Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

I could go to Denmark in the summer. And I didn’t need to return.

I didn’t need to return.

The thought had never occurred to me before, and it changed everything.

With the cold sharp light in my face, beneath the dark blue autumnal sky, in the midst of the forest above the river, it was as though the future was opening itself to me. Not as what I was expected to do, what everyone did, military service in Northern Norway first, then university in Bergen or Oslo, stay there for six years, go home in the holidays, find a job, get married and have children who became your parents’ grandchildren.

But instead go out and disappear from sight. Vanish. Not even ‘in a few years’ but now . Say to mum in the summer: Listen, I’m off and I won’t ever be coming back. She wouldn’t be able to stop me. She couldn’t. I was a free spirit and she knew it. I was my own man. The future, like a door, was open.

The beech trees in Denmark. The low brick houses. Lisbeth.

No one would know who I was, I was just someone who appeared on the scene and who would soon leave again. I didn’t need to return! No one ever needed to know any more about me, I could go, vanish.

I really could .

A car came round the bend below the house and I recognised the sound of mum’s Golf. I stubbed out my cigarette, buried it under some grass and got to my feet as the car drew up on the gravel in front of the house.

She jumped out, opened the boot and removed two bags of shopping.

‘Have you come into some money?’ I said.

‘Yes, it’s payday,’ she said.

‘What did you buy for dinner?’

‘Fish cakes.’

‘Great! I’m starving.’

Dad’s enquiry about Christmas had been a smokescreen, actually he hadn’t wanted us there, and he had booked a trip to Madeira for himself and Unni without waiting to hear what Yngve and I wanted to do.

We would go with mum to stay with her parents in Sørbøvåg. It was the first Christmas without dad, and I was looking forward to it: everything had been free and easy the few times all three of us had been together after the divorce.

The day school finished I ambled down to grandma and grandad’s to wish them Happy Christmas; mum and I would fly to Bergen the following day, meet Yngve there and catch the boat to Sørbøvåg together.

Grandma unlocked the front door as always.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ she said with a smile.

‘Yes, I was nearby and thought I would come and wish you Happy Christmas,’ I said, following her up the stairs without hugging her first. Grandad was sitting in his chair, and his eyes lit up for a brief instant when he saw me. At least that was what I imagined.

‘The meal’s not ready yet,’ grandma said. ‘But I can heat some rolls for you, if you’re hungry.’

‘Yes, that would be nice,’ I said and sat down, took my cigarettes from my shirt pocket and lit up.

‘You haven’t started inhaling, have you?’ she said.

‘No,’ I said.

‘That’s good. It’s dangerous, you know.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

She put the little metal rack on the hotplate and switched on the stove, placed two rolls on top and took out some butter, a mild white cheese and brown goat’s cheese.

‘Dad left for Madeira this morning,’ I said.

‘Yes, we heard,’ grandma said.

‘I’m sure they’ll have a nice time,’ I said. ‘You’ve been there, haven’t you?’

‘No, we haven’t,’ grandma said. ‘No, we’ve never been to Madeira.’

‘Perhaps he’s thinking of Las Palmas,’ grandad said. ‘We’ve been there.’

‘Yes, we’ve been to Las Palmas,’ grandma said.

‘I can remember that,’ I said. ‘We each got a T-shirt from there. Light blue with dark blue letters. Las Palmas it said, and there were some coconut palms, I think.’

‘Can you remember that?’ grandma said.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

Because I did. Some events stood out from that time and were etched in my consciousness. Others were more vague. I thought I remembered grandma once saying there had been a man downstairs in the hall, a stranger, perhaps someone who had broken in. Later I mentioned it to her and grandma stared at me in surprise, shaking her head. No, there had never been a man in the hall. So where had I got that idea from? Other stories I seemed to remember were similarly dismissed as soon as I mentioned them. A forefather or a forefather’s uncle, I thought I had been told, emigrated to America and remarried there, although he hadn’t been legally divorced from his wife back home and was in other words a bigamist. I mentioned this during a meal we were having that autumn, sitting in the dining room one Sunday, grandma, grandad, dad, Unni and I. But no one had ever heard this story before, and grandma looked almost angry as she shook her head. There was also something about a stabbing, I seemed to remember. But if the story hadn’t happened and it was just something I believed had happened, how could it have formed in my mind? Had someone told me it in my dreams? Had it been in one of the countless novels I had read when I went to ungdomskole , which in some mysterious way I had superimposed on vague characters in the family and thus drawn myself into the heart of the narrative?

I didn’t know.

But it was no fun because in this way I gained a reputation for being unreliable, I was someone who lied and made things up; in other words, I was like dad. This was ironic because if there was one resolution I had made it was never to lie, precisely on account of him. Well, yes, I might resort to white lies if there was some matter I didn’t want others, mum more often than not, but dad as well, to know. But whatever I hid, I hid for their sake, not for mine. So that at least was not immoral.

‘It’s good to have a few days’ holiday now,’ I said.

‘I’ll say,’ grandma said.

‘Is Gunnar coming here with the others on Christmas Eve?’ I said.

‘No, they’re staying at home. But I imagine we’ll pop over.’

‘All right,’ I said.

‘There we are. They’re done,’ grandma said, and placed two rolls on a plate she put on the table in front of me. Then she sat down.

She had forgotten to bring a knife and the cheese slicer.

I got up to fetch them.

‘What’s the matter?’ she said. ‘Have I forgotten something?’

‘Knife and cheese slicer,’ I said.

‘You stay put. I’ll get them!’

She went to the drawer and placed them next to me.

‘There we are,’ she said again. ‘ Now you’ve got everything you need.’

She smiled. I smiled back.

The crust on the rolls was so crispy that I had crumbs all around my mouth. I ate quickly, not only because this was a habit, but also because they weren’t eating, they were sitting quietly while I munched away, so that every slightest movement I made, even if it was only to brush the crumbs off the table, was somehow emphasised.

‘Mum’s looking forward to the holidays too,’ I said as I spread margarine over the second roll.

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ grandma said.

‘She hasn’t been to Sørbøvåg since the summer, and her parents are getting on now. Especially her mum. She’s quite ill, as you know.’

‘Yes,’ said grandma, nodding. ‘Yes, she is.’

‘She can’t even walk any more,’ I said.

‘Can’t she?’ grandma said. ‘Is it that bad?’

‘She’s got a rollator though,’ I said, swallowed and wiped a few crumbs off my lips. ‘So she can get about at home. But she doesn’t go out any more.’

I had never thought about that. She didn’t go out any more, she was always indoors in those small rooms.

‘She’s got Parkinson’s, hasn’t she?’ grandad said.