Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘Heh heh.’

‘Would you screw that Påli dude?’

‘Shut up.’

‘Some brother you’ve got.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Look at that.’

‘Wha?’

‘He’s got a bald spot here, Jan Inge.’

‘Runs in the family. All the men get one.’

‘Yeah, yeah, there’s enough age discrimination in society without us needing to pick on that too.’

It was in this atmosphere, with Jan Inge slowly began to orient himself, while he remained with his eyes closed dwelling upon the humanity and compassion he was surrounded by; in this atmosphere that yesterday ended.

Whilst he experienced a kind of totality of love.

Cecilie and Rudi wheeled him across the living-room floor. They said shhhh, you don’t need to get up, shhhh, we’ll talk about that Pål thing tomorrow, shhhh, all you need to do now is just hit the hay, master, and as they jostled and bumped him into the bedroom, Rudi made mention of a skirting board that would have to go. They helped him, in the frozen and deeply moved state in which he found himself, into his bed, where he could carry on sleeping, and with his eyes closed, as if he were an old man in a congenial nursing home, Jan Inge heard Rudi’s last words of the night:

‘Good night, maestro.’

And Cecilie’s last words that night: ‘Sometimes I think it’s a shit life being your sister, Jani, but right at this moment you’re fucking intense.’

So naturally enough Jan Inge is experiencing a considerable amount of emotion this morning. All people who feel loved do, he thinks as he takes out the cheese and places it on the old earthenware plate from Stavangerflint , which makes him think malicious thoughts of his mother in the graveyard and painful thoughts of his father in Houston.

Soon he’ll wheel into the hall and wake them. Call out in the direction of their room: ‘Good morning! Wednesday! Breakfast meeting!’

It’s a good ritual.

Wednesday = Morning meeting.

If there’s one thing Jan Inge has blind faith in, it’s rituals.

For example: Cecilie always washes the bath. Rudi takes care of all things electrical. He himself always prepares breakfast. When it comes to breakfast, the thing to keep in mind is that it’s all about setting a certain standard for the day, and it’s about quality time, which is something of a basic necessity if this company is to succeed. Meals have a surprisingly large role to play. People need to get up and eat breakfast and they need to have dinner. They listen to Motörhead when they sit down to dinner, way up loud, so everyone can feel a sense of peace and calm within, but when they eat breakfast it’s quiet. It’s a time for evaluation, strategies and pep talks, and if it’s a Wednesday then there’s a morning meeting. That means an opportunity for anyone to bring up whatever they might have on their mind, and an opportunity for Jan Inge to be a visionary, if he so wishes.

Which he often does.

Lately Jan Inge has spared no effort at mealtimes. He’s bought more expensive cheese, meats and spreads, taken great pains when setting the table, purchased better coffee than usual and has even procured candles. All in order for them to see that being part of this household, of this company, is no bad thing. So any talk of moving, they’ll put that right out of their minds.

Jan Inge brings the wheelchair to a standstill.

‘That is one very nice spread I’ve prepared,’ he whispers, his crisp voice filling the early morning light of the room.

Three glasses. Three side plates. Knives for everyone. Coffee for him and Cecilie. Chocolate milk for Rudi. A candle glowing in the centre of the table. In a lot of ways you could say it’s nicely set off by the sun outside. A platter with cuts of meat. A platter with cheese. Jam for Rudi. Liver pâté for Cecilie. And the beetroot slices she likes to have on top of her pâté. An egg for him.

He raises his heavy behind off the wheelchair and takes a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He reads:

Film of the week: The Abominable Dr Phibes (R. Fuest 1971).

Pitch in and fix up the garden. This weekend? If so who’s getting hold of a trailer for all the shit?

Are we going to W.A.S.P. in Oslo on 24th October? If so who’s sorting out tickets, transport and somewhere to stay? NB: We’re not sleeping over at Tom B’s in Holmlia! Remember what happened last time!

Update on yesterday’s meeting w/ Pål. What’s happening? Progress?

Friday. Tong. What are we doing? Party? Dinner? Just let him relax? Suggestions?

Misc. Anyone have anything they want to share?

Jan Inge folds the note, and feeling primed and strong within, wheels himself out into the hall. And just as he’s about to call out ‘good morning, Wednesday, breakfast meeting’, he hears creaking from the bed in Rudi and Cecilie’s room. He swallows and trundles a little closer, hears a kind of banging on the floor, then Rudi’s deep voice: ‘Jesus! Chessi, turn round, let me see that ass. Yess! Lift it up, chica, come on! YESS! Live porn from Hillevåg! Hands up, your pussy or your life, yess, right there, yeah, my little whore, oh yeah, here comes Mr Cock, oh you’re so big, hips like shelves, oh, heeeelp, mamma, ooh it’s so big, ooh it’s ready to burst, ooh mamma, you don’t need to come after all, I can come myself! It’s a partay on my ass! Into the darkness, for the twenty-seventh year in a row! And-peo-ple-go-and-get-div-or-ced! Sitting on the internet pulling their plum and going to nightclubs for strange cock. Ahh. I’m yours till the mountains fall into the sea. Okay, okay … now … now … okay … we’re on our way, my soldiers and me … Can you hear the artillery thunder across the battlefield? WE’RE A MILLION STRONG AND WE DON’T NEED NO WORLD WIDE WEB TO SPREAD US! HERE IT COMES, THE WORLD WIDE FUCK! SweetjesusIfuckingloveitwhenIgettoslapthatfuckingass!’

Jan Inge remains quiet and motionless for a few minutes.

Sits there weighing things up against one another.

‘But my horror movies,’ he whispers to himself, ‘I’ll never lose them. And Johnny Cash, he’ll never stop singing. And Cecilie’s pigtails, they’re burned on to my memory. And the sun,’ whispers Jan Inge, becoming aware of a rapid blinking in both his eyes as he hears Cecilie begin to whimper from inside, as he hears Rudi’s voice get even louder, ‘the sun, that will never leave me. And on my grave,’ he whispers, feeling his eyes well up, ‘on my grave it’ll say: This is the last resting place of the Master, here lies the Son of the Sun, 120 kilos of cosmic love, Yoga Yani, Jan Inge King, the Thinker from Hillevåg.’

No: a new day. The switches in his brain come on, crackling and flickering, like fluorescent tubes lighting up one after the other down a long corridor. His thoughts revive him. They’re painful, they’re fraught. They arrive along with feelings of self-contempt and nausea. His ears pick up a sound from the street, a neighbour’s car driving past, maybe it’s the guy in number fourteen who works as a builder. A noise from the bathroom increases in strength, one of the girls turning on the shower. Morning is here, the ground emitting a citrus smell as the temperature rises. But Pål feels no joy. He’s unable to participate. When was the last time he woke up happy, feeling rested and rejuvenated? He can’t remember. It feels like he’s waking up inside an egg, it’s felt like that for an eternity and it’s as though he’s never going to get out. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to be this man and wishes he never woke up again. Don’t flick on these switches in my head. Don’t come to me with this darkness. No: not a new day.