Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

We don’t live our lives alone, but that doesn’t mean we see those alongside whom we live our lives. When dad moved to Northern Norway and was no longer physically in front of me with his body and his voice, his temperament and his eyes, in a way he disappeared out of my life, in the sense that he was reduced to a kind of discomfort I occasionally felt when he rang or when something reminded me of him, then a kind of zone within me was activated and in that zone lay all my feelings for him, but he was not there.

Later, in his notebooks, I read about the Christmas when he rang from the Canary Islands and the weeks that followed. Here he stands before me as he was, in mid-life, and perhaps that is why reading them is so painful for me, he wasn’t only much more than my feelings for him but infinitely more, a complete and living person in the midst of his life.

It was Yngve who found his notebooks. A few weeks after the funeral he rented a large car, drove back to Kristiansand and fetched dad’s things from the garage, and then he drove to the Østland town where dad had lived for his last years and collected the little that was left there, then he had it all sent to Stavanger, and he put it into the loft until I arrived and we could go through it together.

When he rang that evening in the autumn of 1998 he said that for a moment he had been convinced dad was alive and was following him in a car on the motorway.

‘There I was, in a car full of his things,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine how furious he would have been if he’d found out? It’s absolutely absurd of course, but I’m sure it was him following me.’

‘It gets me in the same way,’ I said. ‘Whenever the phone goes or someone rings at the door, I think it’s him.’

‘Anyway,’ Yngve said, ‘I’ve found some diaries he’d been writing. Well, actually, they’re notebooks. He jotted down a few notes every day. From 1986, 1987 and 1988. You’ve got to read them.’

‘Did he write a diary?’ I said.

‘Not exactly. Just a few notes.’

‘What does he say?’

‘You’ll have to read them.’

When I went to Yngve’s some days later, we threw away nearly everything dad had left behind. I took his rubber boots, which I still wear ten years later, and his binoculars, which are on my desk as I am writing this, and a set of crockery, as well as some books. And then there were the notebooks.

Wednesday 7 January

Up early, 5.30. Pjall.

The shower was cold.

Bus 6.30 from Puerto Rico. Nipped a quick snifter here too.

At the airport. Bought a Walkman. Dep. 9.30. Delayed — Kristiansand 16.40. Flight to Oslo 17.05. Problem.

The same in Alta. Met Haraldsen here. Via Lakselv (-31 degrees)

Taxi home. Cold house. Warmed myself on duty-free. Hard day.

Thursday 8 January

Tried to get up for work. But had to ring Haraldsen and throw in the towel. Grinding abstinence — stayed in bed all day. . I made an attempt to read Newsweek . Managed a few TV progs. School tomorrow?

Friday 9 January

Up at 7.00. Felt lousy at breakfast.

Work. Survived the first three lessons. Had terrible diarrhoea in lunch break and had to give the HK class a free. Home for repair — rum and Coke. Incredible how it helps. Quiet afternoon and evening. Fell asleep before TV news.

Saturday 10 January

Slept in. Made short work of the sherry in the kitchen. Evening spent in the company of blue Smirnoff!

Sunday 11 January

Had a feeeling when I woke up it was going to be a bad day. I was right!

Monday 12 January

Slept badly. Tossing and turning and hearing ‘voices’. Work. Started with English background. Hard going when you’re out of shape. Evening classes even more stressful!

Tuesday 13 January

Another sleepless night. My body won’t accept being without alcohol. Went to work.

Tuesday 20 January

Another bad night. Always like that when you don’t take any ‘medicine’. After an hour and a half you’re too exhausted to do a good job. Lutefisk for dinner — my favourite. I had a siesta after dinner — a very long nap — up at 10. Worked till 3. Working through the night is the norm now!

And so it goes on. He drinks every weekend, but also more and more often during the week, and then he tries to stop, to have some alcohol-free days or even weeks, but it doesn’t work, he can’t sleep, he is restless, hears voices and is so worn out it’s almost a relief when he finally goes to the Vinmonopol or buys beer and comes home with the drinks, and all his inner conflict eases.

Under ‘Wednesday 4 March’ his notebook just says Yngve, Karl Ove, Kristin . We went up north in the winter holiday to visit them. Dad paid for us all. Unni had invited her son, Fredrik, who was there when we arrived. I flew with Kristin from Kristiansand to Bergen, I was a bit nervous about it of course, because of what had happened between Cecilie and me, but she didn’t say a word about it and treated me as she always had. Yngve joined us in Bergen, then we flew up to Tromsø, where we changed to a propeller plane for the last bit.

The terrain beneath was wild and deserted, there was barely a house or a road to be seen, and when we reached the airport there was no pilot announcement of a slow descent, no, the plane simply swooped down like a bird of prey that had seen its victim, I thought, and the moment the wheels touched down on the runway, we braked and were hurled forward towards the seat in front.

The passengers filed out of the plane across the tarmac to the tiny terminal building. It was cold and overcast, the countryside was white with a scattering of shiny black patches where the rock was too steep for snow to settle.

Dad stood waiting in the arrivals hall. He was formal and tense. Asked us how the trip had been, didn’t listen to the answer. His hands shook as he inserted the key into the ignition and let go of the handbrake. He was silent for the whole journey through the vast misty desolate terrain to the town. I observed his hand, he rested it on the gear lever, but as soon as he raised it, it shook.

The building he parked under was outside the centre, facing the sea, on an estate that must have been built in the 1970s, judging by the shape of the houses. They had rented the whole of the upper floor and had a big balcony outside the living room. The windows were rough, I supposed the salt from the spray had caused that, even though it was several hundred metres to the sea from there. Unni met us in the doorway, smiled and gave everyone a hug. A boy who must have been Fredrik was sitting in a chair watching TV and got up and said hi.

He smiled, we smiled.

He was tall, had dark hair and was a distinct presence in the room. When he sat down again I went into the hall for my rucksack and caught a glimpse of dad as I passed the open kitchen door. He was standing by the fridge and knocking back a beer.

Unni showed us where we would be sleeping. I left my things there. On my return the first bottle was on the table while he was attending to the second. He belched quietly and put the bottle down next to the first, wiped the froth from his beard and turned to me.

The tension was gone.

‘Are you hungry, Karl Ove?’ he said.

‘I suppose I am,’ I said. ‘But there’s no hurry. We can eat when it suits you.’

‘I’ve bought steaks and red wine today. We can have that. Or shrimps. They’ve got good shrimps up here, you know.’

‘Both fine by me,’ I said.

He took another beer from the fridge.

‘It’s good to have beer in the holidays,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You can have some later, with the food,’ he said.