Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

The tone of her voice. Just like it’s always been.

‘Yeah. No. I don’t know. I’m just…’

Then the line goes quiet. It takes him by surprise, to the extent of making him nervous, as though something unpleasant is going to happen. It only remains quiet for a short time, Pål feels his heart pounding in his chest, and then he hears her say: ‘Is anything wrong, Pål?’

‘No, good gracious, wrong? With the kids? No, no, God.’

‘No, Pål. With you,’ she says. ‘With you, Pål.’

He lived with her so long, knew her so well. She lived with him so long and knew him so vexingly well. Pål’s eyes fall on the spruce tree in the garden.

‘You remember that spruce tree?’

‘Huh?’

‘I’m standing looking at the old spruce tree in the garden. The one the girls hung milk cartons from, you know, with food for the birds.’

‘Pål, sorry, have you been drinking?’

He smiles. Holds the phone out, as though it were a torch, before he brings it back to his face and says: ‘No, listen, sorry about this, stupid of me to call. A whim, really.’

She laughs, exactly the same old laughter. ‘Are you becoming impulsive, Pål?’

He laughs in response. ‘Yeah, that’d be a turn up for the books, wouldn’t it?’

‘So, have you everything you need? The girls I mean, everything they need?’

‘Yes,’ he answers, quick as a flash, and thinks: what if I just say it? Tell her everything. How little money I’ve got. What I’ve done. Household and contents. Personal injury. What’s going to happen.

‘Good,’ Christine says. ‘So when is it Tiril’s on stage again?’

‘Oh, I’m not sure, I think it’s seven it starts, isn’t it?’ he replies, realising he doesn’t actually know when it begins. He walks over to the board in the kitchen, sees the note pinned there, reads: 7 p.m. ‘Yeah, seven.’

Oh Jesus, he thinks, as he hears her breathe into the receiver.

‘Well,’ he hears her say.

Oh no.

‘Why not?’

No no.

‘I mean, I would actually manage to make it.’

‘Wow,’ he says, closing his eyes. He should have anticipated it. That she would consider doing it. Actually come.

‘Okay, listen, Pål, I’ll check it out, all right? I have a meeting now, but I’ll get Ragnfrid to look at the flight times, and then I’ll let you know, okay? Keep it to yourself, in case I don’t make it. What’s she’s singing, by the way? Will you have time to pick me up at Sola airport?’

‘Eh?’

‘Will you have time to pi — no, forget it. The kids will notice. I’ll get a taxi. What’s she going to sing?’

‘Evanescence,’ Pål says, in a meek voice.

‘Oh Christ, that’s awful. Does she still like that?’

‘She loves it. “My Immortal”.’

‘For fuck’s sake. What about Malene, is she okay?’

‘Malene, yeah she—’

‘Okay, I’ll be in touch.’

Click.

Zitha’s snout brushes the back of his hand. Pål stands with the telephone in his hand staring vacantly ahead without looking at anything at all. Is she going to come? Here? Today? It feels as though his feet are leaving the ground and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Frida Riska’s meticulously applied red-varnished toenails gleam like a row of pearls protruding from under the vamp of her shoe. Her navy skirt sits tightly on her hips and narrow waistline, around which hangs a thin, coquettish belt, which lends her an air of youthful ease. The same air she has exuded in the classrooms and corridors of Gosen School since she began there thirty years ago, and had the reputation of being the prettiest teacher at the entire school, maybe even in the whole area, if not in all of Stavanger.

Dad laughs every time Malene mentions Frida Riska, he can’t help it: is she still there? Everyone was head over heels in love with her, we weren’t able to follow what she was saying in class she was so pretty, but she was edgy too, heh heh, is she still there? You know, one day she came in, those high cheekbones of hers almost glowing from the moment she stepped into the classroom, and she was wearing these really sexy tights and she stood in front of the blackboard and said, without any preamble: ‘You know what, I woke up this morning and I thought, Jesus, I’m going to have to face those hopeless pupils again, and I just about managed to drag myself to school — well, now you know, so you can get down to proving me wrong.’ Is she still like that?

Yes, Malene thinks, as they enter the schoolyard and see Frida Riska hurrying across it with two ring binders pressed to her chest; she’s still like that. The prettiest and most unconventional, but also the best teacher they have, she’s always on the fringes of what is acceptable; like she has no respect at all for the Norwegian school system. Malene said to Dad once: I think she really wants to run everything herself and doesn’t care a jot about what she’s been tasked to teach us. Yeah, he said, laughing, you can be sure she does. She might look very middle class, Frida, but in reality she’s an anarchist.’

‘An anarchist, what’s that?’

Dad laughed. ‘Ask Tiril,’ he said. ‘Or better yet, just look at Tiril and Frida, then you’ll know.’

Frida stops up as she catches sight of the quartet walking past the bike racks. Typically, she remains unruffled, merely tilts her head slightly to the side and drums her fingers on the ring binders she’s clutching to her chest, before approaching them with that characteristic sway of her hips on her high heels. Malene casts a quick glance at Sandra, who is attempting to stand unaided, but being supported by Tiril. Shaun looks somewhat better than previously, but his pupils are still swimming like tiny fish in his glassy eyes.

Frida’s hips come to a halt. She stands in front of them, her back straight. Her eyes move in measured fashion from one of them to the other, her gaze resting just long enough on each of them to let them know they’ve been seen, singled out and exposed.

‘Yes?’ she says.

None of them manage to respond. Malene expects Tiril to pipe up, but for once — perhaps because of Frida — she doesn’t seize the chance.

The middle finger of Frida’s left hand taps a steady rhythm on the ring binders. ‘Yes,’ she repeats, ‘what do I have before me?’ She raises her right arm gracefully and checks the slim silver watch on her wrist. ‘A quarter to twelve. It’s a long time since I’ve worked as a babysitter, but it goes without saying that when four such distinguished students — distinguished and talented each in their own way — when four such students arrive in school so late in the day, it is not atypical for it to warrant surprise, or what do you think yourselves? Particularly when two of you look like you’ve been involved in a fracas. Shaun? Sandra? And perhaps even more so when one of these two — you, Sandra — is the last person I could imagine being in a fight. You, Shaun, on the other hand, I can easily envisage being embroiled in all manner of conflicts. What do you have to say for yourselves?’

Tiril comes to life and takes a step forward. ‘Sandra took a tumble on her bike. She crashed into Shaun on the way to school. Me and Malene saw it—’

‘Malene and I,’ Frida interrupts, ‘go on…’

‘Malene and I — yeah, it happened by the tower blocks, not far from where we live, and we saw them, on the way to school, they crashed. Really badly.’

Frida Riska checks her watch again. ‘A quarter to twelve. Almost ten to twelve. And so you’ve used several hours then, to reflect upon this bicycle accident?’

Sandra shifts her weight on to her other foot and wheezes audibly. Malene sees they’ve now aroused other people’s interest, the faces of more and more pupils are appearing in the windows of the classrooms. Sandra looks pale. Frida — Dad once termed her a hawk — takes a step towards Sandra.