Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Rudi threw his arms around Jan Inge: ‘Fuck, brother. I thank the Lord and Gran that you exist. When’s the first moving job? By the hour or fixed price?’

Jan Inge is proud of how he handled things in those tough few weeks back in 1996. If he hadn’t hit upon the idea of establishing a company and presenting them as law-abiding citizens they’d all be wearing Åna-issue clothing and answering to a number by now. The scheme had occurred to him while he and Cecilie were sitting in the living room gorging on horror film after horror film and the rain hammered on the roof and transformed the garden into a pool. Watch out, Jan Inge. Do something before it’s too late. So don’t come here saying horror harms the mind; horror is a wellspring of creativity, horror yields unity, horror makes you see what’s important here in this world and helps you choose the right path. And he’s going to write about that in his book; how pain brings about good.

Ever since those rainy days in autumn 1996 there’s been a steady stream of calls on The Other Telephone. Marketing? All you need is a number in the phone book, a listing under Removal Services and it takes care of itself.

‘Yes, Mariero Moving?’

‘Yes, hello, me and my wife need help moving from Hundvåg. Do you provide a cleaning service as well?’

‘Specialist cleaning? Kein Problem ! We have a highly trained cleaning consultant, she can take care of everything while you sun yourselves on the veranda.’

Last Thursday: The Other Telephone rang again. Jan Inge walked to the office with a wobbling gait, sat down in the old leather chair and picked up the receiver: ‘Mariero Moving, Haraldsen speaking, how can I help?’

A grand piano. On Furras Gate. In Våland. Stavanger. Not exactly their favourite kind of job. Good thing Tong is going to be here; Jan Inge’s abilty to lift and hump things around has become somewhat limited since the weight piled on.

Jan Inge and Rudi trudge to the garage and open the large door. They still haven’t seen any sign of Tommy Pogo, and Jan Inge can feel it beginning to prey on his mind. Knowing he’s going to come is worse than him turning up unannounced.

Rudi sighs as his eyes fall on the white van. ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘my heart aches every time I see the Hiace. We have ein tolles auto right here and we only ever use it for moving.’

‘Rudi,’ says Jan Inge, ‘no one is touching the moving van. This is half the reason we can live like we do. You remember autumn 1996?’

‘Course I remember autumn 1996,’ says Rudi, a dark look coming over his eyes: ‘Did you hear what happened to the Botnevass Gang, by the way?’

‘No,’ says Jan Inge and switches on the ceiling light in the garage, producing a nice sheen on the roof of the vehicle. ‘Presumed they were still doing their thing.’

‘In hospital, all nine of them. Brothers, sisters, cousins and I don’t what else. Torleif, Mary, Anton, Jo-Lene, Salve, Odd Harald, Ånen, Steven, and ehm … what’s her name … the one in those films … ehm … yeah, Nancy Rose. Crushed both legs, she did. So that’s the movie career finished.’

‘Hah.’ Jan Inge opens the van door and peeks inside. ‘Nancy Rose. She could be doing with my wheelchair.’

The van is spick and span, ready to go to work in.

‘Went how you thought it would, then?’

‘Not quite,’ says Rudi, peering over Jani’s shoulder. ‘They hit a rock face beside the road on the way home from Sweden Rock. They skidded after Ånen, swerved trying to avoid hitting a fox waltzing along the road. So they say, anyway. The bus broke through the crash barrier not far from Liknes, slammed straight into a rock face. Hilde from the shop says that stuff about the fox is bollocks, she says Grandpa Botnevass fiddled with the brakes because he thought they were bringing shame on the family name. But apparently old Father Solomon told her that if she opens her mouth one more time, he’s going to come down from the mountain and make sure she never sees the light of day again. They say Grandma Rose Marie couldn’t care less, never liked her kids anyway, apart from the one she lost when he was a baby, Kjell Ivar. They say she regrets ever marrying that mad priest, was so beautiful she could have had her pick of anything in trousers up there, whether they were called Botnevass, Øyvass, Kissvass, Vedvass, Sandvass, Skjerlevass, Storevass, Vestvass, Krokevass, Svodvass, Grunnevass or Movass. And she had to choose the biggest headcase of them all. Solomon Botnevass.

‘Not good,’ Jan Inge says, turning around, ‘not much luck in that family.’

‘Well, you know, brother, better to be good than lucky.’

‘Words of truth.’

‘It’s how it is; some families are haunted by demons and evil spirits. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were back on their feet in a year’s time. Wait and see, back on track with bus porn for the handicapped. They still haven’t hit the Chinese in Flekkefjord. Torleif is sure the owner is sitting on a few hundred thousand in cash. Probably only a question of time.’

‘Everything, Rudi, can be transformed into a question of time,’ says Jan Inge. ‘It’s the essence of every good horror movie.’

‘Philosophy again,’ says Rudi, nodding. ‘It’s so you, while the rest of us are discussing nuts and bolts and baseballs and batons, you’re hovering above in the clouds.’

‘You don’t find it odd that Tommy hasn’t shown up yet?’

They look at one another.

Rudi nods.

‘Yeah,’ he whispers. ‘Now that you mention it.’

Jan Inge nods. ‘Kind of stressing me out, I have to say.’ He points towards the back garden. ‘Speaking of stress,’ he says. ‘There’s still that there.’

An overgrown garden that hasn’t served as a garden for decades, old mattresses, two rusty wheelbarrows, hubcaps and tyres, rotten planks, a broken lawnmower, Cecilie’s old Raleigh bicycle, Mum’s washing machine, the couch from the basement, which was once red, now the colour of sun-bleached vomit, snapped spades and rakes, a broken TV, a video recorder, the three panel radiators Dad bought right before he left, a total of eight pallets, an enormous amount of smaller pieces of scrap, half a pair of shears, screws and washers, a door handle and in the south corner a rusted rotary clothes line, the one Jan Inge always thought looked like an umbrella when he was small, the one he always thought he was going to lift up in his little hand, hold up in the rain.

‘Looks like a bloody tip. How long has that fridge been there?’

‘1987.’

‘Big clear-out so.’

‘Sunday.’

Rudi spits on the ground and accepts the inevitable.

Jan Inge hears the familiar sound of the Volvo behind him, the splutter of its engine coming down the street. He straightens up and looks at Rudi. A smile spreads across both their faces and they consign Tommy Pogo to the back of their minds for the time being. They walk out into the white sunshine.

The Volvo comes to a halt by the bins and the car doors open. Cecilie gets out from the driver’s side. Jan Inge is struck by an uneasy feeling as he watches her walk with an unsteady step and a wavering look in her eyes. Tong gets out from the other side. He looks like a walking chunk of iron, and Jan Inge realises that he’s in no way happy that Tong is home, that he is in no way happy that Tong may well be the father of the child Cecilie is carrying.

‘Hey! Fuck yeah! Holy shit!’

Rudi vaults the porch wall, opens his arms and pulls the Korean close while slapping him repeatedly on the back: ‘There you are, you sick bastard! Shit, we have missed you! So bloody good to see you! Hell, wilkommen zu Hause ! Toooooooooooooooooooogong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong!’