Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Why am I not strong? Why don’t I shout out to them? Why don’t I lift my hands to the sky and scream? Why am I just standing here?

Sandra sniffs, then draws as much air as possible into her lungs and begins to run. She keeps close to the wall of the buildings so as not to be seen, running as fast as she can, her knees touching and hips swinging. What’s important now is not to think, just act, just be a seething jealous heart. When she gets to the end of the third block she sees them. Daniel has his helmet on and he’s mounting the moped, Veronika standing beside him. After he’s straddled it she climbs on behind. They haven’t spotted her. They’re too preoccupied with one another. Veronika puts her arms around his waist. She leans into him. Her chest presses against his back.

He starts the engine, reverses with his feet a couple of metres, then rides out of the car park, her red hair lifting up on the air like a pennant.

Just where Daniel and Veronika come out on to Folkeviseveien, there’s a bend in the road by a bus shelter before it continues on towards the big roundabout on Ullandhaugveien. Sandra has no choice. She can’t let the one she loves ride off with the one she hates. So she runs. She runs right across the green area backing on to the bus shelter and emerges on Folkeviseveien at the same time as the moped rounds the bend. Sandra runs on to the road, halts suddenly, and the rider of the moped can’t manage to stop. He is unable to manoeuvre round the girl who has dashed right out into the road and he runs her over.

It doesn’t hurt, Sandra thinks at the moment of impact, not me anyway. She takes a heavy blow to the head as her body is thrown to the ground. She tries to keep her eyes open because she wants to see what’s going on, but it’s difficult when it feels like something is cracking inside your head. What she thinks she sees is this: A boy, he’s called Daniel William Moi and she loves him, a boy running towards her with a moped helmet in his hand, a terrified-looking boy, a boy who shouts: ‘Fuck! Sandra! What the fuck?’ Behind him a girl standing beside a moped, a red-haired girl with a cut-up face, waving her hand about, shouting: ‘Leave her there! She did it on purpose! Leave her there!’ The boy she loves brings his hand down over his face, shakes his head and runs to the moped. Starts it up. Rides away. With his girl on the back.

You were tough now, Jesus, she thinks, and loses consciousness.

We may well be criminals, Jan Inge always says. We may well live outside the law. But that doesn’t mean we live without laws. We are prinicipled criminals, says Jan Inge, we have some ground rules. Which we live by. We won’t have any divergence between theory and practice, got it? They’ll be as one, you hear me?

Jefe Haraldsen.

One prize idiot after the other has come and gone. If the gap between theory and practice has been too wide then Jan Inge has asked them to sling their hook. Hansi, Tødden, Donald, Kjabbe, Sorry and Poster. Every one of them was kicked out over something that violated the fundamental priniciples. With the exception of Tong. He’s the only one who’s been let be even though there’s been a pretty big gap betwe—

Rudi shakes the urine off his cock. No, he thinks, there hasn’t been a big gap between theory and practice with Tong. He puts his cock back into his briefs, reflects on how cute and snug it looks all limp and curled up, and he washes his hands. The fact of the matter is that Jani has accepted Tong. Sort of like how it is with Lemmy. He can knock back as much Jack Daniels and do as much speed as he likes, but that doesn’t mean that other people can do it. Even Lemmy himself has been clear about that.

Rudi leans towards the mirror, opens his mouth wide, bares his teeth and picks out some food wedged between them.

Whilst the others have abided by Jani’s management priniciples, Tong has been allowed to step outside. Porn, dope and what have you. It’s a bit annoying and Rudi does feel slightly jealous. But what can you do. Solo-playing virtuosos have to be allowed to live outside the law.

And one of the management principles, Rudi thinks as he dries his hands and opens the door to the hall, is going into play today. We’re not junkies, but when we’re on a job we rack up a few lines. It’s a great fucking principle. Not so much as a gram in normal, everyday life. Just at work. An ever so little line of speed. Rudi loves amphetamine. Who doesn’t? Show me the man who can stand up and say, in all honesty, that speed isn’t a gift to mankind.

‘If everyone was as principled as us,’ Jan Inge says, ‘there’d be precious few problems in the world.’

Rudi enters the kitchen and is surprised not to be met by the sight of a table laid for breakfast. The wheelchair sits there, forsaken. Breadcrumbs on the worktop. An opened tin of pâté. A carton of apple juice with the cap off. The menstrual odour of a coffee machine that’s been on for hours. The time? Soon be half eight. Looks like people have been up a while. Chessi is probably just about arriving at Åna. Rudi rubs the back of his neck, opens the fridge and takes out the milk. He feels his faith being restored. Christ, she was great this morning, Chessi. No way she wants to screw that Pål guy.

Rudi makes himself a big glass of chocolate milk.

Where has Jan Inge got to?

He downs it in three gulps while looking out the window.

Another cracking day. Global warming, you’re more than welcome. Tong. Speed. A time-honoured classic. Ride Chessi.

‘Hey, caballero? ’ He plods into the living room. ‘ Jefe? Mein Führer, wo bist du? Dein Schweinhund ruft dick an !’

He looks in the direction of the hi-fi. There’s a bag on top of it, half-hidden under the shelf above. Rudi takes a few quick steps, gets hold of the bag, takes out the CD, opens the cover, presses eject, waits for the drawer to slide out then places the CD in. He does it all quickly so he won’t have an opportunity to stop himself. About time. He scans the back of the CD cover. Number seven. He skips forward. Turns the volume up. Waits two seconds.

Jesus. That is so good. Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du, du-du-du…

‘Hey!’

Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du, du-du-du du-du-du du…

‘Hey!’

The sound of Jani’s high-pitched voice cuts through the music. Rudi blushes and grins. ‘What the hell? What are you doing jumping round singing along to … what is that? The Bee Gees?’

The state of Jani. Dark, heavy rings under his eyes. Eyes flitting this way and that.

‘No, I — okay, brother. Mea culpa. You’re going to hate me for this, but — sorry. I must be getting old! I’ve hit the mid-life MOR crisis. I’ll soon be sitting here with a monocle and a bowl of lentil soup listening to Radio 4. It’s Coldplay. And yes, Rudi loves it. Kill me. Do away with me. That’s just how it is.’

Jan Inge shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ he says.

Huh? Rudi screws up his eyes.

‘We need—’ Jan Inge clears his throat and looks out the window, ‘we need to make a start on the day. Look at that garden. We’ll have to clear it out soon. But anyway. We’ve got a busy Thursday ahead. We have to drop round to Stegas—’

‘Hell yeah! Stegas!’

‘Yeah,’ continues Jan Inge, still somewhat awkwardly, ‘and we have to welcome Tong back—’

‘Fuck yeah! Tong.’

‘Can you calm down a little? Welcome Tong back — and then we have a moving job.’

‘Have we?’

‘A grand piano. Over in Våland. Furras Gate.’

Ah, for Christ’s sake.

‘A grand piano. I fucking hate humping pianos around. Seriously, Jani, how much longer do we have to—’