Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Cecilie sat behind the silos, looking out over the fjord, for an hour and a half. No wind, scarcely a boat and hardly any people. Only a jogger who ran by in skintight gear. Only an old woman in a green coat out walking her dog. Only the calm water glittering in the white sunshine. Cecilie felt empty, she couldn’t manage to collect her thoughts; she couldn’t even manage to make out what she was thinking when she was thinking it. She tried to recall some old memories; maybe Mum had taken her here ages ago, while she was still in good health. Maybe she and Dad had come here once, while she was still a tot? Cecilie couldn’t remember anything and she felt a chill on the back of her neck when she thought of never having been here before, even though she’s sat here so often that she considers herself almost part of the landscape. She ate the cinnamon bun slowly, smoked, ate more of the bun and smoked some more. Then she gave a start, got quickly to her feet, suddenly frightened that some harm may come to the child from her bottom being so cold.

And now she’s here. Now she’s home, indoors, her bum is warm, the living room is warm, the house is quiet and her head is filled with thoughts. Her hands rest on her stomach. What kind of kid is inside her? Who’s growing, who’s going to be born into the world? Is it a healthy kid? Is it a mongo kid? Is it a horrible kid, as horrible as her? Is it a little shit of a kid? Is it a professor kid? Is it a Korea kid? Is it a Rudi kid?

Soon be dinnertime.

This house is poisoned.

She’s lain on this same sofa, year in year out, thinking exactly the same thoughts. Watched horror films. Watched Rudi or Jani walking in and out, carrying boxes of cigarettes, carrying TVs, carrying all kinds of shit. Lain here thinking the same thoughts: get away. And now she’s lying here again, and not just by herself; she’s two people and the problems are piling up around her. So much has happened in such a short space of time and Cecilie doesn’t quite know who she is or what she’s going to do. That’s the thing about love, she thinks. It’s so bloody difficult. She loves Rudi, just the idea of not being with him makes her so sad, but still the thought of him makes her want to throw up. And Tong? Is that love? She pictures him clearly, standing there, sees his rigid stare, hears the chugging of his breath, sees the sinews straining on his forearms: I’d do anything for you.

Would you, Tong?

Anything for Cecilie?

Would you kill Rudi for me, Tong?

She puts her hands in front of her and pushes at the air, as if to shove her problems away. She feels like having ice cream. She felt the same way yesterday, and the day before that as well, and she has to smile because now she realises what it is.

‘Baby,’ she whispers, gets to her feet, scoots into the kitchen, opens the freezer and says, ‘of course you can have ice cream.’

She takes out a three-litre of Neapolitan. Then quickly grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer. She opens the tub, using all her strength to sink the spoon into the firm ice cream, sees it bend back, the ice cream yielding. She sits down and starts to eat. Can’t manage to stop, can’t manage to stop.

Cecilie closes her eyes.

Ah sweet Jesus, that’s so good.

‘Fuck’s sake, what are you at now?! Ice cream? Right before dinner?!’

Weird — she didn’t hear them coming in. She didn’t hear the car, the stomping, the slamming of doors. Rudi stands in front of her shaking his head. She doesn’t dignify him with a glance, just brings another spoonful to her mouth.

‘Oh yeah,’ Rudi says, smiling, ‘you’re my woman, Chessi, from here to eternity and the whole way back, and I’m damned if I’m going to come between you and your ice cream. Let me look at you.’

He reaches both his hands towards her face but she recoils, can’t stomach the thought of him touching her, just can’t stomach it.

‘Heh heh,’ says Rudi. ‘Jani! Come on in and take a look at this girl who’s all sexied up from the skincare shithole. She’s radiant! Hey, Jani, there’s a sunbeam sitting in our kitch—’

Jan Inge walks in and Rudi lowers his voice.

‘Yeah, a sunbeam, in our kitchen.’

They look at her.

‘We’ll have to have you do this once a month,’ says Rudi, then bends over and gives her a peck on the cheek, and once again she recoils.

‘She doesn’t want her make-up ruined, all fancy now,’ Rudi laughs. ‘Just how it ought to be. That’s why we have women in the world, so they can look good. Yesss — and we’ve had a killer day, I can tell you that. Rudi has been able to knock some sense into Hansi’s head, we’ve got a van and a trailer, so you don’t need to worry about the car, baby. You can drive out to Åne and have a real good time.’

Cecilie is momentarily thrown. ‘A good time?’

‘Aerosmith, the open road, good humour … you know. The lot!’

She puts the tub of ice cream down. No one, absolutely no one, can be so simple and good and as full of energy as Rudi. When he stands in front of her, his face lit up like a little boy’s and he showers her with loving droplets from his heart, then it’s completely impossible to imagine a single day without that bloody idiot.

She smiles at him.

She hadn’t planned to.

But she does.

‘Moron,’ she says.

‘Yup! That’s me,’ Rudi says, laughing. Then he walks into the hall. ‘The moron is heading down into the basement to get a few things ready for tomorrow — how many baseball bats? Three, I guess. Tong is coming along after all, nothing he likes more than smashing things with a bat. Fuck me, this moron can’t wait to see that little Korean again!’

Sometimes she thinks that he’s jabbered away so much in this house that sooner or later the walls and the floors will learn how to speak, and the day they do, they’re going to sound like Rudi. Cecilie gets up. He can’t wait to see Tong again, that’s what he says. What a fucking mess. What’ll I do? Maybe I’ll just tell him, right now? Hey Rudi, I’m screwing Tong! He might be the father of the baby you don’t know about!

She stretches out.

Then we’d see a murder.

It’s not criminals who are behind all the killings in society.

It’s love.

Jan Inge has already started making the food. He’s put on the apron they bought in Houston the last time they visited Dad, seven years ago, the purple-and-white one with ‘Fuck Y’all I’m from Texas’ written across it.

‘I’m going to have a kip for a half-hour,’ she says, and leaves the room. ‘Call me when dinner’s ready.’

‘Don’t I always?’

She sighs and walks down the hall.

‘Yes, you do,’ she says in a low voice. ‘What is it, by the way?’

‘Fishcakes!’ comes the reply from the kitchen.

Cecilie opens the door, falls on to the bed. Fishcakes, she thinks, I couldn’t face a morsel of fishcake.

She knows things will be different in the future, but how exactly, she doesn’t have a clue. She wants ice cream and she wants to sleep. Her body is so heavy. She never had many muscles, but now it feels like she has none at all.

She sinks into the mattress.

She takes out her mobile, pulls up her list of contacts, and presses on a number. It takes a little while before a click sounds and a voice says:

‘Hi, you’ve reached Thor Haraldsen and Southern Oil. I’m not here at the moment. Please leave a message and I’ll be sure to call you back.’

She takes a breath. ‘Hi Dad,’ she says. ‘Just Cecilie here … well, not calling about anything in particular. I just remembered … I was out stretching my legs today and … didn’t you and I used to take walks down behind the silos? I was just wondering if you, like, remembered that? All right. Hope everything’s good. Talk to you again. Bye bye. Feel free to give me a ring. Talk soon. Bye bye.’