Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

His eyes, they feel as if there’s sand in them.

As if there’s a fine layer of tiny grains on the membrane. It’s been like that for weeks now. Nothing helps: not eye drops, not eye ointment, it won’t go away. The grains scrape against the membrane. If it keeps up, the particles will perforate the cornea and one day he’ll wake up unable to see the world.

Maybe it’s just as well.

Getting so sick of this.

It’s never going to work out, is it?

Pål wipes the mixer with the cloth, then folds it and hangs it over the tap. He leans on the worktop and fills his lungs with air, as though that would help. He hears the gush of the cistern from the first floor and he exhales, glances at the dog. The border collie is lying on a blanket next to the fireplace.

‘Eh, Zitha? Just as well, eh?’

The sound of the cistern subsides and it’s peaceful in the house. As peaceful as outside, where not even the lightest leaves on the trees stir beneath the yellow glow of the street lights. Not even the string hanging from the spruce tree moves; the string the girls used to hang milk cartons from, that they had cut holes in and stuck twigs through, so that the great tits could sit there and eat.

Dad? Can we have some raisins? Do birds eat raisins?

The milk carton’s gone, his wife’s gone, the girls are still here, and so is the string.

Pål squeezes his right eye shut and presses his forefinger against his eyelid in irritation. He turns on the radio. P4. Coldplay. A hit from a few years back. What’s it called again? Always so annoying when they don’t sing the title. Now in the morning I sleep alone. He switches off the radio. Everything is a reference to him, and he’s not able to take it in any more. He’s not able to watch TV, he’s not able to read the papers, he can sit with a book in his hand reading the same page sixteen times over without grasping what’s written.

All he can stand is silence, no matter how it might eat away at him.

Autumn came early this year, the first weeks in September were spattered with rain and chased by wind, but the days have suddenly brightened up. It’s as though summer wants to bid a final farewell. A glaring white sun sits low in the vast sky. From early morning it casts long shadows along the streets. It’s so strong it gives the impression it’s going to burn up the sky, and then itself.

Well, Zitha? You think Daddy’ll cope?

The dog has one paw curled up under her chest, the other alongside her lupine snout, idle and limp. Zitha takes on a slightly comical expression when she lies down flat on the blanket. Her ears are recumbent on her head, dainty and elegant.

She’s a reliable dog, a beautiful dog, and she has no idea about what’s going on with her master. Zitha just is. She sleeps. Plays. Runs. Eats. She stands in front of Pål with the same devotion, day in day out, tail wagging, bottom waggling, tongue hanging out.

He looks out of the windows facing the garden. It gets dark earlier now. The street lights are on by half past seven, it’s already dusk by then, and within half an hour it’s pitch black.

Summer began to ebb a month ago. People were still in T-shirts and shorts then. But soon it was over for the year. The leaves on the birch turned yellow, the rhododendron red, and deciduous trees began to fade. Women had to root out three-quarter length coats, the colours shifted to grey, brown and ochre and there were more and more hats to be seen. People started wearing shawls and scarves, they put away their trainers, and the kids were knocking about in fleece jackets and raingear.

Yeah, birds can eat raisins, they like them.

Is Mum coming back, Dad?

No, I don’t think she is.

Good while ago now.

The temperature dropped; the nights got colder. He saw the neighbour scraping ice off his car windscreen one morning; good thing he’s got a garage.

These unnaturally bright days are merely on loan. It’s summer’s last sigh and not something that will last. His body needs to adjust now, adapt to the new season, to the prolonged gloom that is on its way, to months of cold and darkness. The joints get stiff, the body gets heavy and sleep takes up more room.

Pål rubs his seasonally dry hands together and looks at Zitha. Her breathing is slow and heavy. Who knows if she’s dreaming, and who knows what she’s dreaming of behind that elegant brow of hers.

Getting incredibly sick of this.

‘Zitha!’

He smacks his lips and goes closer to the sleeping dog. She twitches, rises up on her front paws, yawns and stretches. Her tail starts whacking against the floor straight away, her tongue rolls out of her already salivating mouth.

‘Yeaah. Come on, Zitha. Yeaah.’

He walks towards the hall, Zitha scampering around his legs. He clears his throat, demonstrably. He says ‘Yeah, yeah!’ extra loudly as he takes the leash from the top drawer and sees the twinkle in her eyes.

This isn’t going to work. Is it?

The girls.

The dog’s tail is going like a wind-up toy, she scurries about happily in front of him. Pål rubs his eyes before bending over and feeling the blood tip in his head, as if his skull were a lab flask and everything was following gravity. He rubs Zitha under the chin, looks her in the eyes and meets the same boundless trust she’s always prepared to show.

Pål hears a door open upstairs. He puts on his coat, slips his feet into his shoes. He pats his inner pocket to see if the envelope is still there. It is.

They’re sharp, collies. Intelligent. When his wife left him and heard he was getting a dog, she said he should get a setter; go hunting like other men. Yeah, you would think that, said Pål. Setters, said Christine, her voice full of admiration, they run themselves into the ground given the chance. Collies, said Pål, they’re beautiful and they guard the house, that’s the kind of dog I want.

Just to run. To explode, to disappear.

That’s what he would like to do. That’s what he’s felt like doing of late. Run, explode, ready to disappear. In addition to numbness, anxiety, and shame; no one knows what I’m up to.

‘Shall I go with you, Dad?’

Footsteps on the carpet above.

The kids are the worst. It feels like Tiril and Malene are all that stand between him and what he is going to do. Malene is the worst. A daddy’s girl. She comes down the stairs, he knows her footsteps like he knows his own musty heart.

‘Hm? Shall I go with you?’

‘No, no.’ He can’t manage to meet her gaze. ‘Get on with your homework.’

‘I’ve finished.’

Pål sends her a puzzled smile. ‘I must be mixing you up with someone who doesn’t always do their homework. Where’s Tiril?’

‘At work, I guess.’

‘Yeah, of course.’

Malene frowns. She gets that strange grimace around her mouth, the one she has had since she was a baby, the one that makes her look like E.T. He’s almost on the verge of tears.

His daughter bends down to Zitha, strokes her snout affectionately, making her eyes narrow and slanted. She puts her face close to the dog’s, the dog licks her nose. ‘There, there, nice Zitha, nice Zitha, going for a walk with Dad.’