Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

These are good thoughts. Positive thoughts.

Shouldn’t the criminal element, in general, work a little harder at raising awareness at the need for a good atmosphere in the workplace?

In any case, Rudi has always been useful with regard to that. Sure he can be a hassle, going on and on, but he’s rarely in bad humour.

But now the atmosphere here is really going downhill. Of course he’s got a point about being robbed of his freedom, that public transport is out to suppress the individual, everybody knows that. All the same. There’s something else.

All this couldn’t possibly just be about the bus.

‘I’ll grant them one thing, the people who work with this,’ Rudi says, as they’re tipped sideways in their seats at the roundabout by the theatre, ‘they know their fucking systems. Look, Jani,’ he continues, ‘now we’re coming out on to Madlaveien, and I’m nauseous, being on a bus always makes me nauseous — but let’s not talk about me, let’s talk about the guy driving. You can be sure that that fucker sitting up there holding the steering wheel between his knees, he is drilled in this. System, system, system. Do you think bus drivers get heavy balls, my friend? The amount of time they spend sitting? I do. In a lot of ways, you could say he’s a German, couldn’t you? A brother of Ulrike. Ordnung. Ordnung. Ordnung . Now this busfuck knows that we’re going to stop outside the bicycle shop at such and such a time. Andsoonandsoforth. And he’s one thousand per cent set on it. Jesus, I feel sick! Anyway, I’ll give them that, the people involved in this; they’ve made a plan and they’ve gone for it.’

‘Well—’ Jan Inge reckons he can agree with those sentiments, that it’s something positive, that in many ways it’s similar to what he himself is busy doing in their own firm, making plans and going for them. But Rudi has no time to listen.

‘But,’ Rudi says angrily, ‘what does it do to a person, being squeezed into these seats, breathing this stuffy air and having their insides bounced around like they were in a bloody tumble dryer, and constantly stopping then driving then stopping then driving again. Eh? Jesus, I’m nauseous. Brother of cunt! I ask you that, Jani, on top of it being a fundamental infringement of our rights when two working men like you me have been robbed of the symbol of our freedom. The Volvo. Eh? You can bet that creates tension. I’m pretty certain that if you take a look at the statistics for people with muscular aches and ailments and compare the ones who have their own car with those who take public transport, then you’ll see that amongst those who travel by bus there’ll be a lot more instances of people suffering from fibromyalgia, wear and tear, migraines and even long-term sick leave.’

Jan was thinking of saying that Rudi may possibly be right, but that on the other hand it is conceivable that these bumpy trips, with all the stops along the way, may have a relaxing effect on some people, but he’s gets slightly confused, so he asks: ‘Yeah … but … are you talking about bus drivers now?’

‘Aren’t you listening to me, brother of fuck?’

‘Yeah, I—’

‘It’s the passengers I’m thinking off, in this tunnel of nausea we’re inside. And I’ve been thinking about it a hell of a lot today,’ Rudi says, as they near the stop on Holbergsgaten. ‘A hell of a lot, Jani. And what I’m getting at is that we need to sort out the vehicular situation.’

‘The vehicular sit—’

‘Don’t go interrupting me, Jani, not yet, brother of impatience! What we need is a new vehicle, which both you and I can have the use of. We can hand over the Volvo to Chessi and then we get our own van. No matter how good it felt laying into Hansi, giving him a working-over for old times’ sake, we can’t do that whenever we need a van.’

‘But we—’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Jani, I don’t want to hear any protests. Those are my final words on the matter. I feel really nauseous now. But I’m hanging in there. Can you see that? I’m hanging in.’

Jesus, this is a bit much, Jan Inge thinks. He places his clammy hands in his lap and looks out the window.

‘I can’t talk any more now, brother,’ Rudi says, ‘because I feel so sick at this stage that I actually just really need a little time to myself. I need to look straight ahead. In both senses of the word. Straight ahead at the road. Straight ahead at the future.’

The bus passes Mosvannet lake, then the junction at Tjenvollkrysset, continues up Madlakrossen, driving past the ice rink in Siddishallen, past the gymnastics hall, out to Madlakrossen before turning into Molkeholen and heading towards Madla and Gosen.

Nausea? This can’t just be about being on a bus and feeling sick. Jan Inge feels he’s displaying poor leadership qualities at the moment. What would David Toska have done?

The bus pulls in at a stop not far from Madlamark School. Two teenagers hop off, a woman in her thirties gets on.

‘Rudi?’ Jan Inge turns to his friend. ‘How you feeling?’

‘I’m concentrating. I’m looking straight ahead.’

‘Okay, good.’ Jan Inge speaks in as calm a tone as he’s able. ‘I promise you. Next week, there will be a new car standing outside the house. And a van. We’ll have to find somewhere else to park the van though — it’ll draw too much attention if we make such striking changes simultaneously, and nobody’s going to go near the moving van. But I promise you that, Rudi. And listen, Rudi. No one, no one, is going to leave you.’

Rudi’s long, narrow head sways gently as they drive up towards Gosen Woods and their final stop. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak.

When the bus pulls in they step off, out into the chilly evening.

Rudi breathes in the fresh air and says, ‘I conquered myself there, brother, conquered myself, my own body and my own fear. Look at me. Am I throwing up? Am I alive?’

Jan Inge smiles: ‘A mighty display, Rudi,’ he says. ‘Mighty.’

‘Yep,’ Rudi clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and checks the time. ‘I looked straight ahead. Jan Inge? You can say a lot about bus people in general and that bus in particular. But take a look,’ he says, tapping the face of his wristwatch, ‘ten minutes this bus trip was supposed to take, according to Ulrike, and that’s exactly how long it took. But they felt like long minutes, didn’t they? For you and for me? Long, my friend. I went through a lot. You went through a lot. You don’t get any deeper than that. Mano a mano. Sink or swim. The feeling of making it to the last bus stop, so to speak. And that thing you said, about nobody leaving Rudi — I can tell you, right from the fuckin’ heart, that helped solve a problem that’s had me tied up in knots all day.’

Rudi takes hold of Jan Inge’s head, bends over kisses him on the forehead.

‘You should have been a shrink,’ he says. ‘Nausea? Who knows where that so-called nausea comes from. The internet? Come on, lets head up to Gosen Kindergarten, meet a man with a problem and offer a solution.’

LEADERSHIP ABILITIES.

How many marriages could be saved if families had only one person in charge, man or woman, with leadership ability, instead of a woman who’s a lush and a lardass and a man who’s a roughneck and a coward, neither of whom, let’s be honest, should ever have been allowed to bring kids into the world.

‘Shit, maestro,’ Rudi says, ‘I really need a piss. Is it all right if I just nip into the woods here and whip out the schlong out for a sec, or would that attract a bit too much attention, do you think?’

‘Yeah, just wait to piss until we’re a little out of plain view.’

‘I hear you, boss,’ Rudi says. ‘Fantastic night. Imagine. Uncle Autumn is here, but he looks like Aunt Summer. And before we know it we’ll be up to our knees in Grandfather Snow, and then it all begins all over again.’