Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

Kristin must have spotted this for she often broke out of her twosome with Yngve and said something to draw me into the conversation. She had done that ever since they got together, she had become a kind of elder sister to me, someone whom I could talk to about everything, someone who understood. Yet she wasn’t much older than me, so the elder-sister role could vanish without warning and we would face each other as equals in age, almost as peers.

Eventually we left Sjøhuset and went back to dad’s. The witnesses didn’t join us, they would be coming to the dinner in the evening, which had been booked at the Fregatten restaurant in Dronningens gate. I continued drinking at dad’s place and was starting to get quite drunk, it was a wonderful feeling and slightly odd as it was light outside and all the passers-by on the street were pursuing their everyday activities. I sat there, getting more and more pie-eyed, without anyone noticing, as far as I could judge, since the sole manifestation of my drunkenness was that my tongue was looser than usual. As always, alcohol gave me a strong sense of freedom and happiness, it lifted me onto a wave, inside it everything was good, and to prevent it from ever ending, my only real fear, I had to keep drinking more. When the time came dad ordered a taxi, and I staggered down the stairs to the car that would take us the five hundred metres to Fregatten, and this time there was no question of there not being enough space. Once there we were shown to our table, close to the window in the big room, which was otherwise completely empty. I had been drinking since ten o’clock, now it was six, and it was only by the grace of God that I didn’t fall through the window as I went to pull out my chair and sit down. I barely registered the presence of the others, no longer heard what they said, their faces were blurred, their voices a low rustle as though I was surrounded by faintly human-like trees and bushes in a forest somewhere, not in a restaurant in Kristiansand on my father’s wedding day.

The waiter came, the food had been pre-ordered, what he wanted to know now was what we were going to drink. Dad ordered two bottles of red wine, I lit a cigarette and gazed at him through listless eyes.

‘How’s it going, Karl Ove? Are you all right?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Congratulations, Dad. You’ve got a lovely wife, I have to say. I really like Unni.’

‘That’s good,’ he said.

Unni smiled at me.

‘But what should I call her?’ I said. ‘She’s a kind of stepmother, isn’t she?’

‘Call her Unni, of course,’ dad said.

‘What do you call Sissel?’ Unni asked me.

Dad looked at her.

‘Mum,’ I said.

‘Then you could call me mother, couldn’t you?’ Unni said.

‘I’ll do that,’ I said. ‘Mother.’

‘What nonsense !’ dad snapped.

‘Was the wine good, Mother?’ I said, staring at her.

‘Indeed it was,’ she said.

Dad fixed his eyes on me. ‘That’s enough of that now, Karl Ove,’ he said.

‘OK,’ I said.

‘Where are you going on your honeymoon then?’ Yngve said. ‘You haven’t told us.’

‘Well, there’ll be no honeymoon straight away,’ Unni said. ‘But we’ve got a room booked at this hotel tonight.’

The waiter came and held a bottle in front of dad.

Dad nodded, not interested.

The waiter poured a soupçon into his glass.

Dad tasted it, smacked his lips. ‘Exquisite,’ he said.

‘Excellent,’ the waiter said and filled all the glasses.

Oh, how welcome that warm dark taste was after all the sharp cold bitter beers!

I knocked it back in four long gulps. Yngve sat with his head supported on one hand staring out of the window. He must have had his other hand resting on Kristin’s thigh, judging by the crook of his arm. The two witnesses sat silent on either side of Unni and dad.

‘We’ve ordered the food for half past six,’ dad said. He looked at Unni. ‘Perhaps we should inspect the room in the meantime?’

Unni smiled and nodded.

‘We won’t be long,’ dad said, getting up. ‘You just relax and enjoy yourselves.’

They kissed and left the room hand in hand.

I looked at Yngve, he met my gaze, then turned away. Dad’s two colleagues were still silent. Usually I would have felt responsible for them and asked them some trivial question in the hope that it might interest them, if not me, but now I couldn’t care less. If they wanted to sit there ogling us, let them.

I filled my glass with red wine and drank half of it in one draught, and then I went for a piss. I found myself in a long corridor, which I followed to the end without seeing a toilet anywhere. I walked back and down some stairs. Now I found myself in a cellar of some kind, completely white with a dazzling light and some sacks piled against the wall. Back up I went. Was it here? Another corridor, carpeted this time. No. I came out by the reception desk. Toilet? I said. Beg your pardon? said the receptionist. Sorry, I said. But do you know where the toilet is? He pointed to a door on the other side of the room without looking at me. I lurched towards it, had to insert an extra step to stop myself falling, opened the door, leaned against the wall, here it was, thank God. I went into one of the cubicles and locked the door, changed my mind, unlocked it, the toilet was empty, wasn’t it? Yes, no one around. I hurried over to the washstand, unzipped, pulled out the todger and pissed in the sink. The yellow stream filled the whole basin for a brief instant before being sucked down the plughole. Once I had finished I went back into the cubicle, locked the door, sat down on the toilet seat, rested my head on my hands and closed my eyes. The next second I was gone.

At one point I seemed to hear someone calling my name, Karl Ove, Karl Ove, I heard, as though I was on some mountain plateau, I thought, and someone had been sent out in the mist to find me. Karl Ove, Karl Ove. Then I was gone again.

Next time I came round it was with a jolt. I hit my head against the cubicle wall. The toilet was completely silent.

What had happened? Where was I?

Oh no. This was the wedding day! Had I fallen asleep? Oh no, I had fallen asleep!

I hurried out, washed my face in cold water, walked past reception and into the dining room.

They were still there. They stared at me.

‘Where on earth have you been, Karl Ove?’ dad said.

‘I think I dozed off,’ I said, sitting down. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Yes,’ Unni said. ‘We’ve just finished. Would you like to have something now? We’re waiting for dessert.’

‘Dessert’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m not that hungry.’

‘There’ll be coffee and brandy afterwards,’ dad said. ‘You’ll pick up then, you’ll see.’

I finished the wine in my glass and refilled it. My head ached a bit, not much, it was as if a door had been opened a fraction, out streamed the pain, and I knew the wine was doing me good, it seemed to be closing the door again.

When we left it was no later than half past nine. I was drunk, but not as drunk as when I arrived, the sleep had diminished the effect of the alcohol, which the wine and brandy had not managed to replenish. But dad’s drunkenness had escalated prodigiously, he was standing with his arms around Unni waiting for the taxi, the notion of walking five hundred metres had not occurred to him, and it was only with great difficulty that he managed to squeeze himself onto the black leather seat.

Dad fetched some beer from the fridge when we got home. Unni put out some peanuts in a bowl. Yngve had taken a turn for the worse, he had a temperature and was lying on the sofa. Kristin was sitting in the chair next to me.

Unni brought a blanket and spread it over Yngve. Dad stood some distance away watching.