Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

He invites Rudi and Jan Inge in with a waggish smile. They are old acquaintances and even though Stegas could not be classified as a friend, it pleases Jan Inge to see him receive them as though they were family. It’s those kinds of things Jan Inge needs to be alive to. They need to take care of the few people they do collaborate with. And their relationship with Stegas is a shining example. He supplies them with what little they require of speed, tells them things they need to know and they protect Stegas whenever there’s call for it. They’ve roughed up a few people for him, individuals who were slow to settle their debts and so on. No money has ever changed hands between them. Merely information and services.

Jan Inge and Rudi are guided into Stegas’ living room, which like the man himself, looks the same as always. The big, deep leather sofas. The TV in the corner. The IKEA shelves holding cookbooks and a sizeable collection of DVDs. A lot of musicals, in fact. A complete collection of The Eurovision Song Contest . Cosy. It always has been. Something Rudi isn’t slow to comment upon.

‘I’m always inspired, Stegas, when we visit you — you keep your place so clean, bright and homely.

Stegas nods. ‘Just can’t stand being surrounded by crap. Probably something I inherited from my mother.’

‘Oh yeah, Jesus!’ Rudi almost jumps up off the sofa. ‘Sorry for your loss, fuck, we heard about that. Cancer?’

Stegas brings his hand across his face, nodding slowly. ‘Embedded itself in her liver,’ he sighs. ‘Began eating her up. Three years it took.’

‘Sorry, man,’ Jan Inge says, while at the same time being aware of how unimaginable it is to be in Stegas’ shoes, to actually miss his mother. Difficult, even for a person with as much empathy as Jan Inge.

‘We’re all headed that way,’ Stegas says, his eyes moist. ‘But she lives in my heart.’

‘Intense,’ says Rudi.

‘Anyway,’ Jan Inge says, hearing the gush of a cistern somewhere in the house. ‘How’s the foot?’

‘Ah,’ Stegas says, giving it a slap of his hand. ‘Same old. Not really able to use it. Getting disability benefits for it. Never griped. Could’ve had whiplash, you know.’

‘Intense,’ says Rudi.

‘Benefits,’ repeats Stegas, ‘they keep me afloat. Fuckin’ good thing we live in Norway and not Romania. Things wouldn’t be looking too bright for Stegas.’

‘Words of truth.’

A chubby guy in jogging bottoms and a hoodie comes padding into the living room. He’s wearing a headset, the thin microphone arm bobbing up and down in front of his mouth, making him look like some kind of pilot. He nods to Jan Inge and Rudi, walks past, sits down in front of the TV and resumes Battlefield 3 .

‘Bunny,’ says Stegas. ‘He’s crashing here at the moment. Doing a few odd jobs for me. That right, Bunny?’

‘Sure,’ says the chubby guy.

‘That right, you’re doing a few odd jobs for me?’

‘Sure, that’s right,’ says the pilot guy. ‘Freeze, fucker! Freeze!’

‘Good bloke, Bunny,’ Stegas says. ‘Aren’t you, Bunny?’

‘Sure,’ comes the voice from the TV corner. ‘Boom! Hell awaits, my friends.’

‘So,’ says Stegas, reaching for a teacup he has on the coffee table, ‘you want a few lines? Got a job on?’

Rudi slaps his knees and gets a warm look in his eyes. ‘A time-honoured classic,’ he says. ‘We’re going to give a guy who’s in need of cash a beating. Insurance.’

‘Mmm,’ Stegas drinks from the cup, nodding appreciatively, ‘very fucking nice to do something by the book now and then. Too little of that in the times we live in.’

‘Fuck, if that’s not the truth then I don’t know what is,’ exclaims Rudi. ‘Way too much computer crime for my taste nowadays, often feel like I can’t put myself to use. So safe to say we need a few lines. Jani, Tong, Chessi and me.’

‘Two hours,’ says Stegas. ‘Drop: Stokkavann, the large lake. By the boulder.’

‘You’ve changed it around? Thought you always used the old cannon emplacement up on Hinnaberget.’

Stegas nods. ‘Alternating arrangement.’

‘Jesus,’ Rudi says, ‘you’ve such a good system.’

‘A system is the key to success,’ Jan Inge says.

‘Good spot all right, eh, Bunny?’ says Stegas.

‘Die, Mofo!’ says the podgy guy with the headset. ‘Here comes Bunny! Die! What?’

Rudi and Jan Inge get to their feet. Stegas follows them into the hall. Jan Inge gives their old friend a hug. ‘And you make sure to get in touch,’ he says. ‘You know we’ll be there for you, pronto.’

‘Appreciate it,’ Stegas says. ‘Say hello to Tong, that Paki bastard. Tell him welcome home.’

‘Pronto,’ Rudi repeats. ‘Anyone needs doing over, we’re there. Any supplies you need, TV, washing machine, whatever, give us a call — let your fingers do the walking. Stokkavannet. The boulder. Only a good thing for us to be seen out and about today taking a walk round Stokkavannet — that is supersupersupersmooth, Stegas, that is … You know what? Coming here today, it makes me feel two things, and both of those emotions are pretty tightly linked. One is of entering a church. Of walking into a church, finding your place amongst the row of benches and sensing the light of Jesus warming up your bones. And the other, brotherofdope, the other, it’s — and this is very personal — it’s the feeling of coming home to Gran. Walking through her door. Noticing that good old smell. Coffee and Swiss roll. Going up the steps. Seeing her sitting in her chair listening to, fuck, Franz Liszt or something.’

Stegas nods slowly during Rudi’s emotional outburst. Jan Inge watches the dealer. He can see something’s going on behind those eyes.

‘Strong words, fucking intense,’ says Stegas. ‘You know, Rudi, my mother used to listen to Franz Liszt too. Sweet Jesus. The old masters. He was the Elton John of his day, that guy. The two of you need to get the hell out of here before old Stegas starts blubbering. I’ll stick in an extra four grams and I won’t hear any more about it. Franz Listz. I’ll never forget that. I’m going to bring Bunny along this afternoon and pay Mum’s grave a visit. That’s what I’m going to do.’

Jan Inge and Rudi walk out into the harsh light.

This is what we have, Jan Inge thinks as they amble along towards the car. This is what we have built up. Good relations. And everything is just going to be torn down?

RIPPED INTO PIECES, TRAMPLED AND STOMPED ON.

Rudi looks at him. ‘Shit, man, are you crying?’

‘It’s just the light,’ Jan Inge says, and clears his throat before turning to Rudi: ‘Think about it. Tea. Musicals. The Eurovision Song Contest. Frank List.’

‘Eh?’

They stop in front of the car and Jan Inge takes the keys out. ‘You don’t see it?’

‘No, wha?’

‘I always knew there was something about him,’ says Jan Inge and sighs. ‘Slightly prissy. And it’s been there, right under our noses, all these years. A homo. A little fairy. A proctologist. A rear-gunner. Elton John. Bunny. Frank List. Hm, Rudi? How many surprises is this life going to have in store?’

RIPPED INTO TINY PIECES.

Rudi shakes his head slowly. ‘Jesus,’ he says, ‘that’s tough to take, Ironside. You remember Gaupa’s mother? She was never the same after she found out her son was gay. Trine, Gaupa’s sister, said their mother sat chewing tree bark throughout her entire menopause. That’s how I feel now. Betrayed by one of my best friends. Society is on the road to hell; we’ll soon be surrounded by ass bandits and Muslims playing computer games, and you and me, brother, we’ll be out in the cold, searching for a place to breathe freely.