Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘Yeah…’

‘What are we going to do?’

‘I…’

‘Tiril, you have to say something, what will we do? I mean, we said it was Shaun and Sandra, that’s what Frida’s told them, but … Tiril? What are we going to do?’

Then Tiril begins to cry.

All she manages to think is that it must be years since she has, since she’s cried. Then she moves off. Twisting away, determinedly, but without anger, from Malene’s consolatory hand, and walks across the schoolyard.

Shaun runs after her. ‘Hey, baby, do you need, like, help? I mean, we can’t be sure that … you know, it could turn out all right, all this.

He’s sweet again now, sweet and small and stupid as a smurf, and cool in a way, but what does that matter when you’ve killed a person, what does that matter when you’ve chosen lies in order to satisfy your own rage, what the fuck does it matter when you’re the one who’s pressed The Big Red Button, the button that opens a trapdoor in the floor under another person, when you’re the one who’s done it, all because you’re so wrapped up in yourself, so busy thinking about being first, being biggest, being best, what does it matter then that Scrat stands in front of you asking if you want his nut?

Tiril shakes her head, rebuffs him with a wave of her hand and walks towards the gym hall. Scrat stands looking after her.

She walks towards the large building and the others let her go. She rounds the corner, sniffles and spits, takes a cigarette from her packet and wonders what in the hell she’s going to do. Just say balls to everything? Screw the singing. Don’t be bothered about Dad, about Malene, about the songbirds, about Mum in Bergen, about love, to hell with everything; and she means everything . This old school, this Stavanger suburb, the telecom tower on top of Ullandhaug, the hill at Limahaugen, these streets, everything.

If you take another person’s life, you have to offer your own.

She hears the sound of footsteps while standing there. She sees a little guy scurrying towards her. He has an awful running style, not even bothering to take his hands out of his pockets. He has a fresh shiner, a daft-looking body and his head wobbles as though not properly attached to his neck. He draws closer and he’s only thirteen years old, but pants and puffs like he has lung disease and he clearly won’t give up.

Shaun comes to a halt in front of her. He’s sweating and needs to swallow, put his palms on the wall and gather himself before he manages to say anything: ‘Just wanted … fuck … okay, give me a sec here … just wanted … awh … shit … people don’t always die because their consciousness faints … or … yeah … I just wanted to say that you have to sing tonight and … well … you’ll figure out what we should say, y’know … you’ll figure out what’s right, because that’s your style … and everyone says you should all go ahead and sing … that no matter what happens, we’ll sing, because it’s … shit … like solidarity and international and the environment and that … nobody’s going to give up, we’re not going to let fear … get the upper hand, or something like that …. Anyway, the headmaster says the international, like, workshop is going ahead and everyone’s talking about unity, and fellowship and solidarity … and you’re going to sing … because it doesn’t help not to sing … or … I can’t exactly sing myself … but that’s probably just me … anyway … yeah … I just wanted to … hear if you needed help with anything … I’m like really into you … Tiril?

Men? Cecilie walks a few paces behind them. They’re not real men, not that lot. A fat guy who’s always eating crisps, watching horror movies and thinks he’s a business executive. A beanpole with ADHD who walks around with a constant hard-on and lies in bed crying at night. A twisted Korean brute without any feelings at all. They’re just little boys. They haven’t grown up at all, they’re just like they were twenty-five years ago, the only difference is that any charm they had then is long gone.

That’s how boys are.

They never grow up. They grow down.

I’d do anything for you.

Cecilie has her eyes fixed on Tong’s back as they walk along Store Stokkavann. The white sun shimmers on the surface of the water, one or two people out walking pass in the opposite direction. She wants to explode. The fact she had sex with him the whole summer. The guy is just plain evil.

She lets her gaze drift from the back of Tong’s taut neck, via her brother’s bloated neck over to Rudi’s unsteady bird neck. A feeling of guilt spreads in her stomach; the way she’s treated him over the years. He’s been there right in front of her with that glittering intensity of his, waiting upon her every single second, and what has she done?

Cecilie dries away a tear from under one eye as they enter the wooded area along the east bank of the lake, about a kilometre and a half along the trail, and the boys slow down and exchange glances.

‘Yeah,’ says Rudi, his voice a little despondent, ‘feel a little ashamed now, fetching that stuff. I mean, with that woman and her piano and everything. Those grandkids of hers. Jørgen and whatever the hell his name was.’

Jan Inge pokes at the gravel with the tip of his shoe. ‘Svein Anders.’

Tong looks out at the lake.

‘We need to pick it up anyway,’ says Jan Inge. ‘Did you hear, Tong, what we found out?’

Tong looks at Jan Inge with disinterest.

‘Yep,’ Jan Inge says. ‘Stegas is a homo. Eh? You wouldn’t have guessed that. Sits at home baking muffins, lighting candles and climbing on top of Bunny.’

‘Each to their own,’ Rudi mutters, ‘but it’s not natural.’

‘Amen,’ Jan Inge nods, ‘amen to that.’

Tong spits on the ground. ‘And you’re still working with him all the same?’

‘Listen,’ Rudi says, ‘I’ll tell you something. Stegas … I agree. It’s against the word of the Lord. It’s against nature. It’s disfuckingusting.’ He pauses and turns to look at Tong. ‘But when you get older, when life begins to … when life begins to … how can I explain this … okay: when I was five, life was simple. It was like this: Get up! Go out! Play with something! Get fed! Sleep! When I was fifteen, it was like this: Get up! Go out! See if I could get laid! Get fed! Sleep! Y’know, simple, yeah? Nothing to get philosophical about. But then. Okay. Tong. And you need to listen fucking closely here. And there was me thinking you’d had time to do some thinking in the joint. I have to say, I thought you’d become richer, not poorer in there, but fair enough, our time as colleagues will soon be over, so hey, I can say what I think: You understand, after a while, that simple, that is the one thing which life is not. It’s … shit, I don’t know what you’d call it…’

‘Ambiguous?’ Jan Inge says. ‘Is that what you’re thinking of?’

‘Ambiguous …’ Rudi sways his head from side to side, ‘yeeeah … but…’

‘Multifaceted?’ Jan Inge inquires. ‘Could that be the word?’

‘Better,’ says Rudi, continuing to move his head from side to side as he sucks on his lip, ‘but…’

‘What you might be thinking of,’ says Jan Inge, sweating in the sunshine, ‘is the sense of majesty. Of gravity. A feeling of interminable complexity.’

Rudi stops swaying his head, bends down, picks up a stone from the gravel path and throws it out into the lake.

‘You’ve put your finger on it,’ Rudi says solemnly, before turning again to Tong. ‘It’s probably true that you don’t fit in with us. We’re on a different level from you. We’re alive to the feeling of gravity, to the feeling of majesty. What is it Deep Purple sing? “I’m a blind man and my world is pale.” Well, I can see very well, as Elton John sings on “Madman Across the Water”, and yeah, I’m not quoting Elton because I like him, I’m quoting him out of reluctant respect for his fellow bumchum Stegas, and I’m not quoting him because my brother, that jackal, didn’t listen to anything but Elton when I was small, before he became a Cars fan, but that’s another thing entirely. But anyway, my brother — who I have a serious problem even talking about, in fact even the mention of my brother makes me bristle, so when I bring him, that rat, up, you know that I’ve something important to say, something that surpasses my hatred for him, burninhellyoubastard . He used to sit there going on about Elton this and Elton that … shit! Now I’ve forgotten what I was on about. Why am I even talking about that git, get thee behind me, carpenter! I hope you drown in your own puke! I find it so fucking hard … my own brother … and to think we slept in the same room when we were small … in the bunk beds … not to mention my own fam … my own fam—’