Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

She noticed him looking at her. At her copper-red hair. At her dimples. At her long legs and at her tits.

After a few days, Veronika said to herself: I’m in love. I want him.

Soon she’ll have waited a year. She’s sat on the floor of his room with her legs crossed when he plays the drums. They’ve lain on the sofa together watching TV, their bodies just barely touching. I’ll look after you, he says, my little sister. There’s been more and more of that kind of talk and Veronika doesn’t like it. A car? Do you want a car? Daniel will sort it out.

Little sister.

That’s not what she wants to be.

It’s the wolf she wants. She wants him to place his paws on her stomach. She wants him to sink his teeth into her neck. She wants him to lick her with that red tongue of his.

It was last week when she realised something was up. Daniel had begun to stand in front of the mirror fixing his hair, was coming and going at funny times, and went straight to his room when he did come home, avoiding eye contact with Mum when she asked where he was off to. She should have realised sooner, but she didn’t cop on until he asked her if she knew a girl called Sandra.

‘Sandra? Who’s that?’

‘Nah. Nobody.’

‘ Nobody? ’

‘Just a girl a few streets over. Lives someplace near the church.’

‘And what about her?’

‘Nothing, just wondering if you knew her is all.’

In the space of those few seconds her fantasy world came crashing down and Veronika felt her skin begin to burn. She was so jealous she could have gone for him, torn strips off him, pushed him through the living room, out on to the balcony, tipped him over the railings and watched him fall to the ground and smash his skull on the tarmac twelve floors down.

What do you take me for? Do you think you can get as much as I’ve given you without it costing you? Do you think you can head off to some cuntbucket of a Christian girl — I know who she is — without your fur catching fire, when I’ve been waiting a year for you?

Veronika pretended she’d something in her eye and ran off to the bathroom. She locked the door, turned on the tap, switched on the hairdryer and sank her nails as deep into her cheeks as she could.

She cried it all out.

Then she sat down to think.

What is it I’ve done wrong? Veronika has made good use of her self-control the last week. If there’s one thing being handicapped has instilled in her, it’s patience. An existence as a deaf person has provided her with ample opportunities to be exposed to inertia; sluggishness from public services, from school. She’s had to wait. For all the goodwill, which is overwhelming on paper, but which always comes slowly.

She has self-control. But she’s made an error. What boy is really attracted to a girl he’s mates with?

She’s made herself too trivial. She’s lain beside him on the sofa, eaten breakfast with him without thinking about how she looks, she’s done all the things adults do when they’ve been together ten years and are tired of one another. She hasn’t been attentive. She hasn’t sold tickets.

Veronika took great care with herself when she went to the bathroom this morning. She told her mum she didn’t have classes before second period and wanted to wash her hair. Then waited for her to get ready for work and go out the door. She took a long shower. She scrubbed thoroughly. She shaved her legs. Her crotch. She breathed in calmly and then breathed out just as calmly. She got out of the shower, went over to the mirror. She looked at herself. The strength in her eyes. Her hair. Her ass. Her legs. Her tits.

You won’t be able to resist this, she thought, and smiled as she wrapped one towel around her hair and another around her body. She tucked it in above her breasts. She left the room and walked down the hall, in the direction of Daniel’s room. She felt a faint pounding in her stomach: He’s sitting at the drum kit.

She had turned the door handle and gone in. She had lifted her coccyx. She had hiked the towel up her thighs. She had felt his breath on the back of her neck. She had felt his body against hers. She had pulled off his T-shirt, pressed her tits against his skin: I’ve got you now.

Now Veronika is lying in the bath. She’s crying through closed eyes. Her right hand resting on the side of the tub, between her fingers a razor blade.

She’s not pretty. She’s not beautiful. She’s not sexy. She’s not smart. She’s deaf and she’s dumb and she’s ugly and no wolf wants to put his paws on her.

Daniel puts his visor down, closing out the white light. He turns the ignition.

If that’s how things are going to be, then all you can do is ride. If one girl is going to attack you and the other can’t keep her mouth shut, then he can’t deal with it. Every man has the right to turn around and leave. Who the hell is going to look after you if you don’t look after yourself? Girls are dangerous. You couldn’t trust them and they can get you to do anything at all. Heroin? Acts of terror? Heroin and terrorism are nothing compared to girls. Girls control the entire world and they’re all too fucking well aware of it. They’re always the ones in the driving seat.

Your job: look after yourself.

Your job: go.

Your job: get out of here.

You’ve only got one shitty life. It might well be that it’s supposed to smell of sulphur, might well be that every day is supposed to be like sailing on a lake of burning silver. But it’s yours.

Daniel zips his jacket right up under his chin, puts his foot on the gas and leans slightly forward. He sees Sandra in his wing mirror. Her arms are hanging limply by her sides, she’s crying and he can see that she’s unable to move. He can almost feel her despair and that’s the way he wants it. He wants her to be in pain.

Is there a hole opening up in the ground beneath you?

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

Am I torturing you, bitch?

Daniel rides.

He can explain it. And he can’t explain it. How things turn inside out within him.

He wants to be that way and he doesn’t want to be that way. He wants to be the hardest metal and doesn’t want to be the hardest metal. Once he feels things begin to twist inside, he can no longer do anything about it. Then he needs to leave, he needs to ride. It’s as though a fuse has been lit in his head and as it starts to sparkle and crackle, there’s no other option but to shut out all the light: go, ride, get away.

I have my limits and you crossed the line.

Daniel feels the air press against him. He rides down to Hafrsfjord, past Liapynten and whizzing along the seashore at Møllebukta, sees the sculpture of the three swords, dark against the clear horizon, and thinks how they look like they’re going to take off and rocket into the sky. He rides past Madlaleiren barracks, sees the soldiers lining up, sees people walking and cycling and cars cruising on the tarmac. He shuts his thoughts out. The mobile phone in his inside pocket vibrates but he doesn’t take it. He rides further on, out to the junction at Madlakrossen, takes a left, passes the golf course, on up towards the church at Revheim, out towards Sunde. Daniel leans into the onrushing air, letting nothing inside. Before Hafrsfjord Bridge he swings off towards Kvernevik, takes the turn off to the sea, in the direction of the finger of land at Smiodden and thinks about how out there in the blue of the ocean peace is to be found. When he reaches the ribbon of road that is Kvernevikveien his phone begins to vibrate again and he hunches over the handlebars a little more. Where’s he going? Nowhere. Just far away. He heads over to Randaberg and rides through the small village centre. He’s aware of people, both old and young but he doesn’t see them. He simply rides, all the way out to Tungenes, passing farms, fields, cows and sheep.