Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

But it isn’t a film.

It’s this shitty life.

But that’s just how it always is.

It’s never a shitty film.

It’s always life.

Cecilie nods, as if remembering what he’s telling her.

‘I don’t know,’ Jan Inge says, turning to look at her. ‘I can’t explain what I was thinking. Maybe I thought things would be easier if you were dead. Maybe I was afraid of having to look after you for the rest of my life.’

‘But that’s what you hav—’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘You’ve really looked after me, Jani.’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Good thing you didn’t crack my skull open with the hammer anyway.’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘But listen, I need to take a shower and be on my way to pick up Tong.’

Cecilie puts her skinny arms around his big body. It feels good. She radiates warmth even though she’s ever so small. Jan Inge remembers the song he made up that time he was standing over her bed with the hammer in his hand. Moon and sun, wind and clouds, sister and brother, death enshrouds. He stood there with the hammer raised and sang. He can still hear the choirboy pitch of his own voice. How nice it sounded. While he looked at the shadow of the hammer thinking that now Cecilie had to die. Moon and sun, wind and clouds, sister and brother, death enshrouds.

Cecilie loosens her hold around him, her body gives a jerk and she lets go of him. She swallows and gulps, then makes an abrupt dive for the toilet where she leans over the bowl and throws up.

Jan Inge blinks. Repeatedly. ‘Yeah,’ he hears her wheeze, her head down the toilet bowl, ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you, Jani, I know what you’re thinking.’

Blimey.

Jan Inge picks up his inhaler from the washstand. Breathes in.

Hah.

Sometimes life is fascinating.

It’s right in front of you, day in, day out, but no danger of you catching sight of it.

Jan Inge nods to himself. This is fantastic news. He can feel a swelling inside. He’s aware of tears in his eyes. A child. My God. Now there’s going to be some life in the house. Now things are going to happen. Revenge. That’s what he feels, a sense of revenge, like an axe cleaving a skull, because now the Haraldsen name will be carried on, yes, it’s almost as if it’s his own child coming into the world. There’ll be life in the house, the genes will be shuffled and who knows what the child will be like. Will it inherit Cecilie’s capricious nature? Jan Inge’s characteristic astuteness? Its father’s levity?

‘Uncle Jani?’ he asks. ‘Me? Uncle Jani?’

Cecilie, her back to him, nods. She reaches into the shower and turns on the water.

‘Wow. Chessi, I—’

Cecilie turns her head and fixes her brother with a fiery look. ‘Yeah,’ she says, while holding her hand under the jet of water. ‘But you’re not to tell a bloody soul.’

‘No no, I—’

‘Because I don’t know who the fucking father is.’

‘Wha?’

‘Don’t be so dramatic.’

‘But—’

‘Listen,’ Cecilie lowers her voice, which doesn’t serve to reduce the intensity. ‘I don’t know if it’s Tong or Rudi—’

‘Ton—’

‘You’re not to say a single word. Not one word, you hear me.’

‘No, but to … to … I mean he’s in—’

Jan Inge stops himself.

‘Åna,’ he says in a quiet tone.

‘Not another word now,’ Cecilie hisses. ‘Not to me or to anyone else.’

Jan Inge nods. She’s right, he thinks. Sometimes you’ve really just got to shut up. Keep your lips sealed and gulp down.

‘You go out and think about what you’ve heard,’ continues Cecilie. ‘Go out and let me shower and be alone with my own thoughts and my own life and you get your own ass in gear. You don’t need to go round feeling sorry for yourself, Jani, because you’re not the one with problems — I’m the one with problems. And put on some coffee will you — aw! Bloody shower! Either too cold or roasting! Why can’t things in this house just work like they do in normal peoples’ houses!’

‘Right, I’ll—’

Cecilie pulls off the Europe T-shirt. Takes off her knickers. Gets into the bathtub. Pulls the shower curtain across. Jan Inge sees her silhouette, hears the running water, the sound of her voice: ‘And don’t start crying, all right? No crying, okay? We’ve done enough crying, you and me, yeah?’

Veronika is standing in front of him as he comes into the hall. She’s leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone to take a photo of her. Jesus, she looks good. Her hair tousled, sticking up in all directions, her mouth haughty and red. He makes to go past her towards the kitchen, force her to cede this edge she has over him, but she takes a step forward, blocking his path.

She grins.

‘Manage to sleep?’

He shakes his head with a fatuous smile. He doesn’t like to appear so exposed, feels like a bit of a wuss, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

‘Me neither,’ Veronika says, leaving her lips slightly parted when she’s finishes the sentence.

He returns her smile, but again his is puerile and foolish, while the smile blossoming in the lattice of fresh cuts on her face speaks of self-assurance, and rather than divesting her of authority — it bestows it.

Ah.

This business of being in love with two girls at the same time is a right pain. One of them is going to lose and one of them is going to win. It’s the flesh that decides. The fuckplan, what happened to that? If the whole point of living was to fuck and get rich, find a woman willing to put out once a day, then how’s the plan looking now?

Which of them will win?

Daniel tries to swallow his smile like it was a morsel in his mouth. He needs to ward off his weakness with something so he lets his gaze wander over her body, the body he possessed a few hours previously. The feet he held in his hands, the long legs he ran his fingers over, the thighs he parted, the loins he kissed, the tits he tongued and cupped in his hands, the ears he panted into, the red hair he clutched and the mouth he couldn’t take his eyes from as they had sex.

Veronika closes her mouth as he looks her over. She puts her head to the side, her eyes are pert and alive, anything flushed or childish about her disappears.

Daniel takes hold of her hand, she backs against the wall.

‘Listen,’ he says.

‘Yeah?’

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

‘I’ve been doing a bit of thinking,’ Daniel says, aware of how right it feels when he utters the words, even though it’s a lie. Thinking? He hasn’t thought at all, he’s been fucking. To put it bluntly. Veronika was a whole lot different from Sandra. Sandra made him small and uncomplicated. Veronika made him big and uncomplicated.

‘Me too,’ she says.

‘Okay,’ Daniel says, surprised, ‘you first, so.’

‘No, you,’ Veronika says.

‘All right … well, you know. Sandra.’

Veronika nods.

Good. She could have gone for him.

‘Yeah,’ Daniel continues, ‘she’s going to lose it when she hears about this. So, we’re going to have to, well, deal with that. Some way or another.’

Veronika nods.

‘And then there’s your mother. How do you think she’s going to react? And then there’s that business with the father of those two girls, Tiril and Malene…’

Veronika stops him. ‘Don’t speak so fast,’ she says. ‘What did you say?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just stressed out. Tiril. And Malene.’

‘What about them?’

Daniel walks towards the kitchen and she follows after. He turns on the tap, places his mouth under it and drinks. His mind is reeling. There’s too much going on. Why should he care about that Pål guy? The people in the woods, the loser in the Metallica T-shirt, the sisters — how come he’s not able to sweep it aside?