Mr King, noisy at your end, what are you … hang on, hang on, I’m listening, hang on, Three on a Meathook? Ha ha. You study day and night, you do.’

Jan Inge grabs the remote control and mutes the sound.

‘Always on the hunt for knowledge. So, what gives?’

‘The Volvo won’t need repairs.’

‘No?’

‘Nope.’

‘But we need to go through it together.’

Jan Inge squeezes the mobile phone between his jaw and shoulder, turns the wheelchair and trundles toward the door to the veranda.

‘Oh?’

‘A few details we need to take a look at.’

‘But no repairs?’

‘No.’

‘Otherwise everything went okay with the Volvo?’

‘What do you mean?’

There’s something amiss with Rudi’s voice.

‘Well, just wondering if everything else was okay with the Volvo?’ Jan Inge rocks back and forth in the wheelchair.

‘Eh … yeah? I mean yeah! Yeah. Everything’s good with the Volvo.’

‘Okay, well, if you say so.’

‘ Kein problem . Back to your studies!’

Jan Inge hangs up. Then he unlocks the door to the veranda, shoves it open and feels the white September night meet him. He feels the chill of a slight prickle on the top of his head. His bald spot’s getting bigger, but can’t do anything about that, runs in the family, bad hair. He seesaws the wheelchair gracefully over the doorsill, steering with steady hands, rocking a little back and forth before gliding out on to the veranda. Never fails, that whole Volvo thing, he thinks, surveying the run-down garden. Weeds and shit. All that junk and other crap lying about rotting. It attracts attention. They ought to have a clean-up soon. Straighten out company HQ. They can just talk about the Volvo and they understand one another. Don’t need any set code, can just talk about the Volvo.

And that, he thinks contentedly, despite the presence of a creeping unease over what may have occurred; that is the innermost secret.

To be so tight with your colleagues that you understand everything. That you need only listen to the sound of their voices to figure out what kind of humour they’re in. That you don’t need to look in their eyes for more than a moment to know what’s going on.

That to me is VOLVO.

The sisters walk across the fields by The Iron Age Farm.

They’ve been here before. All the kids in the area have been here. First in kindergarten, a herd of children out in the rain or wind, and then in primary school. Out to look at the ruins of the Iron Age houses situated on the slope between the high-rises and Limahaugen, with a view over Hafrsfjord, where the battle which united Norway into one kingdom took place: 872, Harald Fairhair.

They’re surrounded by darkness, ahead of them they can see the red signal lights of the telecom tower at Ullandhaug, they can see the lights from passing cars down on Madlamarkveien, and they don’t have the energy to talk.

The first girl is angular and ungainly, with small hips and a boyish stride, she’s bent forward and moves with a jerky gait. Her chin juts out, her eyes often narrow and often flash with anger. She’s good at football, has a foul mouth and wears heavy make-up. The other girl has grown-up features and beautiful, high cheekbones. The first one has said she wants to be an environmental activist with Amnesty and write songs of her own. The other has said she is going to concentrate on gymnastics, continue studying in any case, perhaps something within sport or health.

She might well be a little anxious about the future. Anxious it could present further changes.

It was a normal training session. A Thursday afternoon at the end of May. Spring was in bloom, the air full of birch pollen, the summer holidays were right around the corner and Malene had had a good season. After a difficult winter where she had felt stiff and heavy, she was back in form. She’d done well in the regional finals, third place on the beam, a good routine on the parallel bars had given her second place behind Ylva from Sandnes Gymnastics Club, and she’d executed a lovely vault where she’d finished with her first double somersault in a championship and taken home her first gold medal. In the Norwegian Cup in Trøgstad she’d been on the winners’ podium again, third place in the vault and parallel bars.

Malene trained six days a week all season. She could feel her own strength, she could trust both her mind and her body, and people remarked how she had a new gracefulness about her. She’d grown, was elegant and had gone from being a good gymnast to being considered one of the best in the region. Not as ruthless as Mia, her best friend in the club and not as solid or tough as the Russian twins in Stavanger Gymnastics Club, but people viewed her differently than before. The jump was still the weakest part of her routine, she still lacked the necessary explosiveness, but she trained with determination and she knew everything was moving in the right direction. She had been doing gymnastics since she was seven years old and now she was reaping the rewards.

She was standing. The hall was full of girls, young beginners who practised their first round-off backflip, girls of ten in the advanced group doing arm support swings on the parallel bars. They giggled, ran and landed on the crash mat, Sigrid Ueland making comments the whole time: Bravo, Ingrid! Shuttle runs! Don’t play with the hoop, Nora! What kind of wrist is that, Tuva? The vaults are all right, Mia, but otherwise you’re too careful! You’ll get a half-point more for a proper finish! You’re going to get a Christmas present from me, Pia! You’re running like a bunch of old ladies! Legs together! Legs together!

Without Sigrid, Malene would never be where she is. A powerhouse of a woman with a steely personality, a legend in the city, gymnastics champion and PE teacher, over fifty years of age but still very strong in both mind and body, imperious as well as ambitious on behalf of the girls, with crimson lipstick beneath bright green eyes.

‘Malene! The double!’

Sigrid called out to her and Malene hurried from the beam over to the iPhone laying on the little table by the benches and wall bars. The other girls cleared off the mat and made room. Malene turned up the volume, ‘Titanium’, David Guetta & Sia. She always has to have loud music on when she’s going to do her elements, it gives her energy and shuts out the world. Then she took up position in a corner of the hall. She allowed the music to play a little until it rose to a pumping tempo, she tensed her body and could feel Sigrid’s eyes boring into her. The younger girls began chanting her name until it resounded throughout the hall — just as she’d done for the bigger girls when she was smaller, cheered them on, given them the noisy support they needed to get their adrenalin going.

‘Come on, Malene! Come on, Malene!’

I won’t fall, I am titanium. She began her run up. Not too many steps, she ran as hard as she could, did a chassé, perfect, not too short, went into a somersault, over into a backflip — was it a bit too high? A bit too far?

Malene felt a millisecond of nervousness as she sailed through the air performing the double backflip, but it all went so fast she didn’t have time to think, and then she landed. Pain screeched through her body. It felt as though her right ankle had been torn right off. She screamed, fell on to the mat and clutched her foot. In the very same second she knew what had happened. Talus fracture. She erupted in a flood of tears. Sigrid came running over as she shouted to one of the others: ‘Mia, ice!’