Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

We had dinner beside the yellow beer-crate tower, mum got in her car and drove to town, I put on a record, grabbed a beer and lounged on the sofa waiting for the others to come.

A few hours later the drive was full of russ vehicles. Everywhere there were screaming girls and boys in red russ outfits, all holding bottles of beer. Music was pounding from several of the cars, and in the living room the stereo was so loud that the music coming from the speakers was distorted. Three or four times more people had come than had been invited.

At one in the morning everything seemed to build up to a climax. Christian screamed and kicked a big hole in the bathroom door. Trond was sitting in the kitchen beating out the rhythm of the music on the edge of the table with two large knives, every beat was a new notch. People were being sick on the doorstep outside the living room, people were being sick on the shingle between the cars, people were being sick in Yngve’s bed. Behind the lilac bush someone was performing a knee-trembler. Others were jumping up and down to the music, roaring for all they were worth. People stood on car bonnets and roofs, one of them naked, swirling his sweater around his head. Even though I had made up my mind not to give a toss, and had succeeded by getting drunk, I carried a constant horror within me which, at various points, would surface in my consciousness, no, oh no, I thought then, only to recede as I became involved in one of the many incidents going on around me.

At three the tempo began to slow. Some people were still dancing, some were sitting and smooching, some were asleep, lying across the table, hunched in corners, outside under bushes. I sat on the sofa in front of the TV snogging a girl, we had hardly exchanged a word, she had been sitting there, I sat down beside her, we started to snog. She was dark-haired, everything about her was dark, even her clothes, she was the only one not dressed in a red outfit but in a black sweater, black skirt and black tights. Want to come with me to the room over there, I whispered, she nodded, I had drunk a lot and was thinking this will make everything different because now I didn’t give a shit about anything, wasn’t nervous about anything, and I took out my keys and unlocked the door to my room, held my arm around her, she pulled off the little handbag she wore diagonally across her chest, lay down on the bed, my bed, it reverberated through my brain, I rolled her jumper over her head, kissed her dark nipples, rubbed my face between them, lovingly and lingeringly, here we go, I thought, now I’ve got a girl here, now we’re going to have it, and my legs were trembling as I sat up to pull down her tights, she let me do it, I took off my trousers, this is it, she was naked, her skin shone white in the dark, I put my hand between her legs and felt the curly though still smooth hair, and I was naked, and I squirmed a bit, she said you’re so heavy on top of me, I pushed down with my arms and then my dick was in her pubic hair, I thrust, further down, she said, I moved and there it was, wet and soft and then, no, no, oh bloody hell, no.

Long shudders like electric shocks went through me as she lay there, her eyes wide open, staring up at me.

No, no, no.

I hadn’t even penetrated her. A couple of centimetres maybe, no more. And then it was over. I fell on top of her and kissed her neck. She pushed me away and half sat up. I reached out for her, touched her breasts, but she just got up, pulled on her panties and tights and left the room.

In the morning I woke to a discussion outside my half-open door. I recognised the voices of Espen, Trond and the girl from the night before. No, she said, it wasn’t me. Yes, it was. I saw you. You went into his bedroom. No, it wasn’t, she said. But we saw you. Yes, I went in with him, he was going to sleep, but I came out again at once , she said. Nothing happened. Ha ha ha! said Espen. You were shagging in there. No, we weren’t, she said. And where were you going just now? Were you going in? Why would you go in if you hadn’t shagged? You know him, don’t you? No. I was going to collect something I’d left there. What was that? My bag.

I hastily got up, put on a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, grabbed her bag and went out to them.

‘Here you are,’ I said, passing her the bag. ‘You forgot this.’

‘Thank you,’ she said without meeting my eyes, and went downstairs.

‘What a bloody mess the house is in,’ Espen said.

‘I can imagine,’ I said.

‘I’ll help you to tidy up.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll get Gisle and Trond to give a hand.’ He looked at me. ‘Did you shag Beate then?’

‘Was that her name?’ I said. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘She says you didn’t.’

‘I heard.’

‘Why?’

‘How should I know?’ I said.

Our eyes met.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Better go down and inspect the hell.’

There was nothing that could be done about the door, it would have to be changed. Nor about the slashes to the table. But all the rest? Couldn’t that be scrubbed clean? We tidied up and cleaned the house all morning. Espen, Gisle and Trond went home at one, I continued on my own with a steadily increasing sense of panic in my chest because no matter how much I tidied and cleaned, the place still looked as if a party had hit it.

Mum came at five. I went out to meet her so that it wouldn’t come as a shock. I didn’t want her to see it before I had told her.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How did it go?’

‘Not so well, I’m afraid,’ I said.

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘What happened?’

‘It got a bit out of control. Someone kicked in the bathroom door, among other things. And there are quite a few other bits and pieces. You’d better see for yourself. I’m extremely sorry.’

She looked at me.

‘I had a feeling it would be like this,’ she said. ‘We’d better go in and see.’

When the inspection was over, she sat down at the kitchen table, ran both hands over her face and looked up at me.

‘It’s dreadful,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘What shall we do about the door?’ she said. ‘We can’t afford a new one.’

‘Are we so hard up?’

‘I’m afraid so. Who kicked it in?’

‘Someone called Christian. An idiot.’

‘Surely he should replace it?’

‘I can tell him to.’

‘You do that.’

She got up with a sigh.

‘I suppose we’d better eat,’ she said. ‘I think there are some pollock fillets in the fridge. Shall we have those?’

‘OK.’

She went to the hall and hung up her coat, I found the two packs of fish, she started washing some potatoes while I sliced the frozen blocks into pieces.

‘We’ve had this conversation before,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You have to make your own decisions. And if they’re poor ones you have to live with the consequences.’

‘Of course,’ I said, and sprinkled flour, salt and pepper onto a plate, turned the, by now soft, fish in the mixture, put the frying pan on the hob and watched the knob of butter slide across the black surface as the heat took hold, not unlike a house, it struck me, when the clay base it stands on starts slipping. Slow, erect, with a final dignity before it subsides.

‘A year’s wear and tear in one night,’ she said. ‘Or even more.’

‘The house was built in 1880,’ I said. ‘One year’s not so much.’

She ignored me.

‘You’re eighteen years old. I can’t tell you what to do any more. I can’t control you. All I can do is be here for you and hope you will turn to me if you need help.’

‘OK.’

‘I could have tried to stop you, but why should I? You’re an adult and you have to take responsibility for your actions. I trust you. You’re free to do what you want. But you have to trust me too. In other words, treat me like an adult. And what we share is this house. We share the responsibility for it.’