Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘Chessi?’ Rudi tries to make his voice sound like cotton wool. ‘Honeybunch? Only jokin’, you know that. Eh? Will we check if there’re any concerts coming up? I think Europe are playing at Folken soon!’

He allows her time to compose herself. But no. Her cantankerous gaze is fixed on the air in front of her. Those wide-set eyes, which make her resemble some kind of subterranean animal, seem to move even further apart. What about some compassion? Yourboyfriendoftwentysevenyears, thebaronoflove, is sitting here and she knows he hasn’t slept all night, she knows he has had awful nightmares, but is there an ounce of compassion to be had? Is there the merest hint of a smile? The smallest, kindly word?

Cecilie continues staring out the window while she takes out a pack of cigarettes. Fantastic. Now she’s going to punish him. She knows all too well he can’t bear anyone smoking in the Volvo. And she knows he’s just quit. And she knows how hard it is to kick the habit. Fantastic.

Rudi makes a show of rolling down the window.

They’re up and down, these moods of hers. You haven’t got a hope in hell of keeping track of them. Yesterday? Yesterday it was super smooth. Movie night in Hillevåg, good old I Spit on Your Grave and Nightmare in a Damaged Brain. Lo-fi classic night, said Jani, and put out crisps and coke. Classic Night. Jani has a way with words. They watched movies, good times and blood and gore it was, even Chessi was in a pretty good mood, lying there in an old pair of jogging bottoms, cuddled up in the crook of his arm. And then, next day? In a rotten mood. Everything’s shitty, pissy and crappy. When he’s the one, not her, who’s had a rough night. He hugged her, but her body was as stiff as a board. He tried to make eye-contact, but her eyes were yellow and fiery. And eventually he lets her know, that she needs to get a fucking grip and be a bit nicer. That was when the storm broke.

But, you got to go to work. No matter how menstrual the weather.

Rudi leans towards the open window, breathes in and out. Chessi sits in the back seat puffing away as if it were the last cigarette she was ever going to have, won’t be able to make out her head soon for all the smoke.

He drives through Auglend and takes a left at the southern end of Mosvannet lake, putting the car in a low gear, to get a bit of traction on the uphill climb at Ullandhaugsbakken.

Nicest place on Earth, as Granny used to say. God rest the old bag of bones, as Granddad said when cancer got her. She lay in her sickbed like a crumpled leaf. It was hard seeing her like that. Hi Granny, are you in there? Ah, Rudi, my boy, there’s not much left of me, you’ll have a slice of cake, won’t you? Come to visit your grandmother and get a slice of cake? It was always good to visit Granny. Shoot over to Stokka. He could drive there at any time, pull the Volvo up in front of the house, toot the horn, while it still worked, get inside the house and she would totter into the room wearing that blue dress, radiant as a wrinkly sun. Swiss roll and caffeine-free instant coffee. Yeah, you can laugh, be my bloody guest, but it was one thousand per cent genuine. If there were more people like Granny in the world, you’d hear a lot less about arguments, or the internet or war, that’s for sure.

Afeckingworldoffeckinglove.

That’s old times for you. They can really take hold.

Sometimes it’s a pleasure. Other times it’s a pain and they refuse to let you sleep. And you can’t do anything but curl up into a ball and wait for it to end, and as for a hug from your girl, well, you can forget about that.

The Volvo hauls itself up the hill in low gear. Rudi feels the hairs on the back of his head crackle as they near the top, as he sees cows grazing in the fields, sees the Ullandhaug Tower stretching up into the sky, and as he gets to the summit: the world opens up to the fjord below. He feels his stomach plummet and his head soar.

Rudi´s brown eyes warm up and soften as he drives into his old stomping ground. He feels likes a fag, but if you’ve quit, then it’s all about standing firm. Stay clean, Lemmy. Metal, Motörhead and the old haunts forever.

This landscape, Granny.

You couldn’t describe it.

It’s true what they say at travel agents, you’ve got to experience it, you’ve got to see it with your own two eyes.

Rudi speeds up. He feels his head fizz and shuts his eyes for a few seconds, takes a deep breath, opens them again and goes for it: ‘Hey Chessi. You there?’ He tries to infuse his voice with as much lightness as possible. ‘Eh? You looking? Nicest place on earth, eh?’

‘Fucking shithole,’ says the voice from the back seat.

Rudi sighs. It’s the end of September. You’re at work. You’re on the road in the Volvo. After weeks of rain, along come a few days of glorious weather, as though a bonus summer had dropped by. You live in the richest country in the world. There’s food on the table, and money in the bank, maybe not piles of it, maybe a little less than Jani would like, but enough, and Granny is floating round your head like a crochet angel and life is actually pretty bloody good, and you decide to say something pleasant after a bad morning. Pleasant . Not asking much, is it? And that’s what you get. It’s enough to reduce your whole happy house to rubble.

‘Christ, you are a right bitch,’ says Rudi, pounding on the steering wheel with his fist.

‘Yeah, and when were you planning on treating me any different!’

He sees her shouting, smoke billowing from her mouth.

‘Well? What if I want a normal life, and not this bollocks, eh? Fuck’s sake, Rudi, you’re not a man, you’re a dishcloth.’

‘A dishcloth?!’ Rudi tries to keep his cool so he doesn’t explode. ‘A dishcloth? Whatthe … fu … a … fu … dish … what do you say that for?’

He glances in the rear-view mirror. Now she’s crying as well. Brilliant. Dishcloth? The tears run down one pallid cheek, trickle along her narrow nose, taking the make-up with them, it’s drama time again. Dramadramadrama. Weird how she only ever cries from one eye. Dishcloth? It’s exhausting, that’s what it is. They’ve been together for twenty-seven years now. They know one another. They’re like one person! It’s like Jani says: she’s so dramatic she should start a theatre.

It’s not your fault, Rudi. It’s congenital. She inherited it from Mum.

‘I don’t know,’ Cecilie says in a low voice. And sniffles. ‘I just made it up. Dishcloth.’ She looks up, meets his gaze for the first time in a long while. ‘I do love you though, Snatchpuss.’

The Volvo trundles by the Iron Age Farm. Cecilie sits pale and freckly with her big hair and shelf hips, and the make-up running down her left cheek spreads out like a river delta from her wet lashes. Her thin, slightly crooked lips, her Easter-yellow teeth and her small mussel ears.

Rudi feels his throat tighten, his stomach swell.

Shit, how he loves that girl.

And shit, how he loves this landscape.

Here’s to you, Granny. They were good, those Swiss rolls.

He feels a draught on his neck and rolls up the window. He turns on the radio. Pop music. He’s about to switch it off, he knows how anti-pop they are, but he can’t. He’s heard this song before. Violins. Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du. Something about a king who used to rule the world. Coldplay? He pretends not to notice the song and hopes Chessi won’t notice him listening to it.

Rudi leans forward in the seat, juts out his chin and squints. Now let’s see, he thinks, and reduces speed. Down the hill towards the forest. That was what he said. Down towards the shop there. Yeah. Park someplace behind there.

Weird set-up, this. Feels a tiny bit risky.