See You Tomorrow (16 page)

He raises his heavy behind off the wheelchair and takes a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. He reads:

1. Film of the week:
   The Abominable Dr Phibes
   (R. Fuest 1971).
   
2. Pitch in and fix up the garden. This weekend? If so who’s getting hold of a trailer for all the shit?
   
3. Are we going to W.A.S.P. in Oslo on 24th October? If so who’s sorting out tickets, transport and somewhere to stay? NB: We’re not sleeping over at Tom B’s in Holmlia! Remember what happened last time!
   
4. Update on yesterday’s meeting w/ Pål. What’s happening? Progress?
   
5. Friday. Tong. What are we doing? Party? Dinner? Just let him relax? Suggestions?
   
6. Misc. Anyone have anything they want to share?
   

Jan Inge folds the note, and feeling primed and strong within, wheels himself out into the hall. And just as he’s about to call out ‘good morning, Wednesday, breakfast meeting’, he hears creaking from the bed in Rudi and Cecilie’s room. He swallows and trundles a little closer, hears a kind of banging on the floor, then Rudi’s deep voice: ‘Jesus! Chessi, turn round, let me see that ass. Yess! Lift it up, chica, come on! YESS! Live porn from Hillevåg! Hands up, your pussy or your life, yess, right there, yeah, my little whore, oh yeah, here comes Mr Cock, oh you’re so big, hips like shelves, oh, heeeelp, mamma, ooh it’s so big, ooh it’s ready to burst, ooh mamma, you don’t need to come after all, I can come myself! It’s a
partay
on my ass! Into the darkness, for the twenty-seventh year in a row! And-peo-ple-go-and-get-
div-or-
ced! Sitting on the internet pulling their plum and going to nightclubs for strange cock. Ahh. I’m yours till the mountains fall into the sea. Okay, okay … now … now … okay … we’re on
our way, my soldiers and me … Can you hear the artillery thunder across the battlefield? WE’RE A MILLION STRONG AND WE DON’T NEED NO WORLD WIDE WEB TO SPREAD US! HERE IT COMES, THE WORLD WIDE FUCK! SweetjesusIfuckingloveitwhenIgettoslapthatfuckingass!’

Jan Inge remains quiet and motionless for a few minutes.

Sits there weighing things up against one another.

‘But my horror movies,’ he whispers to himself, ‘I’ll never lose them. And Johnny Cash, he’ll never stop singing. And Cecilie’s pigtails, they’re burned on to my memory. And the sun,’ whispers Jan Inge, becoming aware of a rapid blinking in both his eyes as he hears Cecilie begin to whimper from inside, as he hears Rudi’s voice get even louder, ‘the sun, that will never leave me. And on my grave,’ he whispers, feeling his eyes well up, ‘on my grave it’ll say: This is the last resting place of the Master, here lies the Son of the Sun, 120 kilos of cosmic love, Yoga Yani, Jan Inge King, the Thinker from Hillevåg.’

No: a new day. The switches in his brain come on, crackling and flickering, like fluorescent tubes lighting up one after the other down a long corridor. His thoughts revive him. They're painful, they're fraught. They arrive along with feelings of self-contempt and nausea. His ears pick up a sound from the street, a neighbour's car driving past, maybe it's the guy in number fourteen who works as a builder. A noise from the bathroom increases in strength, one of the girls turning on the shower. Morning is here, the ground emitting a citrus smell as the temperature rises. But PÃ¥l feels no joy. He's unable to participate. When was the last time he woke up happy, feeling rested and rejuvenated? He can't remember. It feels like he's waking up inside an egg, it's felt like that for an eternity and it's as though he's never going to get out. He doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to be this man and wishes he never woke up again. Don't flick on these switches in my head. Don't come to me with this darkness. No: not a new day.

‘Dad?'

If he only had one more chance.

‘Daaad!'

PÃ¥l props himself up on his elbows, throws back the duvet, swings his body round and sits on the edge of the bed. His holds his head in his hands, then drops them on his knees, lets his blood settle.

Footsteps. Then stomping on the stairs. Tiril.

The door's going to be opened in a moment. He gulps, tousles his hair and plasters a smile on his face. His eyes. There's still sand in them.

If he only had one chance to erase everything he's done.

There. The door's opening.

‘Hi, Tiril,' he says, smiling. ‘Good morning, love. Come here and give me a hug.'

He stretches his arms out towards her, noticing straight away how weak they feel. She remains standing in the doorway. She's wearing so much make-up, so black around the eyes. Her clothes, the red-and-black skirt, the cut-up tights, the braces, all the button badges, skulls, band names and slogans, the lank hair.

Zitha comes scurrying in. PÃ¥l takes a hold of her under the snout, looks in her eyes and she licks his face before lying down obediently, expectantly at his feet.

‘There's no bread,' Tiril says, folding her arms and planting her feet apart. ‘And there's no milk or fruit. And you're never up out of bed.'

He shrugs awkwardly, reaches for his trousers on the chair and takes his wallet from the pocket.

‘Here, look—'

She sighs. ‘That's just great, Dad.'

‘What do you mean—?'

‘Whatever. Give me the money. That'll fix everything. Why not just leave the fridge empty?'

She stands with her hand out in front of him, refusing to meet his gaze.

‘But Tiril, honey, I just forgot … it'll be fine, listen, I'll get to the shops after—'

She remains unmoved, her hand out. She reminds him so much of his wife sometimes. Barging into the room, no hug, no good morning, nothing, just instructions and demands. PÃ¥l hands her the hundred kroner note, wants her to know that he has money, that he's taking care of what needs taking care of.

‘Will that cover lunch too?'

She crosses her arms again.

‘Imagine we ate a normal breakfast now and again,' she says.

‘But … but we do?' He rubs his eyes, pulls on his trousers. Holds out another hundred. ‘Don't we? I mean, at the weekends—'

New footsteps on the stairs. Sounding easier, lighter. Malene. Zitha raises her head, wags her tail. Malene walks in the door, glances at both of them and then at the hundred kroner note he's waving.

She goes over and stands beside her sister. Both of them look at him as he pulls on his T-shirt, puts on his socks.

‘What?' Pål tries to laugh but can't manage. ‘What is it?'

Malene's chest rises and falls. She doesn't make a big deal of it as she takes the money from his hand. She tilts her head slightly to one side. The fact that the two of them are sisters. Hard to comprehend sometimes. He remembers taking them to the playground when they were small. Tiril triggered into life as soon as she caught sight of the place, the colourful apparatus, the sandbox, sprinting towards them with almost frightening excitement, jumping on to the swings, never getting enough,
faster, Dad, faster.
Malene would walk in calmly. Go over to a swing. Sit down upon it. Examine it. Begin to sway, carefully,
that's high enough, Dad, that's enough.

Tiril's eyes are red, she turns on her heels and leaves the room. While she's tramping down the stairs she shouts: ‘Zitha's been fed! I won't be home for dinner! Be back late! Got rehearsals!'

‘But—' Pål tries to raise his voice a notch. But he lacks the strength.

Malene remains standing in front of him. He knows he treats her as though she was an adult and not his daughter, but he can't help himself. ‘What was that?' he asks. ‘What is it now? Have I done something wrong? I forgot to go shopping, but there's a lot happening in work at the moment, Malene, you've no idea – do you think I deserve that kind of treatment? Hm? Do you? I've done my best for the two of you, you know I have, and it hasn't been easy either—'

What am I doing now?

‘…as I'm sure you know, it hasn't always been so easy … Being practically a single parent, for the both of you, that's not easy either, Malene, trying to keep things together, I do my best, you know that, right? You know that, don't you? Honey? That I'd never do either of you any harm? That I'm doing the best I can? And she comes in and then storms back out accusing me of all sorts…'

What am I thinking of?

‘…you understand, don't you, Malene?'

He forces himself to cry. Jesus, I've sunk so low, he thinks, while he squeezes out a few crocodile tears. What kind of father
am I, what am I doing. Why can't I get out of bed, check the day's school times, wake my girls up and make them both a packed lunch, what am I doing?

The tears come, he almost believes they're real.

Malene puts her arms around him, hugs him, in that grown-up way of hers.

‘Dad,' she says. Runs her hand up and down his back. ‘Shhh. I understand.'

He lets her hold him tight. It feels good.

Then he sniffles, breaks free of her embrace.

‘Oh dear,' he says, ‘your Dad is such an fool, eh?'

PÃ¥l bends over to Zitha.

‘Dad's such a fool, eh, Zitha? Yeeah, good girl, yeeah.'

Malene nods and smiles. ‘Go downstairs now,' she says, ‘get yourself some coffee, put on your Adidas and get off to work. How are your eyes?'

They make their way to the kitchen. The coffee is made, he pours a cup and drinks it quickly. Takes a look in the fridge. Must fill it up today. Get to work. Things are going to be okay. PÃ¥l turns around, his head doesn't feel as heavy, his troubles are absent, he watches Malene put on her coat and shoulder her schoolbag.

‘Tiril,' she says.

‘Hm?'

‘It's just that concert tomorrow. The thing is Mum isn't going to be there, she … I think the reason she's so worked up is just that she really wants you to be there.'

Pål throws his arms wide in exasperation. ‘Jesus, I mean I've told her I'm coming. Does she think I've forgotten? I might seem like a bit of a scatterbrain sometimes but that's because there's so much happening at work. Of course I'm going to go along and watch her sing. I'm going to be sitting in the first row clapping every chance I get. Isn't that what I've always done?'

He takes a big, warm slurp of coffee and shakes his head.

‘I'm not too sure Tiril feels you've told her that,' Malene says, ‘the way you did just now, I mean.'

PÃ¥l takes a Ryvita from the corner cupboard and starts eating it. Not that he likes Ryvita, but he needs something in his stomach.

‘No, I guess I haven't. I'll make sure I do.'

‘You are going to work, right?'

‘Yeah, the usual time, yeah of course I'm going – work? Why are you asking that?'

Take it easy now, he thinks, easy, PÃ¥l.

‘You got in late last night.'

Easy now. He pictures Rudi and Cecilie, feels shame well up inside for what happened in 1986. Jesus, that girl was younger than Malene is now.

‘Late?' He clears his throat. ‘Was I?'

She's talking to me like I'm the kid here.

‘Yeah.'

‘Right, yeah, maybe I was. Took a longer walk than usual, I guess.'

Easy now.

‘By the way,' says Malene, fixing her hair in the mirror, readying herself to go, ‘I was down in the basement this morning emptying the washing machine—'

‘Oh good, yes, must have slipped my mind—'

‘Anyway, there was a light on in the study and a pair of your socks were lying on top of the stove, they were really hot, Dad, I mean roasting hot.'

‘Oh, gosh—'

‘Were you up all night? The computer was on.'

‘Well…' he hesitates, turns his head, looks out at the garden. ‘I was just … well, I couldn't sleep. Just sat surfing…'

‘You shouldn't dry your socks on the stove, Dad. You don't want to start a fire.'

He remains standing with his back to her.

‘No, of course,' he says, looking out over the garden. Only now catching sight of the good weather, only now getting the chance to ponder how nice it is outside again today.

‘You took the socks away, then,' he asks, his voice mild.

‘Yep,' he hears from behind him, ‘I threw them in the wash.'

PÃ¥l nods. He can make out something in her voice but he decides not to turn round, decides to push it away.

He points towards the garden.

‘I know I'm going on about it,' he says, ‘but every time I see that tree I keep thinking the two of you should really hang up a new milk carton for the birds.'

Sandra’s body is sore. She’s tired, the schoolbag on her shoulders feels heavy. When she woke up she had bags under her eyes. But she clenches her teeth, brings her fingers to the silver crucifix in the hollow of her neck and walks on. Up King Haralds Gate, on to Madlamarkveien, past the church, across Jernalderveien and on towards the school. She’d rather bunk off. But she’s never done that, and she’d never dare, because that’s not how she is.

Dear Jesus, she whispers, my stomach is so cold, I’m so frightened. Her mother and father told her off when she got home last night, she just about managed to fix her hair and check her clothes in the hall mirror before they were standing there in front of her. Her mother, eyes jittery, her father with his arms crossed.
Have we not been clear about this, Sandra? Did we not agree on this? You’re tired, you can’t concentrate, you’re getting in late, was that what we agreed on? Hm? You know how much we love you, dear, we’re telling you this for your own good.

If she wanted to keep this job, which, strictly speaking, she was too young to have, then she had to prove herself deserving of the trust they placed in her. That meant responsibility. If she came home late at all, if there was the slightest sign of it affecting her schoolwork or how much sleep she got, then it had to come to a stop. She could go up to bed, they could all have a think about it, but she had to be aware that under their roof nobody was allowed to behave that way.

She straightens up as she makes her way along Sophus Bugges Gate towards the school. She still has the chance. She hardly dares to think about it. Just run away. Send Daniel a text –
I’m not at school. Come and meet me. Now!
– and run away. Rush off to the woods. Rush off to the ends of the earth, totter on the edge in
the arms of the one she loves. She still has the chance. Just run between the villas, behind the terraced houses, past the old school, until she reaches the block of flats he lives in and call out to him,
Daniel, I’m here, come on
.

But she doesn’t dare. Sandra feels as though she has a lump of ice in her stomach. Is this how love’s supposed to be? Are you meant to feel cold and fearful? –
Do you love me? Did I do it right? Will it be as nice tonight? Tomorrow? Am I doing what you like?

Dear Jesus, she whispers, I don’t have the strength for this, I’m shit scared, I’m so fucking shit scared, sorry, sorry, I don’t mean to talk like that.

Sandra fixes her fringe, takes a deep breath, her eyes flashing, she smiles into the empty air. It went well, after all, she whispers. He said it was good. He said he wanted to see me again. I’m not the one with problems, it’s those sisters, Malene and Tiril, they’re the ones with problems. What did he say again …
that was only the beginning
… his voice, that bright mouth of his … what else did he say?

We have the rest of our lives.

Dear Lord, she whispers as she reaches the lean-to at the front of the low, grey school building, is love really this hard?

It’s nearing half past eight and pupils swarm about her, all on their way to the first class of the day. Those first-years, God, so annoying, the fact she was actually like that herself, it’s hard to fathom. Jostling around, like they’re still in primary school, their arms and legs all over the place, no wonder you can never find a spot to eat your lunch in the yard, first-years have no control over any part of their bodies, or of their stuff, all hanging halfway out of their bags, and they’re so tiny, they look like goblins and the only cute one is Ulrik Pogo, he’s sweet enough to eat, just makes you want to hug him like a teddy bear. Still, poor sister, Kia, hard to talk to someone who’s paralysed. What are you supposed to say? How’s things today?

‘Hi, Sandra.’

Malene’s voice. She turns around, quickly. She feels her throat tighten, forces a smile. ‘Hi … hello…’

She’s never really hung out with Malene. But the fact she’s
standing in front of her the morning after she saw her father in the woods makes her feel she ought to say something. She feels sorry for her but what’s she going to say? It’s not like she wants to snitch on anyone.

Daniel, why aren’t you here. What will I do?

‘How’s it going?’ asks Malene, an expression coming over her face which she trys to hide.

‘Oh, y’know,’ says Sandra. ‘Okay. Lots to do.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Malene says.

The girls remain standing under the edge of the lean-to while the other pupils stream past on their way in. The most natural thing would be for one of them to start making their way towards the doors and mingling with the rest. But they stay put. Malene is looking at her as if she knows something.

‘Did you manage the maths?’ asks Malene. It’s like she’s trying to wrestle with her own facial expression, making her look like E.T.

‘Yeah,’ Sandra says, ‘but I thought it was hard.’

Is she able to see it, the fact that I know something about her?

‘Yeah, it sucked.’

‘How’s the foot, by the way? You going to get back to the gymnastics soon, or…?’

‘Dunno. It’s taking its time to heal.’

Malene stands there. She makes no sign of wanting to go. Everything about her says she’s going to stay put. What is it she wants?

Daniel, what will I do?

‘Your sister, Tiril – she’s singing tomorrow, right? At that International … Inter…’

‘Cultural Workshop,’ nods Malene. ‘International Cultural Workshop. Some kind of student exchange thing. She’s a good singer—’

‘Seriously good—’

‘But she needs to sort her head out. Drop all that emo stuff.’

‘Well, y’know, she’s only in second year.’

‘Mhm. Yolo.’

Sandra smiles. Malene has nice features. Those high cheekbones give her a beautiful face, she looks kind and she’s very
different from her sister. Sandra feels her knees growing weak, her forehead becoming warm, oh no, is she going to start sweating? Is she going to start crying? She realises how long it’s been since she’s been face to face with a girl she feels can understand her, and she has a sudden sense of having a friend. It’s stupid, they’ve only stood together talking a couple of minutes, only bumped into one another on the way into school, but there’s something about Malene’s voice that makes Sandra feel safe, so she opens her mouth and hears herself say:

‘Can you keep a secret?’

The school bell sounds, ringing out over the yard.

‘Can you?’

Malene nods.

Dear Jesus, Sandra thinks, grabbing hold of her arm, I hope I’m doing the right thing. She lowers her voice, takes a step closer:

‘I’m seeing Daniel William Moi. I’ve met him almost every night the last few weeks.’

Malene looks at her.

‘I tell lies the whole time,’ Sandra whispers. ‘To everyone.’

Malene nods her head slowly.

‘I met him again yesterday,’ Sandra says softly. ‘I had sex with him. In Gosen Woods.’