Free See You Tomorrow by Tore Renberg Page A

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