Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

They can laugh at her, they can trample all over her. They can do what they want.

But they better remember, for all eternity, that they’ve trampled on love itself.

Because Love, thinks Sandra, love bears all things, love believes all things, love hopes all things, and love, she thinks, taking out her mobile once more, love endures all things.

20:58

You can have me, Daniel William Moi, no matter what it is you’re after.

It’s quiet in the car now.

Just the hum of the engine and the sound of the wheels on the tarmac.

Rudi has never liked silence. The feeling of people just waiting to drop a bombshell. Sitting there mulling over some pickle or another they can’t face talking about. Speech is silver, Granny said, but silence is golden. Well, Gran, my respect for you is as infinite as the love of the Lord, but that’s where we differ.

Rudi has been told loud and clear. On more than one occasion, to put it mildly. That there can be a bit too much gabbing.

Okay!

All right!

But there can be a bit too much bloody silence as well.

Rudi sees the reflection of his face in the rear-view mirror. Behind that, he sees Chessi resting her head against the back seat and closing her eyes. No, love. Who would’ve believed it that time he called into Jani’s house and set eyes on his freckly little sister, lying in her bedroom, getting her brains fucked out beneath posters of horses and dogs? No, those days are long gone, that was Jani’s psycho plan. Renting out your sister like she was a movie. You’d have to be right twisted to be at that.

Here you go. Help yourself. This is my sister. Cunt retail.

‘Eh? Chessi? You there?’

Good thing she met me, thinks Rudi, replacing the silence with his own thoughts. No telling where she would have wound up if her best customer hadn’t caught sight of the person behind the pussy. And, Jesus, the amount of times he’s wanted to beat the shit out of those mongrels who got the chance to fuck her before he came on the scene. If he ran into them today he’d skin them alive, bit by bit. It’s twenty-seven years since he saw those bulging eyes for the first time. Twenty-seven years since he deserted the Tjensvoll Gang; thanks for the apprenticeship, handy to know you should gaffa-tape a table leg to get a good grip. Handy to know which slim jim to boost a Beamer with. Handy to know how it feels to kick a man in the back of the head! Old memories; salut Tommy Pogo, salut Frax and Stix and Hex, salut Rikke Clit and Baps and J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro, salut Fresi and Christer Imfuckinoff, salut Janka Bat. Rudi needs to be getting on in life. My folks are moving to Hillevåg. Heh heh. Right into the arms of Jani. There’s always someone who wants to live outside the law and there’s no better leader than Jan Inge Haraldsen, is there now?

Twenty-seven years of love.

‘Hmm? Chessi? Baby? Are you there? Ready to do a bit of work?’

No reply.

Give her some time. Ha. Renting out his sister like she was a video. Hard to stomach for a family man like Rudi. But how long are you going to store up old shit? Now everything has calmed down nicely, it’s not something they talk about all the time, no more than Rudi can stand anyone bringing up his parents, not to mention that rabid brother of his out in Sandnes, and that psychotic witch he’s married to.

They’ve put it behind them. In the name of love. Chessi and him have stood strong, and what with the unbelievable number of divorces going on all around, society is just about ready to go under: is it any wonder they vote for the Christian Democrats? Listen here, Mr Socialist Homo: walk around in your slippers. Play your protest songs. Listen to The Smiths and The Tits and The Pits. Somebody has to show people what’s right and what’s wrong in this world, and one thing’s for sure, love, that can’t be explained, but it’s always right, which is pretty much the gist of what it says in The Good Book which Rudi always keeps in the bedside drawer.

She was only thirteen the first time he saw her, and some people may well think that’s sick, but Rudi doesn’t give a flying fuck what they think. Because the truth is: from the day he saw that chestnut hair, that freckly body and those cracked lips, Rudi knew Cecilie Haraldsen would be his. And that — oh yes — that’s just like it was with Granny and Granddad. They stuck together. Weathered all the storms. That’s just how it was, and that’s just how it is with Chessi and me, he thinks and feels a swelling in his chest, the way he always does when something moves him. And the feeling can be just as intense whether you’re listening to some good metal or have brought in a nice bit of cash on a warehouse job because you’ve got a leader who did the groundwork, got hold of a key card and checked times and routines, or like when, for the fifty thousandth time , you get an eyeful of what a bloody good woman you actually have.

Itsthetwoofusbaby.

Tong’s getting out on Friday. Be good that. About time.

Hey Tong, you sick Korean!

Rudi orders himself to give Cecilie more time and meets his own face in the rear-view mirror. No, he thinks, if there’s something I bloody well am not, it’s good-looking. It’s that long line of dishcloths. Dad’s side. Dishcloth genes. Looked like pin cushions, the lot of them. A minefield, all over his skin, wrinkled and scarred. And what about a little colour? A little pigment? Oh no, we’ll make you pale and anæmic. But we’ll make your lips big! Not just a bit big, but biiiiig. And your teeth? Rudi bares his teeth in the mirror. Jesus. They look like nails. They’re crooked, all of them, as though they aren’t doing anything in his mouth other than fighting. His hair, on the other hand, that’s okay. He hasn’t started going grey, and as for hair loss, none of that. Colour is a tad dull maybe, this mousy blond tone, hairdo’s a bit crap, sort of half long with no style, but it’s hair all the same. But good looks, they do not run in the family. Even Granny, that angel, was pig ugly.

A smile spreads across Rudi’s face and he can’t manage to keep his mouth shut any longer:

‘Chessi? You know… fuck, you know… right? That Rudi damn well loves you like crazy? That if you left me I’d kill everyone and everything around me? You know that, right? That you’re mine? That I’m yours?’

But no.

‘Hmm? Baby? A kind word for a kind man?’

Not a fucking peep.

‘Hmm? I yours? You mine?’

Fifteen. Yeah, so what?

20:54

Daniel pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Takes one out.

In the old days girls had kids when they were fifteen. They were a damn sight more grown up back then. Boys were able to do everything when they were fifteen. No fuss made about how old the girls could be. Now it’s all a big to-do. Everything’s supposed to be so meaningful the whole time, everything has to be so open and curious and ecological, and he doesn’t know what his foster mother and the ones from Child Services are on about. He’s been at enough meetings; open get-togethers, my ass — more like they’ve just made up a load of stuff because they’re after getting some ideas in their heads.

For Daniel it’s simple.

He pulls his leather jacket tighter around him and lights up the cigarette.

All he wants is to be with girls and get it on with them and for them to get it on with him. Sandra is fifteen and she’s fit as fuck. She has a glow around her. He’s been with other girls but he’s never gone all the way. He’s got his hands on tits, licked tits and snogged so much he was almost bored of it — up until he started snogging with Sandra. It was as though his whole mouth became electric, as if something happened, physically, to his tongue, making him just want more.