Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

There they are. Pål has to make an effort not to stare at the corpulent form lurching through the brush, manoeuvring with an effort between leaves and branches.

‘Påli! He-hey! Just like I was saying, only a few moments ago, yessir, Påli will be here, I said, you can count on it—’

It’s him. It’s Videoboy. Big and fat. With the same empty eyes as over twenty years ago. Small and black. He gives Rudi a quick look of admonishment, who in turn nods and draws his lips tight.

Videoboy offers him a brief smile as he puts out his hand. He’s incredibly like his bygone self. Time hasn’t affected him.

‘Jan Inge Haraldsen,’ he says, in a quiet tone, making his voice almost more high-pitched, ‘nice to meet you.’

Videoboy himself. Pål tries not to show how thrown he is, attempts to conceal any form of recognition. He puts his hand out.

‘Pål,’ he says, and clears his throat, ‘Fagerland.’

‘There you go, ‘says Rudi, ‘now you’ve met the man himself, the—’

Jan Inge gives Rudi yet another look of reproach. Pål needs to gather his wits. It’s Videoboy standing in front of him. Even though he’s met him before, that damn week in 1986, it’s just like encountering a celebrity from childhood. One of those you always heard about but never met, almost like it was, well, Kevin Keegan or Phil Collins. Pål has always been nervous around celebs, they make his hands sweat. Videoboy . He’s really fat. His skin is wan, like ash. His hair is thin. And that freaky high-pitched voice.

I can’t let them recognise me, thinks Pål. They mustn’t remember what I did.

‘I’m not entirely comfortable about you bringing your dog along,’ Jan Inge says, glancing down at Zitha, who’s sitting by Pål’s feet.

‘No, I’m sorry about that,’ Pål says, fidgeting nervously with the lead, ‘but it’s the only way I can get out of the house without arousing too much suspicion. I’ve got two daughters, you see, so…’

‘I understand. I’m not heartless. I have a family myself. I trust the dog will stay easy?’

‘You know what, I was just thinking exaaaactly the same thing—’

Rudi speaks loudly and gesticulates. Videoboy glances at him for a third time. ‘Anyway—’

Videoboy slips his hand into his trouser pocket, producing an inhaler which he proceeds to shake. He presses down on it, breathes in.

I’d forgotten that, thinks Pål. The inhaler.

‘Anyway,’ repeats Jan Inge, ‘I understand you’re having financial difficulties.’

Rudi folds his arms, nods in a manly fashion.

‘Yes.’ Pål swallows, but notices this situation isn’t as horrible as he thought it was going to be. Jan Inge seems genuine. ‘Yes,’ he says again, ‘I’ve tried everything but I just can’t find a solution.’

‘Right,’ Jan Inge says, nodding. Causing his jowls to wobble. ‘That’s where we come in.’ He places a hand on Pål’s shoulder. ‘That’s how you need to view us, as a solution. You need to get your life back on track. You require a service. We — in all probability — can provide that.’

‘Eh?’ Rudi nods contentedly, his arms still folded. ‘Schnåli? You hear that? What did I tell you?’

‘I’ll get right down to business—’

‘Right down to business—’ Rudi uncrosses his arms and snaps his fingers.

‘Rudi, would you let me speak here?’

‘ Kein Problem .’

Jan Inge inhales. He lets his gaze wander. Peers into the woods, as though he heard something. Then he fixes his eyes on Pål again: ‘We had a meeting today. About you and your situation and what we envisage could help. And we came up with something which I believe will solve your problems. But first, a question: are you well insured, Pål?’

‘Insured, mmm … yeah, I suppose I am? My ex-wife, she…’ Pål shoots Jan Inge a hesitant glance. ‘Insurance … right … well, if you’re thinking—’

‘Yes, that is what I’m thinking,’ says Jan Inge.

‘Heh heh. Blood! Blood! Not only blood!’

‘Oh, shut up.’

Jan Inge fixes Rudi with a harsh stare. He checks himself and nods affirmatively.

‘Right,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘you’re well insured. Both household and contents as well as personal injury?’

‘Yeah…’

‘Excellent. That makes everything much simpler. This is the scenario we envisage: when night falls tomorrow and the suitable hours of calm arrive, roughly between half past seven and eleven, then we’ll drive over to your place. Where do you live?’

‘Well, in Ernst Askildsens Gate, up by the low-rises, not too far from here…’

‘Do you have a garage?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’ve got one…’

‘A spacious garage, would you say?’

‘Weeell, yeah, I suppose it is…’

‘Perfect.’ Jan Inge slaps his bloated palms together and Pål notices how they hardly make a sound. ‘It’s a good time to work,’ he continues, enthused. ‘It’s dark. People are busy with their own thing. No one pays any attention to the presence of an extra car or not. Some people are watching the news. Others are at club or association meetings. Shadows and shapes and incidents. There’re many who believe that the poetic hours occur later, in the middle of the night. I say it’s these hours that are lyrical.’

‘Heh heh. You listening?’

‘Daily life is taking place,’ Jan Inge goes on, without allowing Rudi to perturb him, ‘it’s dark but not too quiet. That’s when we’ll come driving down the street. A plain, grey Transporter. A Trojan horse. And the only thing you need to do is to make sure your kids are out of the house.’

Pål nods with interest. There’s something about the way Jan Inge presents it that makes it feel right. His confidence is reassuring, he’s genuine and proper, reflective and experienced. It’s the same impression he gave in 1986, but he seems more reliable now.

‘We park the Transporter at your place, we’ll number between three and four people, depending how many the firm have at work that evening. We will of course have some equipment along with us, you’ll usher us in and then we’ll get to work on your house. Our goal will be to make the damage look as realistic as possible. Basically, you understand: to make such a good job of it that the entire insurance amount is paid out to you. We’ll take your possessions.’

‘Possessions…?’

‘Possessions.’

‘Possessions!’

Jan Inge puts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. This is a joint effort, Pål. We can’t risk this much without getting something in return. You understand that.’

‘Eh … sure …’ Pål clears his throat. ‘That’s probably — well — how it has to be. So. You’ll take everything, I presume, TVs, computers…’

‘If it’s your laptop you’re thinking of, I’d imagine you should be happy to be rid of it. The internet isn’t for you, Swalli.’

Jan Inge takes a step closer to Pål: ‘There’s also the added detail of us being obliged to leave you in a somewhat altered state.’

‘What do you mean?’ Pål says, knitting his brow. ‘Altered?’

‘Heh heh. Altered.’

Jan Inge’s laughter is as shrill as that of a little girl.

‘Professional jargon, Pål. Altered.’ Pål looks from one of them to the other. Rudi must have a condition of some kind, but still he’s a cordial type, the kind of guy everyone wants to have in their gang of friends. Jan Inge is impossible to place, obviously talented and very intelligent, but all the same … stupid?

‘Hey, Uli?’

Rudi places a fingertip firmly on Pål’s chest. Jabs him four times in the solar plexus.

‘I can feel that this is going to go fucking great,’ he says. ‘We definitely have a connection here. Am I going too far when I say that this could be the beginning of a long friendship between you and our company? What do the stars have to say about it? What do you think Gran — rest in peace, old patchwork quilt — would say, sitting up there in Heaven, knitting socks for the lot of us? Respect to you and respect to your kids and respect to your dog, and death to your woman problems. What’s his name again? Zitha? He’s been sitting there now, obediently, for fucking minute after minute after minute after minute, and I’ve noticed it. While the two of you were talking I was on the dog’s side. And what does a dog get out of a human’s conversations? Wellmyfriend, there’s more between people and dogs than we suspect. That dog has participated. You have a true friend there, Huli.’