Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Hi, this is Karl Ove,’ I said.

‘You’re in Northern Norway, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. How are things?’

‘Fine. Just got back from lectures. Going to chill first and then I’ll be off out.’

‘Where to?’

‘Hulen nightclub probably.’

‘Lucky sod.’

‘You’re the one who chose to go to Northern Norway. You could have moved to Bergen, you know.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘How are things up there? Have you got a flat and stuff?’

‘Yes. It’s nice. Started teaching on Tuesday. Actually it’s quite a lot of fun. I’m going out tonight as well. But not to Hulen exactly. It’s a local community centre.’

‘Any nice girls up there?’

‘Yeees. . There’s one I met on the bus. That might develop into something. Otherwise they’ve all left home. Seems like they’re either schoolgirls or housewives.’

‘It’ll have to be schoolgirls, then, eh?’

‘Ha ha.’

There was a brief silence.

‘Did you get my short story?’ I said.

‘I did.’

‘Have you read it?’

‘I have but only quickly. I skimmed through it. I was going to write to you about it. Bit hard to do that on the phone.’

‘But you did like it, didn’t you? Perhaps it’s not easy to say.’

‘Yes, I did. I liked it well enough. It was nice and lively. But let’s talk about it later, as I said, OK?’

OK.

Another silence.

‘What about dad?’ I said. ‘Heard anything from him?’

‘Nothing. And you?’

‘No, nothing. Thinking about phoning him now.’

‘Say hello from me. Save me having to call him for a few weeks.’

‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’ll write to you in the week.’

‘You do that,’ he said. ‘Catch you later!’

‘OK,’ I said and rang off, went into the staffroom and sat on the sofa with my feet on the table. Something about the conversation with Yngve had depressed me, but I didn’t know what. Perhaps that he was going to Hulen in Bergen with all his friends while I was going to a party in a village in the middle of nowhere and didn’t know anyone.

Or was it the well enough .

Yes, I did. I liked it well enough , he had said.

Well enough ?

I had once read a short story by Hemingway, it was about a boy who accompanied his father, who was a doctor, to an Indian reservation — a woman was giving birth, it didn’t go so well, as far as I remembered, perhaps a woman had even died — anyway after they had been there they went back home and that was that. All very straightforward. My short story was just as good, I knew that. The context was different, but that was because Hemingway wrote in a different era. I wrote in today’s world, and that was why it was as it was.

But what did Yngve know, actually? How many books did he read? Had he read Hemingway, for example?

I got up and went back into the telephone cubicle, took the slip of paper from my back pocket and dialled dad’s number. May as well get it over with.

‘Yes, hello?’ he said. Brusque voice. The conversation was going to be brief, no doubt about that.

‘Hi, this is Karl Ove,’ I said.

‘Oh, hi, son,’ he said.

‘I’m all set up here now,’ I said. ‘And I’ve started working.’

‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Are you getting on OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good.’

‘How are things with you?’

‘Well, same as always, you know. Unni’s at home and I’ve just got back from work. Now we’re going to eat. But it was nice you rang.’

‘Say hello to Unni!’

‘Will do. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

The deluge had eased when I trudged down the hill from school to my flat, but it was still raining enough for my hair to be soaked by the time I opened the door. I dried it in the bathroom with a towel, hung up my jacket, put my shoes by the stove and switched it on, fried some potatoes, some onions and a sausage, which I chopped up into pieces, ate the lot at the sitting-room table as I read yesterday’s paper, then went to bed, where I fell asleep within minutes, swathed by the comforting pitter-patter of rain on the window

I woke to the bell ringing. Outside it had not only stopped raining, as I saw when I got up to open the door, the sky over the village was also blue.

It was Nils Erik.

He was holding his arms to his sides like two brackets, with his knees bent outwards, his lips compressed into a zany smile and his eyes wide and staring.

‘Is this where the party is?’ he squeaked in an old man’s voice.

‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘It’s here. Come in.’

He didn’t move.

‘Are there any. . any. . any really young girls here?’ he said.

‘How young?’

‘Thirteen?’

‘Yep! Come on in! It’s bloody freezing!’

I turned my back on him and went in, took a bottle of white wine from the fridge and opened it.

‘Do you want some white wine?’ I shouted to him.

‘My wine should be as red as a young girl’s blood!’ he wheezed from the hall.

‘Nasty,’ I said. He came into the kitchen with a bottle of red wine in his hand and put it on the worktop. I passed him the corkscrew.

He was wearing a blue Poco Loco shirt, a black leather tie and a pair of red cotton trousers.

The impression he made on people didn’t bother him at any rate, I thought with a smile. Not caring what others thought about him was an essential part of his personality, it seemed.

‘I must say you’re colourful tonight,’ I said.

‘You’ve got to strike while the iron is hot,’ he said. ‘And I’ve heard you have to dress like this if you want to attract women up here.’

‘Like that? Red and blue?’

‘Exactly!’

He put the bottle between his knees and pulled out the cork with a plop.

‘Wonderful sound!’ he said.

‘I’m just going to have a quick shower. Is that all right?’ I said.

He nodded.

‘Of course. I’ll put some music on while you’re in there, OK?’

‘No problem.’

‘No one can say that we aren’t polite young men,’ he said with a laugh. I went into the bathroom, undressed at speed, turned on the water and stepped under the shower, hastily washed under my arms and between my legs, looked at my feet, leaned my head back and wetted my hair, then I turned the shower off, dried, put some gel in my hair, wrapped the towel around my waist and went into the sitting room, past Nils Erik, who was on the sofa with studiously closed eyes listening to David Sylvian, and into the bedroom, where I put on clean underpants and socks, a white shirt and black trousers. I buttoned up my shirt, then put on my shoelace tie and went back to Nils Erik.

‘But I was told that’s exactly how you shouldn’t go dressed!’ he said. ‘If you want to pull. White shirt, shoelace tie with eagle and black pants.’

I tried to come up with a smart retort, but failed.

‘Ha ha,’ I said, filling my glass with white wine and drinking it in one long draught.

The taste was of summer nights, discotheques bursting at the seams, buckets of ice on the tables, gleaming eyes, tanned bare arms.

I shuddered.

‘Not used to drinking?’ Nils Erik said.

I sent him a withering glance and recharged my glass.

‘Have you heard the new Chris Isaak single?’ I said.

He shook his head. I went and put it on.

‘It’s brilliant,’ I said.

We sat for a while without speaking.

I rolled a cigarette and lit it.

‘Did you have a look at my short story?’ I said.

He nodded. I got up and lowered the volume.

‘I read it before I left. It’s good, Karl Ove.’

‘Do you really think so?’