Authors: Tore Renberg
The little lady on top of the lanky man.
He’s worked it out: if you’ve been together with your woman for twenty-seven years, and you’ve screwed her on average twice a week, then how many times have you screwed her? And: if it’s lasted a quarter of an hour each time – on average – how much of your life have you spent at it?
Hm?
2,808 times.
42,120 minutes.
Or 702 hours
Or 29.25 days
You get to know the terrain.
The arithmetic is only approximate, of course. Calculations for the first few years are bound to be a bit ropey, given that, strictly speaking, Chessi gradually went from being an underage whore under Jan Inge’s control to his girlfriend, and also that she was quite young. Girls don’t like screwing so much when they’re thirteen, so you have to subtract a little to make up for the first couple of years.
Still, not one day too many.
The little lady on top of the lanky man. That bony body of hers on top of that skinny body of his. All those freckles, across her back and arms. Her shelf-like hips, that Rudi calls ‘God’. Those little tits. He likes them. Little girly tits. Rudi has a wild look in his eyes, makes fearsome movements with his mouth: his tongue sweeping across his front teeth, biting down on his lip and sucking in air, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His compulsion to talk all the time, talk and talk and talk – and there’s
no situation he feels more like talking in than when he’s having sex with Chessi: ‘Jeeeeesus! This pussy is never going out of style. Chessi, come on, sit yourself down on Rudi, spin that wheel, come on! Twothousandeighthundredandeight! Eh?! What do you say to that, you sexy slut! Eh? I’m already looking forward to nine! Oh Jeeeeesus, you just don’t know how much I love you. Give it to me. Is that ass getting bigger the older you get? Yeah! Come on, MILF!’
Ah.
Feels good to get it out.
Rudi rolls off Cecilie and over on to his back. He stretches right out and releases a satisfied groan. He entwines his fingers in hers. Rudi is soft and spent, and he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t feel like it, just holds Cecilie’s hand. After a while his breathing becomes more regular, and then he feels like talking a little.
‘That was bloody good,’ he says, in a low voice.
‘You say that every time,’ Cecilie says soberly.
‘Well, that’s because it’s bloody good every time.’
She doesn’t reply. It took him a while to get his head around that. While he might have an absolute motherfucker of a need to talk while he’s riding her, and just as much of a need afterwards to hear her say how great it was, it’s still a need
he feels.
Not her. For years it was a touchy subject, the fact that she never said anything, not a single word. Not for ages afterwards, and then she wanted to talk about other things entirely. They’d be there, getting it on, and it was so good to ride her, sometimes he’d worked himself up all day, but would she say anything when they finally got under the duvet? Like maybe wrap her lips around his dick and mumble something while his knob pumped against the inside of her cheek, like how rock hard he was or how damn good it felt and that she’d been dreamingaboutrudiscocksinceshewokeup or that she was sofuckinghornyshecouldntthinkstraight or that he was the sexiestmanontwolegs, sexier than Steven Tyler and Lemmy put together? Just imagine, how amazing it’d be, listening to her slobbering and muttering down there, his prick getting in the way of the words,
ab at ock mm am it up my sy,
whatdidyousayyousay?
Please say it again?
Ab at ock mm am up my sy.
Can’t hear you,
Pfläumchen
, can you say it one more time? GRAB THAT COCK AND RAM IT UP MY PUSSY.
But no. Not one word. Hurtful really.
It took him ages to figure out how to live with it. There was a time he wondered whether he should rough Cecilie up or take her to see a psychologist, because it all felt so unfair. Him being so attentive, giving her cash, lavishing her with love, saying so many nice things to her and getting so little in return. A cutprice feeling. A cap-in-hand feeling. But he weathered the storm, didn’t send her to a psychologist or beat the shit out of her;
hear that, Gran? I never laid a finger on her.
Rudi learnt to live with it. Acknowledged that she was a person with her own qualities, her own surly, introverted way of being, while he was a person with qualities of his own, his own talkative and extroverted way of being. Now everything’s just fine, obviously, twenty-seven years speaks for itself, but it still hurts a little.
And still, even now Rudi can’t help but feel it niggle a little. So he says:
‘Yeah, yeah, I know you love me, even if you’re as quiet as a baseball bat.’
Cecilie sits up, leans over to the bedside table and grabs hold of the cigarette pack and the hair elastic she took out while he screwed her, because he likes to see her hair cascade across the pillow.
He studies her. Damn bony and damn sexy. Rudi puts on his most boyish smile, hoping she’ll look his way. But she doesn’t. With her eyes closed and the cigarette in her mouth, she raises her eyebrows and sets her hair in a ponytail. She puts on her knickers, her bra, her top and her socks before standing up. Cecilie opens her eyes, gazes at the wall and fixes her jaw into place with a sort of fish-mouth movement. She’s been doing that since she was thirteen. It’s like catching sight of an old friend for him. Nice to have things like that. Safe things. But she’s not looking at me, he thinks.
‘Good morning! Wednesday! Morning meeting!’
Rudi rolls his eyes and sees Cecilie do the same. She calls out to her brother, whom they both know is right behind the door:
‘All right, all right! Take it easy, Jani. We’re coming.’
‘Okay, okay!’ they hear from outside in the hall. ‘Just thought I’d let you know. Morning meeting.’
‘Okay, okay,’ Cecilie says, ‘you always just think that, little darling!’
Rudi doesn’t think that
little dar
ling stuff is really necessary, even though the fact that he’s so
on
first thing in the morning does annoy both of them. Standing outside their door shouting about those endless breakfasts of his. Still, she doesn’t need to say it, it just seems downright patronising, and he doesn’t like her picking on him.
Little darling?
Why does she have to say that? She is his sister and everything. Particularly when Jani isn’t the slightest bit little. If there’s anyone in this house who strives and deserves respect, it’s Jani.
Cecilie turns to him as she’s pulling up her jeans. Ash balancing on the tip of her cigarette. ‘What’s with that two thousand stuff?’
‘Eh?’
‘With all that, y’know …’ she shrugs, the ash falls on to the duvet, ‘two thousand stuff you were on about?’
Rudi laughs and gets to his feet, pulls on his T-shirt, socks and jeans. Then he gives Cecilie a kiss on the cheek, slaps her on the ass and says: ‘The number of times I’ve banged you, honey, that’s what that is. Two thousand eight hundred and eight.’
‘Jesus,’ she says, extinguishing the cigarette in the glass of water beside the bed. She opens the door. ‘Have I had that huge dick of yours up me that many times?’
‘Yes indeed, baby. Two thousand more to go.’
Cecilie isn’t smiling. She’s stopped with one foot on either side of the doorsill.
‘But… Rudi says, again trying to make his voice as soft as possible. ‘There’s … nothing … wrong, is there?’
‘More than two thousand times …’ Cecilie looks pensive. ‘It’s just that it’s so long, that dick.’
He runs his had up and down her back.
‘I know,’ he says, guiltily. ‘It started in sixth class. I woke up every morning and though, shit, that’s going grow to some size. And it did.’
‘It goes so far up me.’
‘Yeah, it does all right,’ he says, tilting his head to the side. ‘But I really like it, y’know, feeling you right up against me.’
Cecilie sighs, ‘But imagine you damage something up there, what then?’
He screws up his eyes. ‘Damage something? What do you mean, damage something?’
‘No, I…’
There’s a scratching at the door. Jan Inge’s fat finger:
‘Don’t mean to go on about it but … breakfast meeting!’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Cecilie says, actually giving Rudi a little smile, an almost apologetic smile, and it makes him feel good. ‘It’s fine,’ she says. ‘It’s lovely and big, that dick of yours. Come on. Big brother is getting impatient.’
The sun shines through the kitchen window, shining upon a well-laid breakfast table, glinting on knife blades and making the jam glisten. Rudi runs a large hand through his hair, yawning, almost fatigued by the sight of all the food. Neither Rudi nor Cecilie eat a lot in the morning, but lately Jan Inge has been preparing breakfasts as though he were running a twelve-star hotel. There’s more and more every day, food no one’s ever fucking heard of, cured mutton and French herb sausages, dill-marinated shoulder butt, weird cheeses and whatnot, and today he’s gone that little bit further.
Cecilie sits down at her usual place by the window. She pours herself a large cup of coffee and brings it to her face, allowing the heat to steam her skin.
Jan Inge comes wheeling in from the living room.
‘Sleep well? Everyone?’
Rudi nods. Cecilie clasps her hands tighter around the coffee cup and shuts her eyes.
‘Great,’ says Jan Inge, ‘I did too. After the two of you pushed me back inside last night. Thank you for that, by the way.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Rudi. ‘But what’s with you and the wheelchair? Isn’t that the one I nabbed for Chessi when she broke her foot?’
Jan Inge nods. ‘That’s right. It’s just been sitting here since.’
‘Yeah, it was just parked inside the door of the Intensive Care Unit. They were practically fucking giving it away. What’s the story, then? With you and the wheels?’
Jan Inge gets a look in his eyes. ‘Weell,’ he says, sucking in one cheek a little, ‘to be honest, I just find it a real effort hauling this 120 kilos around…’
‘But you’re not fat!’
‘Rudi. Stop it. I’m fat.’
‘He’s fat,’ Cecilie confirms.
‘It’s all in the eye of the beholder.’ Rudi shrugs. ‘I think you look good with a bit of weight on you. But okay, I rest my case. Safe to say you’re a bit fat.’
‘Exactly. And now the wheelchair is being put to proper use. It simply solves quite a few problems for me. And you know how much I like solving problems.’
‘Oh yeah, we know that.’
‘That’s what you like more than anything.’
‘Then there’s nothing else to say about it,’ Jan Inge concludes. ‘A problem and a solution. That’s the reason we’ve all got as far as we have. It’s because we’re problem solvers, and we don’t mess things up for ourselves and that’s why we’re able to look at a nicely laid breakfast table and not a desk in a cell in Åna with some dry foods and instant coffee. That’s the reason we’ve managed to work so many years in this town, under the radar so to speak, and been able to make a living from it. Not on a grand scale maybe, but on a safe scale. We know our stuff when it comes to break-ins. When it comes to cars. To alarms, keycards and locks. We can handle cash machines. Carry out extortion. And we’re able to move goods. Well, Buonanotte’s able to move goods and we know Buonanotte. We have contacts that the junkies don’t even know exist. We know our stuff and do you know what that means? Knowledge. Expertise. A problem and a solution.’
‘Genius,’ says Rudi, ‘that’s what I’ve got to say to that.’
‘The cheese is getting moist, let’s eat,’ says Jan Inge, his voice even more high-pitched than usual. ‘I rustled up some meagre fare for the morning meeting.’
Meagre fare? Rudi frowns. It’s not just at work that you need to
keep your eyes and ears open. But within the safety of your own four walls. Is there something going on here? Has someone got cancer? Is it somebody’s birthday?
He looks over at Cecilie.
Is there something going on with her too?
That thing she said about his dick? Was there something in her voice? She isn’t usually so considerate, she usually just moans about it being way too big and making her ovaries hurt like hell.
He turns his gaze back to Jan Inge.
All this food.
Whatthefuckisgoingonhere?
Cecilie closes her eyes and drinks her coffee. Her brother spreads some pâté over a slice of bread for her, then places some beetroot on top. Just as he’s done since she was little. Rudi’s well aware of that. He’s well aware of how much Jan Inge has done for her. He wants to look after her. And now he’s put a little extra effort into making a good breakfast. That’s probably all it is. And Chessi is a little emotional. Is it next week she’s getting her period? Or was it the screwing? Rudi leans back in his chair. Smiles to himself. It was the screwing, it was particularly good, that’s it, that’s what it is.
‘Right,’ Jan Inge says, after a few minutes of coffee, chocolate milk and silence round the breakfast table. ‘I think we’ll get started with the morning meeting while we’re all fresh in the noggin.’ Jan Inge produces the folded note from his pocket. ‘This week’s list. We’ll take it from the top.’
He leans on the windowsill and puts on his reading glasses, the ones Rudi pinched in an opticians on Kirkegata and gave him as a Christmas present, after he’d been complaining about his sight for so long.
‘Something enjoyable to begin with,’ Jan Inge says, producing a DVD that he’s actually
sitting
on, Rudi notices. ‘Our Saturday movie for the week. A classic starring Price and Joseph Cotton,
The Abominable Dr Phibes.
I’ll give a short introduction after pizza on Saturday, as usual—’
‘As usual—’ Cecilie sighs.
‘…exactly,’ Jan Inge says, ignoring his sister, ‘and then we can cosy up for a night of gore.’
‘Great, good man.’ Rudi clicks his fingers and points at his friend. ‘Always a new movie. Can count on you.’
‘Item number two,’ Jan Inge says, adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. ‘Item number two concerns all the clutter and mess. Our weak point. The garden. It can’t continue. We’re attracting attention. We’re wallowing in crap. We need to start taking care of this house. It’s our headquarters. As well as,’ he says gravely, looking at Cecilie, ‘our childhood home. This is where Dad wanted us to live. So. A clean-up. That’s the question.’