See You Tomorrow (7 page)

Adidas Superstar.

It just felt kind of weird.

Malene places her dad’s shoes beside one another. The pair he likes best. She knits her brow. They’re worn out, those trainers. He ought to get himself a new pair. She’s told him. You ought to get a new pair of trainers, Dad. No, no, he said. The more worn in they are, the better.

Dad probably isn’t aware she does it. Every night. Places his shoes neatly beside one another. Tiril certainly doesn’t spot it. Her head is full of her own stuff. She probably hasn’t noticed that he has a pair he wears every day. White with black stripes.

There’s no other trainers I feel so comfy in, Dad says.

She gets to her feet.

Felt weird, that hug.

Malene has always been Dad’s girl. He has driven her to gymnastics six days a week and she’s always felt that he’s been hers. She’s always crept into his lap and felt it a safe place to be. It’s not the kind of thing you think about when you’re little, then it’s just children’s TV, pizza and Saturday treats, but one day you realise that you’ve always gone to Dad, without really knowing why. She’s heard it before: a Daddy’s girl. Tiril has said it often enough, that’s for sure: go on, run to Daddy.

That hug.

It might not be anything.

But. It
was
weird.

Something about the way he held her. Something about his breathing. He has been acting pretty strangely of late. She never used to think about what he did when they went to bed. It was sort of obvious. He watched TV. He tidied up. He loaded the
dishwasher. He hung up clothes to dry. But now? When she says goodnight to him it’s like he has an aura of fear about him. How long does he stay up, actually? Maybe he’s sad and can’t sleep. Maybe he misses having a girlfriend. She has never had a boyfriend herself. She hasn’t been quite ready for it. But she’s not an idiot, she understands if Dad misses having one. But still. This feels like it’s about something else. That hug, for instance. She came out of her room and caught sight of Dad. He was standing in the hall with Zitha. On his way out. And then he just started acting really weird. His bashful eyes grew moist and he suddenly pulled her close, quite roughly, it was totally spooky. Not in a nice way, not in the warm, cosy way he usually does. It was rough.

Malene fixes her eyes on the door, as if it will open merely by her doing so.

Jesus, Tiril’s become a real pain in the ass. Fourteen, behaving like an idiot. Fine, they’ve never been very close, but she is her sister. They’ve slept in the same room, she’s borrowed toys and jewellery, they’ve taken Zitha out for walks thousands of times and Malene has looked after her since she was small. But now it’s as if she’s disappeared into some idiotic land of her own, going around scowling at everyone, smearing thick layers of emo make-up on, and thinking Evanescence is the answer to everything in the world. It’s fine that she’s got her mind on singing next Thursday. It’s great that she was picked to perform at the final performance of the International Cultural Workshop, and it’s obvious that the director has seen she has talent, it’s all good, but it’s utterly impossible to get an intelligent word out of her, and she can’t be bothered to do her homework, she just lies in bed listening to her iPhone.

Malene puts her forefinger in her mouth, bites right down to the quick.

That hug.

It’s just like Sandra at school, she’s out of it at the moment. Maybe it’s something that happens to everyone, one day you’re just out of it? One day you just have to explode? It happened to Mum. Her head was blown open, and she left. Is it going to happen to Malene too? One day, she’ll be completely out of it?

She takes a few steps forward. She feels her ankle, it’s still sore,
how long will it take before she can start training again? She misses it a lot. The smell of the gym hall, the girls in the locker room, that feeling of floating through the air, the kick she gets from it.

She opens the front door, as though to check if he’s standing there, right outside. As if she almost believes he is. Dad.

But there’s nobody out there. Only the yellow glow of the street lights. Only a row of wheelie bins stretching all the way down to the main road. Only the stars in the night sky. Only this autumnal chill after a bright, warm day.

Dad is forgetting things, and his eyes aren’t just dry, they’re vacant. As though at times they’re far away. He smiles all the time, he smiles when they are eating dinner, he smiles in the mornings, he smiles when he gets in from work, he smiles when he sits with the laptop in the evening and he smiles when they have visitors.

Malene nods.

She hurries to the kitchen, runs her hand across the hob, goes through the living room and checks no candles are burning, tries the handle on the veranda door. Out in the hallway she reaches for her shoes. Slips her feet into them, grabs the green jacket from the peg and puts it on.

She goes out. Because there’s something wrong with that smile and she is the daughter of her father, Adidas Superstar.

Love endures all things: There's a tingling on her tongue, as though tiny creatures were dancing across it.

The shop has to be inviting, that's what the manager said when she got the job. When people come through the door in the morning they have to feel welcome. Of course, Mr Spar. They've been happy with her up to now, hard to find fault with Sandra. A good girl, no denying she always has been. Always did her homework, got good marks, kept her room tidy and folded her clothes neatly. Sandra has never been able to live any other way, she gets a guilty conscience from just thinking about not doing things in a neat, proper and orderly fashion. Oh yes, her mother usually says when they have family over, you know Sandra, she was already tidying up toys when she was just a little tot.

She's done her part of the job. The floors are clean. She can go.

‘Sandra?'

She gives a start. Suddenly aware of Tiril behind her, standing by the bottle return belt. Her hair is lank, make-up heavy, fingernails black and her gaze harsh. Headphones on. Does she always have to look so angry, is it necessary? Does she have to look like everyone's going to die at any moment?

‘Where're you going?' Tiril asks, chewing her gum slowly and pulling off the headphones.

Sandra's can't bring herself to meet those eyes. ‘My mum and dad are waiting,' she says, stepping into her shoes. ‘You'll lock up, won't you?'

‘Yeah, did you think I was going to leave it open or something?'

Tiril responds as if someone has had a go at her. It's weird to think that girl is going to sing in the gym hall on Thursday. She seems like she hates everything and everybody, what is it she's
trying to prove? Sandra feels her anger form an aching lump in her chest. She does everything she can to be kind to people, to be open and understanding, everything she can for people to like her. She's used to people being polite. There're a lot of things you could say about Mum and Dad, but she agrees with them that the least you can expect from people is that they're friendly and polite, we only share a short time on this earth together so it's important to meet one another with love and kindness, that's the message of Jesus and the message of love.

Daniel, I'm coming now.

‘No, no, I just meant … anyway, look, I've got to run.'

‘Okay, so run then.'

Sandra feels a nauseous surge in her stomach. ‘Do you know what?' she says firmly, her own boldness making her nervous. ‘Do you know what? You can choose, are you aware of that?'

Tiril blinks for a fraction of a second but maintains her composure. ‘Choose fucking what?'

‘The light or the dark,' Sandra says quickly, startled by herself. She turns and hurries towards the exit.

‘How sweet,' says Tiril. She goes back into the shop.

Sandra takes a deep breath, as though she'd done something illegal. She brings her tongue across the dry skin around her mouth and stops in front of the mirror hanging by the back door.

Now Jesus isn't the one I'm going to kiss any more, she thinks. She's never told anyone that she used to kiss Jesus. She'd turn out the light, creep under the duvet, close her eyes, blush, begin to move her lips and then she'd kiss Jesus. Her body would tingle, making her feel warm. But all that has to end, now that she's got her boy.

‘Daniel,' she whispers, allowing her lips to part.

‘Daniel,' she repeats, while applying a layer of lip gloss.

‘Daniel,' her lips mouth, as she adjusts her new bra, trying to get her boobs to sit the way she thinks he'd like.

‘Daniel,' she whispers while she fixes her fringe, moves the silver cross into place in the notch of her neck, dries the sweat from her forehead and tries to find that particular facial expression, ‘I'm coming now.'

Then she opens the door, feels the air hit her, and she runs.

Rudi sees a wizened hand run through her fringe, wiping her teary eye, then a smile play across her mouth.

‘Rudi boy,’ she says again, and it’s so bloody good to hear a friendly word from her that he almost breaks down with joy. ‘Yes sir,’ she says and sighs, ‘you and me, twenty-seven years,’ and she has such a beautiful ring to her voice when she talks like that, ‘Europe and all kinds of weird and wonderful.’

‘Caaarrie, Caaarrie,’ sings Rudi, his shoulders swinging.

‘Right sexy, that Joey Tempest,’ Cecilie says breathily.

Rudi starts slapping his hands on the dashboard, aided by the liberating feeling of drama hour now being over. He overlooks the fact that she just drooled over another man, turns his head and grins at Cecilie.

‘You know what,’ he says, ‘I think you should take a little trip down to … that … you know … that place … you know. Daddy’s treat!’

He sees how flushed she becomes back there, her face shining as though a light’s gone on, and Rudi feels he’s the one who’s flicked the switch.

‘Uh-hm,’ she says, ‘Mariero Beauty.’

‘The very place,’ Rudi says proudly. ‘The name makes no odds to me, could be called Mariero Ass for all I care, but nobody can say Rudi doesn’t respect his woman and pay her bills, and if what she needs to feel good is to have sludge and cucumbers and sundried tomatoes smeared all over her face, then no one is going to say that Rudi didn’t fork out. Eh? Have I ever once refused to pay for something you wanted? Including the times I thought what you wanted to do was bloody idiotic, like lying under a palm tree or—’

‘There’re no palm trees there, you’re—,’ she cuts in, but Rudi wants to finish what he’s saying:

‘Metaphors, baby, they’re metaphors – do you know what metaphors are? Pictures. Pictures of things. You say one thing but mean something else and in lots of ways get to say two things at the same time. No, buggered if I know what you’re lying under or not lying under as long as it’s women tending to you and not men, you can lie down on a bed of oregano as far as I’m concerned—’

‘Oreg—heh heh, there’s no oregano.’

‘No, well, what would I know about what’s there or not,’ Rudi says, delighted she’s happy again, ‘but, all the same, as you well know, I have never—’

‘No, you have nev—’

‘Got in the wa—’

‘No, you have n—’

‘Or been tight wi—’

‘Money, no, you have n—’

‘Or let you f—’

‘You certainly have not, Rudi boy,’ Cecilie says, a wonderful firmness to her voice.

No, he thinks. I treat my woman the way women should be treated. Rudi forms his mouth into a determined pout, moves his hand to his inside pocket, takes out his wallet and pulls out a five hundred note.

‘Here,’ he says, reaching his right hand back between the front seats. ‘Go and make your face shine. Stick it in a bucket of spinach. Yes indeedy. Say hello to Mariero Beauty from Rudi and tell him your face is worth the money. And tell him who’s paying.’

‘Thank you so much,’ he hears from the back seat. ‘You’re really good to me.’

‘Damn right I am,’ says Rudi, feeling just how much love is crammed inside the little Volvo.

What a night, he thinks. Cold, clear, so bloody beautiful.

Hey Granny! Should have been around to see this, old hen.

Rudi peers through the windscreen, they’re by the forest. ‘Okay,’ he says, looking at the clock. 20:58. ‘Nearly time.’

‘Tomorrow,’ says Cecilie, kissing the five hundred note with dry lips.

Rudi grins, thinks everything’s rosy, wouldn’t mind if they played Coldplay on the radio one more time. But what’s the song about? Saint Peter, Roman Catholics and bells that ring?

Time to concentrate. That’s the thing about love, takes hold of your brain, and if you’re not on the ball, it can gobble up the whole world.

Ow! Ow! Stop it!

The phone, Jani’s ringtone. He picks it up. 20:59

‘Ye yo, brother?’

‘Cut that English crap out,’ he hears on the other end of the line.

‘It’s Americano, brother,’ he answers, laughing.

‘Whatever, it’s stupid, you’re from Norway, from Rogaland, from Stavanger, from Tjensvoll. Don’t put on an act. Now listen, I’ve just been doing some thinking about this venture of ours,’ says Jan Inge.

‘Thoughts are free, what were you thinking?’

‘Well,’ Jan Inge says, wavering. ‘There’s something foggy about it.’

‘Foggy?’

‘Yeah, foggy.’

‘Okay?’

‘I’m dubious. I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing. We’re not exactly in a risk-free line of business.’

‘Okay. Will we call it off? Callitaday and pull out? I haven’t met him yet—’

‘Listen. Working in a risky business means taking risks. You go and meet the guy. But keep your eyes and ears open. Your objective has to be to clarify what’s foggy.’

‘That was nicely put,’ says Rudi.

‘That thing you said about remembering the guy, or wondering if you remembered him. What was that?’

‘Dunno, just the feeling I got when he called. Or the feeling he got. I don’t know. There was something old about it.’

‘Old?’ Jan Inge’s tone is sharp.

‘Yeah, old, as in the past.’

‘Hm. Old can be good and old can be a mess. Is there anyone who’s got something on you?’

‘Naah…’

‘Stay on your toes. Keep Chessi out of it. She can wait in the Volv—’

Shit!

What was that?

‘Hey Chessi, what the fu—’

‘Rudi?’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here, it’s just, hold on –
bollocks
– did we hit something? Chessi?’

Cecilie peers out the back window, Rudi slows down and Jani Inge shouts down the end of the line about how he needs to take it easy, he can’t be going around attracting attention, Jesus, can’t he do anything right, hello, what’s happening?

‘A cat!’ Cecilie cries.

Rudi gulps and breathes easier.

‘Just a cat,’ he says into the phone.

‘Just a cat?!’ he hears from the back seat. Rudi glances in the rear-view mirror and sees that she’s crying again, and he wonders when this is going to end. Is he going to have to live with this until he’s six feet under, is she going to be so difficunt for the rest of her life?

‘Sorry, Jani,’ he says, ‘it was just a cat.’

He can hear Jan Inge breathing heavily.

‘You sit yourself down again now,’ says Rudi calmly.

‘Right, will do,’ says Jan Inge. ‘Okay, talk to you later, get things sorted out. Keep your eyes open. Ears. Fog and clarity.’

Rudi nods, hears the sound of his best friend putting his inhaler to his mouth, pressing down and sucking in the acrid air. He can picture that fat boy so well it almost hurts.

‘Okay, brother, talk soon. You sit down, okay? Pick a classic and open a packet of crisps.
The Hills Have Eyes?
’

Rudi hangs up and indicates a left turn. He swings in by the little shop at the bottom of the hill that’s been there as long as he can remember. He pilfered that place empty throughout the
entire eighties. Remembers the time he and J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro sauntered out with so many packs of cigarettes in the pockets of their bubble jackets they thought they’d keel over with the weight. Janne Dobro had such black eyes she’d put you in mind of a bird. She’s probably selling
Asfalt
magazine now. Liked her heroin, Janne. She was called J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro because of Mini from Haugtussa, he was so small his father took offence every time he clapped eyes on him. Mini was so in love with Janne Dobro he started to stutter every time he saw her.

Used to be called Gosen Grocery Store, now it’s part of a chain, Spar. Everything’s going to the dogs. The socialists have won. An impersonal society. It’s true what Jani says, nobody dares run their own business any more. We’re the only ones. The last bastion of independent entreprenuers. But Rudi doesn’t park outside the shop, it’s too visible. He drives a little further on towards the woods, up a small back road, and brings the car to a halt in a little grove.

‘Chessi,’ he says, killing the ignition. ‘Come on. It was a cat. A cat, okay? We can’t do anything about it.’

She’s sniffling in the back seat. He recognises the level. It’s not disaster sniffling, it’s demonstrative sniffling.

‘Do you hear me? I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Youandme, baby. Mariero Beauty. It’s going to be okay. Right? Come on, be a doll now, lie down on the seat, and just keep calm until I get back. And don’t smoke, okay? People get all flustered, you know, if they walk past a car filled with smoke and nobody inside. They get suspicious, ring home to the wife, tell her they’ve come across a car filled with fucking smoke. You can manage without one for a while, right?’

She sniffles again.

‘Is this what Jani meant when he said I should go out and get some air?’ she says. ‘It could have been a kitten, Rudi!’

‘No, no, it was a fully-grown cat, didn’t you feel the bump? No kitten would have made the car jolt like that. Listen. Chessi. Afterwards,’ he says softly, ‘afterwards we can drive someplace and sit and look at something. The sea or something. You like looking at the sea. You can teach me that. How to look at the sea.’

Cecilie folds her arms. Doesn’t reply.

He recognises the signs. It’s all about being smart now. Not making a big deal out of things. He tries to sound as warm as he possibly can: ‘Great, baby, so cool of you to take it that way, no one wants to be together with a chick who’s high-maintenance. Five minutes, okay, ten tops, then I’m back, who knows, I might come back with a million bucks in my pocket. Then you’ll have one million five hundred. Remember, tomorrow, Mariero Beauty!’

No reaction.

Rudi takes a deep breath. Okay, he thinks, all right. He really needs to dig deep here. He looks at her, as directly as he can, he smiles, with as much charm as he can muster, sucks his cheeks in and sings: ‘
Don’t want to close my eyes, I don’t want to fall asleep, cause I’d miss you babe and I don’t want to miss a thing
.’

She gulps.

Yesss
.

She looks at him.

Laughs a little.

Yesss
.

The Aerosmith Trick.

Never fails. Not once since he first did it, standing in front of her, sucking in his cheeks and imitating Steven Tyler, has it failed. The woman just falls apart.

‘Baby! Youandme! Daddy has to do a little bit of work now, then I’ll be back. Come on, down in the seat with you.’

Rudi gives her a wink. To say she smiles would be an exaggeration, but she wriggles down into the seat in any case.

He opens the door and feels the cold prickle of the September air on the back of his neck. He looks around. The old forest. It’s strange being back here. It was Granny’s forest in a lot of ways. She spoke about it so much, and all the things she did there when she was little. The flowers she picked and how much better things were before,
in the good old days.
Rudi has never got that out of his head. He often thinks about it, thinks how right Granny was, it was better
in the good old days
. More peace. More style.

Rudi begins to hurry along the path. He glances about him
again, feels the surroundings sucking him in. Then he comes to a halt.

‘Hm,’ he says, almost loudly.

‘Pål,’ he says.

‘It’s as if … there’s something about that name. It … shit … it calls something to mind! But what? Hm? Pål, Pål, Pål…’

Rudi walks on. We’ll soon see, he thinks, who you are and who you’re not, Pål. You called me. You’ve reached out your hand. And who are you? I’d love a cigarette now. If I’d known it would be this hard to stop then I never would’ve quit. Women. It’s not bloody easy. You’ve got to be a sly eagle with a good Aerosmith trick in order to be supple enough to get around their corners. Except for Gran. She had her head screwed on.
Skål
, you old jelly roll.

Rudi, without even being aware of it, raises his hand, puts it to his forehead and salutes, while he strides across the forest floor.

Good thing Tong’s out on Friday, he thinks. Not the same when the gang isn’t together. He brings in good money, Tong. He puts Chessi in better humour, he’s always been able to do that. He’s a psycho all right. But he’s always ready for action.

Pål, Pål, Pål.

Have you taken a beating from me? Is that it?

Are you out for revenge? Is that it?

Are you the devil, Pål?