Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

‘I’ve been relaxing with a drop of wine today,’ he said. ‘It is summer after all, you know.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Your mother didn’t like that,’ he said.

‘Oh?’ I said.

‘No, no, no,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t good, you see.’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he said, emptying the glass in one draught.

‘Gunnar’s been round, snooping,’ he said. ‘Afterwards he goes straight to grandma and grandad and tells them what he’s seen.’

‘I’m sure he just came to visit you,’ I said.

Dad didn’t answer. He refilled his glass.

‘Are you coming, Unni?’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got my son here!’

‘OK, coming,’ we heard from inside.

‘No, he was snooping,’ he repeated. ‘Then he ingratiates himself with your grandparents.’

He sat staring into the middle distance with the glass resting in his hand.

Turned his head to me.

‘Would you like something to drink? A Coke? I think we’ve got some in the fridge. Go and ask Unni.’

I stood up, glad to get away.

Gunnar was a sensible fair man, decent and proper in all ways, he always had been, of that there was no doubt. So where had dad’s sudden backbiting come from?

After all the light in the garden, at first I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face in the kitchen. Unni put down the washing-up brush when I went in, came over and gave me a hug.

‘Good to see you, Karl Ove.’ She smiled.

I smiled back. She was a warm person. The times I had met her she had been happy, almost flushed with happiness. And she had treated me like an adult. She seemed to want to be close to me. Which I both liked and disliked.

‘Same here,’ I said. ‘Dad said there was some Coke in the fridge.’

I opened the fridge door and took out a bottle. Unni wiped a glass dry and passed it to me.

‘Your father’s a fine man,’ she said. ‘But you know that, don’t you.’

I didn’t answer, just smiled, and when I was sure that my silence hadn’t been perceived as a denial, I went back out.

Dad was still sitting there.

‘What did mum say?’ he asked into the middle distance once again.

‘About what?’ I said, sat down, unscrewed the top and filled the glass so full that I had to hold it away from my body and let it froth over the flagstones.

He didn’t even notice!

‘Erm, about the divorce,’ he said.

‘Nothing in particular,’ I said.

‘I suppose I’m the monster,’ he said. ‘Do you sit around talking about it?’

‘No, not at all. Cross my heart.’

There was a silence.

Over the white timber fence you could see sections of the river, greenish in the bright sunlight, and the roofs of the houses on the other side. There were trees everywhere, these beautiful green creations that you never really paid much attention to, just walked past; you registered them but they made no great impression on you in the way that dogs or cats did, but they were actually, if you lent the matter some thought, present in a far more breath-taking and sweeping way.

The flames in the grill had disappeared entirely. Some of the charcoal briquettes glowed orange, some had been transformed into greyish-white puff balls, some were as black as before. I wondered if I could light up. I had a packet of cigarettes inside my jacket. It had been all right at their party. But that was not the same as it being permitted now.

Dad drank. Patted the thick hair at the side of his head. Poured wine into his glass, not enough to fill it, the bottle was empty. He held it in the air and studied the label. Then he stood up and went indoors.

I would be as good to him as I could possibly be, I decided. Regardless of what he did, I would be a good son.

This decision came at the same time as a gust of wind blew in from the sea, and in some strange way the two phenomena became connected inside me, there was something fresh about it, a relief after a long day of passivity.

He returned, knocked back the dregs in his glass and recharged it.

‘I’m doing fine now, Karl Ove,’ he said as he sat down. ‘We’re having such a good time together.’

‘I can see you are,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ he said, oblivious to me.

Dad grilled some steaks, which he carried into the living room, where Unni had set the table: a white cloth, shiny new plates and glasses. Why we didn’t sit outside I didn’t know, but I assumed it was something to do with the neighbours. Dad had never liked being seen and definitely not in such an intimate situation as eating was for him.

He absented himself for a few minutes and returned wearing the white shirt with frills he had worn at their party, with black trousers.

While we had been sitting outside Unni had boiled some broccoli and baked some potatoes in the oven. Dad poured red wine into my glass, I could have one with the meal, he said, but no more than that.

I praised the food. The barbecue flavour was particularly tasty when you had meat as good as this.

‘ Skål ,’ dad said. ‘ Skål to Unni!’

We held up our glasses and looked at each other.

‘And to Karl Ove,’ she said.

‘We may as well toast me too then.’ Dad laughed.

This was the first relaxed moment, and a warmth spread through me. There was a sudden glint in dad’s eye and I ate faster out of sheer elation.

‘We have such a cosy time, we two do,’ dad said, placing a hand on Unni’s shoulder. She laughed.

Previously he would never have used an expression such as cosy .

I studied my glass, it was empty. I hesitated, caught myself hesitating, put the little spoon into a potato to hide my nerves and then stretched casually across the table for the bottle.

Dad didn’t notice, I finished the glass quickly and poured myself another. He rolled a cigarette, and Unni rolled a cigarette. They sat back in their chairs.

‘We need another bottle,’ he said and went into the kitchen. When he returned he put his arm around her.

I fetched the cigarettes from my jacket, sat down and lit up.

Dad didn’t notice that either.

He got up again and went to the bathroom. His gait was unsteady. Unni smiled at me.

‘I’ve got a first class at gymnas in Norwegian this autumn,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you can give me a few tips? It’s my first time.’

‘Yes, of course.’

She smiled and looked me in the eye. I lowered my gaze and took another swig of the wine.

‘Because you’re interested in literature, aren’t you?’ she continued.

‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Among other things.’

‘I am too,’ she said. ‘And I’ve never read as much as when I was your age.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘I ploughed through everything in sight. It was a kind of existential search, I think. Which was at its most intense then.’

‘Mm’ I said.

‘You’ve found each other, I can see,’ dad said behind me. ‘That’s good. You have to get to know Unni, Karl Ove. She’s such a wonderful person. She laughs all the time. Don’t you, Unni?’

‘Not all the time.’ She laughed.

Dad sat down, sipped from his glass and as he did so his eyes were as vacant as an animal’s.

He leaned forward.

‘I haven’t always been a good father to you, Karl Ove. I know that’s what you think.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Now, now, no stupidities. We don’t need to pretend any longer. You think I haven’t always been a good father. And you’re right. I’ve done a lot of things wrong. But you should know that I’ve always done the very best I could. I have!’

I looked down. This last he said with an imploring tone to his voice.

‘When you were born, Karl Ove, there was a problem with one of your legs. Did you know that?’