Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

It’s only fair and proper, thinks Rudi, that I stand in Jani’s shadow.

Der Führer , without making invidious comparisons.

Look how he puts his arm around Pål. Strolling along in the lee of the substation. Seems like a sound bloke, Pål. Heart in the right place. Feels like one of us in a lot of ways, thinks Rudi, as he hears Jan Inge say: ‘Are you with us, Pål? Will we do this? Go through with, what I like to call, a time-honoured classic?’

When they meet people they’re going to cooperate with in some way or another, Rudi often feels that he can’t really talk to them, like they’re living in a world far removed from his. But Pål. Top bloke, plain and simple. Really good feeling, knowing they’re not just doing this for the money, but also to help their fellow man.

Fellow Man.

That was a book, so it was. Granny was always on about it. She had books on the brain, Gran. Sitting there with her books. Hamsun and Agatha Christie and whatever their names were. Nothing wrong with that, total respect for book people, Rudi thinks, even though I’ve chosen the real life and everything it has to offer, instead of the book life with all it has to give.

Pål doesn’t reply. But Jan Inge allows him time.

It’s all about being calm, pensive and dignified.

‘Let me tell you a story,’ he hears Jani say, from over in the thicket. ‘A little story. My father — I won’t mention his name or where he lives — my father had some problems once. Lets put it like that. Some problems that his kids, my sister and me that is, weren’t completely aware of. If you and I were to walk the miles together, I could tell you all about it. About what a child sees, about what a frightened little child understands and what a grown-up understands, and what a person who sees an axe coming down on their throat understands. You like horror, Pål? No? I could — and maybe I will? — show you some films one day. Suspiria? No? You haven’t seen Nightmare in a Damaged Brain? The Thing? No? Carnival of Souls? You haven’t seen it? Night of the Living Dead? The Hills Have Eyes? Hm. You sure I haven’t met you before? Anyway. My father. He had an insurmountable number of problems. And this is in spite of being a happy-go-lucky guy. If there’s one thing that characterises him, it’s his unbelievable good humour. It’s almost mystifying. But problems. Big problems. But you know, we were just kids, and I mean, what did we know about adult life. I mean, what were we? A trifle, blades of grass in the field. So, we’re talking the very early eighties here — keywords are Blondie, Wham! Blade Runner, E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark , John Holmes, Desiree Cousteau — and let me make it quite clear that we’re anti-porn. We’re feminists, twenty-four hours a day. At your service, women! The eighties — reminds me of Speedos and tight shorts, Rossignol skis and Björn Borg, things your kids will never know anything about. Smells they won’t associate with anything. I mean, who remembers Kim Carnes? Me, Pål. Me. Or, hold on … ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ … no, now I’m getting mix — Rudi! Eighty? Eighty-one? Eighty-two?’

‘No idea, that’s your area of expertise.’

Jan Inge nods: ‘I think I might be wrong, forget that about Kim Carnes.’ He plods on for another few steps with Pål, who still remains silent. Rudi has begun patting Zitha, the dog breathing calmly to his touch.

Jan Inge breathes in and out heavily. ‘I’m showing faith in you now, Pål. Because I like you. But also because I want to show you that in our firm, we’re different. We’re not some cocaine-snorting gang of idiots from around Haugesund. We work with, and for, people. We don’t bow to the Hell Angels or the Bandidos. We don’t jump for joy because David Toska and his gang come to town. We work away quietly. We’re almost like part of the very bedrock of the city. Anyway. My dad. So he had a large number of insurmountable — is that what it’s called? Insurmountable? Rudi? Insurmountable or insuperable?’

Rudi pouts while pondering the question. ‘Errrr,’ he says, ‘I think you could use either of them.’

‘Right. They were the problems he had. Insurmountable and insuperable. I can just say it right out: the biggest problem was my mother. A she-devil, Pål. The mother of all fears. A heart of glass. We can talk about it another time, when the two of us are sharing a pipe by the ocean — I’m speaking metaphorically now — then, we can talk about it. But now we’re discussing my Dad. And I’m getting to the point. Around this time, he was made an offer. An offer, Pål. Just like you.

Now Rudi feels a tugging in his chest. This is precisely what he loves about Jan Inge. Standing here, on an ordinary Wednesday, watching him in action. His thoughts flying hither and thither, his words too, and who knows what he’s after but then it comes, the point.

‘Yes,’ he hears the master say. ‘My father got an offer. This was the oil age now, Pål, not the internet age—’

‘Mayhem! Get thee behind me!’ Rudi makes the sign of the cross with two fingers and holds them towards the sky.

Jan Inge laughs his reedy laughter. ‘It’s the era of oil, and my father is in that business and he gets an offer. While he’s up to his neck in problems. Will he accept a job over there?’

‘Over there, land of the brave, hom—’

‘Will he? A lucrative position, Pål, good money, a new life. He gets an offer, a time-honoured classic, if you think of life as simply time and this as a classic.’

‘Hah. You listening, Poffi?’

‘You follow me, Pål?’

Pål nods.

‘Simple as that. Dad went to Houston. Difficult for us as kids to understand back then. Easy to understand now. And you? Now you’re being made an offer. What do you say, Pål?’

Rudi can’t manage to keep still any longer. This is just too much. He lets go of the dog, who responds by following him. He stands in front of Pål, looks him in the eyes, grips his jaws in both hands and says: ‘Brilliant, Spoffi! This is going to work like a dream! Hallefuckingluja! Can I kiss you?’

Pål looks bewildered. Rudi gives him a friendly shove. Jan Inge takes out his inhaler, shakes it and sucks on it.

‘So. Now we can listen to what you have to say, Pål.’

‘I’m in. But…’ he pauses uncertainly.

‘What are you thinking about, brother?’

‘Well…’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘No, it’s just — what were you thinking of doing to me?’

Rudi smiles. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘it’ll be fine. We’re experienced. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Right … but … will it … hurt?’

‘Look, Joffi, there’s being hurt and there’s being hurt … you can take a little bit of pain.’

‘But … will I wind up in hospital? Will I be able to walk afterwards?’

‘Shit,’ Rudi says. ‘You’re a nice guy, Toffi. Don’t think about that. Think about the money! Ah. See this here, this is one of the best days of my life. When I die, I’ll remember four things: Chessi’s face, Jani’s face, Lemmy’s face and that beautiful face of yours, Schmoffi.

Zitha barks.

‘Yeah, yours too, fuckmutt,’ Rudi says and in his head Coldplay begin blaring at full volume: Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du.

‘It’s so bloody good,’ he says ‘to feel that you’re alive. I can’t wait to tell Chessi.’

‘What?’ Jan Inge shoots him a dubious look. ‘No details, not before you’ve cleared it with me.’

‘No, no,’ laughs Rudi. ‘Jesus, I mean, I can’t wait to tell her that it’s time we started thinking seriously about things — kids, y’know, maybe getting a place of our own, taking the relationship a step further!’