Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Jan Inge feels left out.

He can go a long time without thinking about sex, days can pass where all he thinks about is horror and interpersonal relations. But. When he gets in close proximity to Beverly Hinna he can’t control himself. And the more she offers, the plumper she is, the more of her form being pressed out, the more lace tablecloths lying out, the more ornaments decorating the fireplace, the more Jesus posters covering the walls, the more interior magazines she has lying around, and the more listless her eyes are, the more he wants to get inside.

Her.

If she opens the door someday wearing a Norwegian national costume, he’ll break down in tears.

‘Make yourself comfortable now,’ says Beverly, who had come to Norway arm-in-arm with Alfred Hinna, an oilman from Tasta. He had found her behind the counter of a Shell station in Poplarville when he was working for that very same oil company back in the early eightes.

Beverly sashays to the kitchen, her hair dancing in the air. ‘You ready to boogie, boy?’ Jan Inge sees that powerful behind of hers under the terrycloth gown and feels almost fatigued with admiration. He hears the tap run and a few seconds later she returns with the flowers he’s purchased standing up in a pretty crystal vase. ‘Wasn’t it you who gave me this vase, Jan Inge? Last year?’

He nods, happy she remembers. ‘That’s right,’ he says, as politely as he can, ‘that’s right. I bought it from Åse on Randabergveien — it’s from Hadeland, early nineteenth-century.’

‘Beautiful,’ Beverly says, leaning in captivating fashion over the table, allowing one breast to come into full view in the plunging neckline of her morning gown. ‘Howdy, girl,’ she says, laughing as she tucks it back into place. ‘So,’ — she fixes those sultry eyes on Jan Inge — ‘how are things with you this week? Business okay?’

‘Oh, business is booming, the money’s rolling in, lots of new ventures I can tell you—’

‘Lovely, and pleasure?’ Beverly moves closer to Jan Inge. She takes his hand in hers, continues making small talk while slowly entwining her fingers in his — ‘Hm? Jan Inge? How is my boy?’ — and pretty soon she’s massaging his middle finger as though it were a pastry she was kneading. ‘Hm? Tell Beverly how my Ramblin’ Man is.’ She’s right up against him now and he can’t manage to reply, he can’t manage to think. What is it she’s asking? Jan Inge isn’t able to hear her voice, he can only see that beautiful skin, feel that increasing warmth, her hand, her fingers kneading his finger, the breasts he glimpsed a moment ago, the breasts he’s seen every week for over a year now, which prove just as exciting every Wednesday, as though he’d never seen them before, and he can’t control himself.

‘Beverly,’ he says, his voice cracking, ‘I worship you. You’re the whole of America, you’re fifty states and then some.’

‘Oh,’ she waves off the comment in mock embarrassment, before gently buffing her perm with the heel of her hand, ‘now you’re exaggerating. It’s just my ass you like, Old Hinna liked it too. Yeah, wouldn’t like to bet against it being what tipped the scales when he saw me bend down behind the counter back there in Poplarville.’

Jan Inge doesn’t like her talking about Old Hinna, but he manages to push him from his thoughts and he continues: ‘Don’t talk like that, Beverly, don’t put it like that, you mustn’t trample on my love — it’s huge, it’s overwhelming. I’m asking you, marry me. Make me the happiest man in the world.’

‘Now, now, now, you know we’ve talked about this—’

‘I mean it, Beverly, I have a well-run business, I can increase the staff, I could be a good husband to you, I can provide considerable sums of money, I—’

She pouts and slaps her tongue against the roof of her mouth, as though there were poultry in the room. She tilts her head slightly forward and Jan Inge sees her eyelashes quiver. Beverly undoes her dressing gown. It feels like womanhood itself issuing forth and filling up the whole room as he watches her breasts spill out from behind the terrycloth; he gasps and forgets what it was he was going to say.

‘Shh,’ she says, ‘you need to be released from whatever it is which is stirrin’ up such a thunderstorm in you. Come now and let Beverly from Louisiana take you for a little stroll into the master bedroom.’

Jan has begun to cry, like he does every Wednesady. He sniffles and nods to Beverly, and she takes a gentle hold of his left hand, guides it to one of her naked breasts. He puts his other hand in his pocket, pulls out fifteen-hundred kroner which he places on the coffee table, while his left hand still rests on her breast. Beverly closes her eyes, brings her hand down to his crotch, and Jan Inge takes a big gulp as she takes her hand away, as he watches her walk across the floor towards the bedroom.

Rudi parks the Volvo outside Food Story in Hospitalsgata. Free parking for a quarter of an hour.

He removed five skirting boards. It’ll be nice for Jani to be able to wheel freely through the house. You have to respect him for exercising as much as he does, hauling himself off, week after week. Although it’s sad never to see any results. Just as flabby and overweight.

Rudi crosses Klubbgata towards Dropsen the confectioners, passes Ostehuset Café, which he thinks is for wankers. He was in there once, asked them for a simple raisin bun but could he get it? No problem ordering an ecological cock with a wreath of gash marinated asparagus on a bed of spinach with sprinkled herbs, but a classic raisin bun, that was beyond them.

He peels off into Laugmannsgata up the hill in the direction of Sølvberget. It’s a little unpleasant being in such close vicinity to the Nokas building, scene of the biggest heist in Norwegian history. Nobody in the company talks about that. Kind of a touchy subject, especially when they felt they were close to being picked by Toska and his gang. When such a high-profile team comes to town, takes on such a big job and manages to bag over fifty mill, then not being picked can be a sore point. Even though they’re opposed to hold-ups. And to violence. Still, you have to draw the line somewhere as far as principles are concerned. They could at least have kept watch or contributed in some kind of consultancy role. They are sitting on a lot of know-how and a good deal of knowledge about the region after all. What did Toska want with Swedes and people from Sandnes? Maybe a few of them would still be at large if they’d been along? Who knows, maybe that policeman never would have been killed if they’d been in on it. All in all, it’s hard to be passed over. Everybody needs to be noticed.

Rudy passes a beggar in a knitted sweater, an apron and headscarf sitting outside 7-Eleven. Her face looks blackened from soot, her hair is jet black, she’s holding a paper cup between her hands and she looks at him with two sad eyes as she holds it out and shakes it. Rudi feels her looking at him but he restrains himself; remember what Jan Inge says: No matter how much you babble away within these four walls, we can live with it, but when you’re out in public you need to button your lip. But his mouth won’t obey and Rudi halts abruptly in front of the beggar.

‘You there,’ he says resignedly. ‘Come on. Eh?’

She looks at Rudi, puzzled, and says something in a language he doesn’t recognise.

‘Seriously,’ says Rudi, arms out in an expression of exasperation. ‘Where are you from? Lithuania? Romania? Andorra? Eh? Listen, I’m in a hurry, but this disappoints me. You sitting here. In a foreign country. In tatters and rags and looking the way you do. In broad daylight. You’re sitting there, messing up our city and waving a paper cup from 7-Eleven around collecting halfpennies. Jesus. How low can you sink? Look at yourself, honey. Once you were a sweet little girl with pigtails. Once you sat in your Chechen granny’s lap while she sang you nursery rhymes. What is it that makes you think you can get up in the morning, go out and receive — RECEIVE — money from people, while the rest of us have to work to earn a wage? Self-respect, have you heard of that? Would I go off to your country, find a nice spot to sit with a paper cup and beg for money? Jesus! And don’t go telling me that you’ve an uncle from Azerbaijan who beats the shit out of you and your thirteen kids if you don’t sit here degrading yourself. You have a choice, Miss Poland! You can stand up, right this moment, and walk from this with your head held high. You can walk into … Christ … you see that shop there? Ting? Yeah, Ting it’s called. You can go in there and you can say: Hi, I’m a washed-up woman from Estonia. My husband was blinded in the civil war, I have cervical cancer and my kids have tapeworms but I want to do something with my life. Give me a job, I’ll do anything at all. But no, you just want to sit here polluting the cityscape. Fuck me. You make me feel so depressed.’