Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘Yes indeed, baby. Two thousand more to go.’

Cecilie isn’t smiling. She’s stopped with one foot on either side of the doorsill.

‘But… Rudi says, again trying to make his voice as soft as possible. ‘There’s … nothing … wrong, is there?’

‘More than two thousand times …’ Cecilie looks pensive. ‘It’s just that it’s so long, that dick.’

He runs his had up and down her back.

‘I know,’ he says, guiltily. ‘It started in sixth class. I woke up every morning and though, shit, that’s going grow to some size. And it did.’

‘It goes so far up me.’

‘Yeah, it does all right,’ he says, tilting his head to the side. ‘But I really like it, y’know, feeling you right up against me.’

Cecilie sighs, ‘But imagine you damage something up there, what then?’

He screws up his eyes. ‘Damage something? What do you mean, damage something?’

‘No, I…’

There’s a scratching at the door. Jan Inge’s fat finger:

‘Don’t mean to go on about it but … breakfast meeting!’

‘No, it’s fine,’ Cecilie says, actually giving Rudi a little smile, an almost apologetic smile, and it makes him feel good. ‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely and big, that dick of yours. Come on. Big brother is getting impatient.’

The sun shines through the kitchen window, shining upon a well-laid breakfast table, glinting on knife blades and making the jam glisten. Rudi runs a large hand through his hair, yawning, almost fatigued by the sight of all the food. Neither Rudi nor Cecilie eat a lot in the morning, but lately Jan Inge has been preparing breakfasts as though he were running a twelve-star hotel. There’s more and more every day, food no one’s ever fucking heard of, cured mutton and French herb sausages, dill-marinated shoulder butt, weird cheeses and whatnot, and today he’s gone that little bit further.

Cecilie sits down at her usual place by the window. She pours herself a large cup of coffee and brings it to her face, allowing the heat to steam her skin.

Jan Inge comes wheeling in from the living room.

‘Sleep well? Everyone?’

Rudi nods. Cecilie clasps her hands tighter around the coffee cup and shuts her eyes.

‘Great,’ says Jan Inge, ‘I did too. After the two of you pushed me back inside last night. Thank you for that, by the way.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ says Rudi. ‘But what’s with you and the wheelchair? Isn’t that the one I nabbed for Chessi when she broke her foot?’

Jan Inge nods. ‘That’s right. It’s just been sitting here since.’

‘Yeah, it was just parked inside the door of the Intensive Care Unit. They were practically fucking giving it away. What’s the story, then? With you and the wheels?’

Jan Inge gets a look in his eyes. ‘Weell,’ he says, sucking in one cheek a little, ‘to be honest, I just find it a real effort hauling this 120 kilos around…’

‘But you’re not fat!’

‘Rudi. Stop it. I’m fat.’

‘He’s fat,’ Cecilie confirms.

‘It’s all in the eye of the beholder.’ Rudi shrugs. ‘I think you look good with a bit of weight on you. But okay, I rest my case. Safe to say you’re a bit fat.’

‘Exactly. And now the wheelchair is being put to proper use. It simply solves quite a few problems for me. And you know how much I like solving problems.’

‘Oh yeah, we know that.’

‘That’s what you like more than anything.’

‘Then there’s nothing else to say about it,’ Jan Inge concludes. ‘A problem and a solution. That’s the reason we’ve all got as far as we have. It’s because we’re problem solvers, and we don’t mess things up for ourselves and that’s why we’re able to look at a nicely laid breakfast table and not a desk in a cell in Åna with some dry foods and instant coffee. That’s the reason we’ve managed to work so many years in this town, under the radar so to speak, and been able to make a living from it. Not on a grand scale maybe, but on a safe scale. We know our stuff when it comes to break-ins. When it comes to cars. To alarms, keycards and locks. We can handle cash machines. Carry out extortion. And we’re able to move goods. Well, Buonanotte’s able to move goods and we know Buonanotte. We have contacts that the junkies don’t even know exist. We know our stuff and do you know what that means? Knowledge. Expertise. A problem and a solution.’

‘Genius,’ says Rudi, ‘that’s what I’ve got to say to that.’

‘The cheese is getting moist, let’s eat,’ says Jan Inge, his voice even more high-pitched than usual. ‘I rustled up some meagre fare for the morning meeting.’

Meagre fare? Rudi frowns. It’s not just at work that you need to keep your eyes and ears open. But within the safety of your own four walls. Is there something going on here? Has someone got cancer? Is it somebody’s birthday?

He looks over at Cecilie.

Is there something going on with her too?

That thing she said about his dick? Was there something in her voice? She isn’t usually so considerate, she usually just moans about it being way too big and making her ovaries hurt like hell.

He turns his gaze back to Jan Inge.

All this food.

Whatthefuckisgoingonhere?

Cecilie closes her eyes and drinks her coffee. Her brother spreads some pâté over a slice of bread for her, then places some beetroot on top. Just as he’s done since she was little. Rudi’s well aware of that. He’s well aware of how much Jan Inge has done for her. He wants to look after her. And now he’s put a little extra effort into making a good breakfast. That’s probably all it is. And Chessi is a little emotional. Is it next week she’s getting her period? Or was it the screwing? Rudi leans back in his chair. Smiles to himself. It was the screwing, it was particularly good, that’s it, that’s what it is.

‘Right,’ Jan Inge says, after a few minutes of coffee, chocolate milk and silence round the breakfast table. ‘I think we’ll get started with the morning meeting while we’re all fresh in the noggin.’ Jan Inge produces the folded note from his pocket. ‘This week’s list. We’ll take it from the top.’

He leans on the windowsill and puts on his reading glasses, the ones Rudi pinched in an opticians on Kirkegata and gave him as a Christmas present, after he’d been complaining about his sight for so long.

‘Something enjoyable to begin with,’ Jan Inge says, producing a DVD that he’s actually sitting on, Rudi notices. ‘Our Saturday movie for the week. A classic starring Price and Joseph Cotton, The Abominable Dr Phibes. I’ll give a short introduction after pizza on Saturday, as usual—’

‘As usual—’ Cecilie sighs.

‘…exactly,’ Jan Inge says, ignoring his sister, ‘and then we can cosy up for a night of gore.’

‘Great, good man.’ Rudi clicks his fingers and points at his friend. ‘Always a new movie. Can count on you.’

‘Item number two,’ Jan Inge says, adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. ‘Item number two concerns all the clutter and mess. Our weak point. The garden. It can’t continue. We’re attracting attention. We’re wallowing in crap. We need to start taking care of this house. It’s our headquarters. As well as,’ he says gravely, looking at Cecilie, ‘our childhood home. This is where Dad wanted us to live. So. A clean-up. That’s the question.’

‘I think it’s a good question,’ says Rudi.

‘Sure is,’ says Cecilie.

‘Okay, then we’ll say this weekend. Sunday? Sunday it is. Who’s doing what?’

‘I can tidy a little,’ says Cecilie.

‘Good, positive attitude. Anyone else? We need a trailer. Who’ll sort that out?’