Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

She nodded.

She wanted to dance!

We glided onto the floor. I put my arms around her. The feeling of her body against mine provoked an electric storm in my head. Round and round we went, sometimes I pressed her close to me, sometimes I held her away from me and looked into her eyes. What’s your name? I whispered. Melody, she whispered. Melody? I repeated. No, Melanie! she said with a smile.

When the song was over I thanked her and joined the others, who were still hanging round the bar.

‘How did you manage that?’ Bjørn said.

‘I just asked. Had no idea it was so easy. It’s crazy.’

‘Go back to her. You can’t stay here!’

‘OK. I’ll just have a little drink. Just my bloody luck this is our last night.’

The bus was supposed to be outside waiting at three. It was half past two. I had no time to lose. Nevertheless I hesitated, although I could still feel her, a kind of phantom joy, her breasts, oh her breasts, the feeling of them against my body, the light pressure, the arousal, I had all that inside me, and if I went down there now it would disappear in a new situation, which might not go that well. I knocked back two glasses of wine in quick succession and walked over again. Her eyes lit up when I appeared. She wanted to dance. We danced. Afterwards we stood in the corner chatting, the others were beginning to make tracks towards the exit, I said I had to go, she wanted to go with me, I took her hand, we stopped outside, a stone’s throw from the bus, which was waiting with the engine running. Where do you live? I asked. She said the name of a hotel. No, not here, but in Maine, I said. I’ll write to you. May I? Yes, she said. Then she told me her address. I had nothing to write with. Did she ? No. Hurry up, came shouts from the bus, we’re going now. I’ll memorise your address, I said. Say it again. She said it, I repeated it twice. You’ll get a letter, I said. She nodded and looked at me. I leaned forward and kissed her. Put my arm around her and pressed her into me. Now I have to go, I said. All the best to you in your barbaric country, she said with a smile. I paused by the bus door and waved to her, then clambered on board.

Everyone clapped. I bowed to the right, then the left and sat down next to Bjørn. Drunk, happy and confused, I waved to her as the bus drove past.

‘What a bugger it didn’t happen on the first evening,’ I said.

‘Did you get her address?’

‘Yes, I’ve memorised it. She lives in. .’

I had forgotten. I couldn’t drag it up for the life of me.

‘Didn’t you write it down?’ Bjørn said.

‘No. I relied on my memory.’

He laughed. ‘You prat,’ he said.

We carried on drinking in my room. Bjørn accidentally broke a lamp, he was turning round with a bottle in his hand and hit the glass dome, which shattered. Someone else, I don’t recall who, smashed the other one out of pure devilry. Then I took down the big picture hanging on the wall, which had irritated me all week, and threw it out of the window. It exploded into smithereens on the tarmac five floors down. Lights came on in the room beneath us. Shit, what was the point of that? Bjørn said, no problem, I said, we can just take one of the pictures in the corridor and hang it here, they’ll never notice. What about the picture downstairs? I’ll get it, I said, and did as I promised. Took the lift down, went past the unmanned reception into the square, where I collected all the fragments I could find and put them in the pool around the fountain, close to the nearest wall, so that you could only see them if you were standing over them. On my way back along the corridor I grabbed one of the pictures hanging on the wall. The incident must have sobered people up, for the room was empty when I returned, apart from Bjørn, who was lying on his back with his mouth open and his eyes closed. I got into bed and switched off the light.

The next day was all about packing, having breakfast and getting ready for departure. The hotel manager came out as we were stowing the baggage in the bus, he wanted to know who had been in Room 504, that was Bjørn and I, we went over, and he, the little man, was so angry that he was jumping up and down in front of us. People like you shouldn’t be allowed to stay in a hotel! he yelled. You have to pay for this! It was all very unpleasant. We apologised, said we hadn’t meant anything by it and we would pay. I think we even bowed to him. The others stood around grinning. The team coach, Jan, came over, said he would handle this, the hotel would be properly compensated for any damage we had caused, he was extremely sorry, they were young, anything could happen, we bowed again and got on board, people like you shouldn’t be allowed to stay in a hotel! he yelled again. Jan took out his wallet and passed him a wad of notes, the bus started up, he jumped on, we drove slowly onto the road while the hotel manager glowered at us with hatred in his eyes.

Once at home, I quickly fell back into my old self, or it fell back into me. At school, where teachers focused on exams, I stayed in the shadows, I skulked around in the breaks and in lessons filled my notebooks with my scribblings. The trip to Switzerland had been a procession of triumphs, and I hoped the russ — school-leaver — celebrations would be the same. At home I wrote the social studies special paper in one night, a twenty-page comparison of the Russian revolution with the Sandanista revolution in Nicaragua, which I had followed with interest for several years, and I wrote a letter to a hotel in Switzerland asking them for the address of a guest, if at all possible, as in my possession I had a purse I would like to return, belonging to an American girl, whose name was Melanie, surname unknown, but she had stayed at the hotel over Easter.

At the end of April I had a party at home. As editor of the russ newspaper, a duty I shared with Hilde, I probably should have been on the russ committee, as had always been the case, but for some reason we were excluded. Perhaps because Hilde and I didn’t really fit in there, or because we hadn’t accepted our posts with the requisite nonchalance, what did I know? Whatever the reason, I invited the whole of the committee, as well as many others, home one Saturday evening. Mum was sleeping at a friend’s and would be home in the afternoon, so I had told everyone that they must not under any circumstances arrive before six. But at three a red russ camper chugged up the hill. In it were Christian and two girls. He wanted to drop off the beer, he said. But I told you six o’clock, I said. Yes, but now we’re here, he said. Where can I leave it?

Ten minutes later there was a stack of beer crates in the kitchen. The stack went from the floor right up to the ceiling. It was fair to say the ceiling was low, but mum, whom Christian barely greeted when he entered the kitchen, was not enamoured of the sight. What’s this? she said after they had gone. Are you going to drink all of this? You’re not going to have some drunken orgy here, are you? I won’t allow it. Relax, I said. This is a russ party. Everyone’s eighteen. There’ll be quite a bit of drinking. But I’ll take responsibility for everything. I promise you. It’ll all be fine. Are you sure? she said, eyeing me closely. There’s enough beer here for a hundred people. How many crates are there actually? Yes, but take it easy. There’s quite a bit of drinking at russ parties. But that’s the whole point. Is it? she said. Not the whole point, I said. But at any rate an important element. I know you don’t like the idea, and I’m sorry it’s here, but everything will be fine, I promise you. Well, anyway, it’s too late to do anything about it now, she said. But had I known what I know now you wouldn’t have had my blessing. Promise me you won’t drink much yourself now. You’re responsible for everything going well, you know. Yeah, yeah, I said.