Karl Knausgaard - Dancing in the Dark

In the break he took me aside.

‘Just a moment, Karl Ove. No personal calls when we’re teaching.’

‘It wasn’t my fault she rang,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you have taken a message? Then I could have called her back in the break.’

He eyed me. ‘She said it was important. Was it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He winked and went into his office.

Bloody hell.

When I opened my box at the post office after school there were three letters in it. One from a debt collection agency threatening legal action if I didn’t pay. That was the dinner suit I had rented on New Year’s Eve, it had been damaged, and as I didn’t have the money to replace it, I had binned it hoping that, in time, they would forget the whole business. I still didn’t have the money, so the case would have to run its course. What could they do if I didn’t pay? Put me in prison? I didn’t have any money!

The other letters were from Hilde and mum. I didn’t open them until I got home, letters were a party, everything had to be perfect when I read them.

Steaming coffee in a cup, music on the stereo, a roll-up in my hand and one ready on the table.

I started with the one from mum.

Dear Karl Ove,

You’re probably waiting for more feedback, so here’s Kjartan’s: he was enthusiastic about your epos — ‘it’s literature and he has talent’ was one of the comments I remember. He considers you his peer and sends you (via me) his latest piece of work, he’s having a crack at prose now. And he urged you to push ahead with your writing but thought you probably lacked someone to discuss matters with and wondered if there were any writing courses/seminars in the area you could attend. Which is what he does. He also suggested getting in touch with a reader (publishing house). (I’m less certain about that — think it’s too early in your personal development — but I’m passing on his thoughts.)

It sounds to me as if you’ve made the transition from ‘the warm nest of home’ to the ‘great wide world’ without any problems as you can see the positive sides of life. The transition isn’t always painless. But then again maybe home wasn’t that warm a nest either. Maybe you are less exposed where you are now; your music must help.

Other news from my end? My mind is mainly on the psychiatric nursing school. Recently, though, I have been out and about and I found an old house, an abandoned school with large attractive worthy rooms complete with acquired wisdom and knowledge. I could imagine teaching my psychiatric nurses there!

In Sørbøvåg the patients are as fragile as ever — helpless, destitute, with an indomitable will to live, an inextinguishable determination to cope, to manage at all costs. It’s good to be there in the sense that it’s good to have people close to me. But the conditions there eat away at your own will and zest for life. I don’t know how they keep going. Their lives are full of difficulty just managing their daily existences — like getting up, putting their clothes on, cooking, etc. — and yet they have this energy and determination.

Grandad thinks he’s going to live to be a hundred. That makes him happy! Grandma, even with her physical and mental problems, follows what’s going on, or perhaps more what went on, she mixes up the past and the present. The distinction is not always that clear for grandad either. It’s depressing to witness their frailties, but without them life would be very empty. Talking to Auntie Borghild is often a solace and a comfort though, she is clever and wise, has experienced a lot in life and is secure — on top of that, she’s a good talker. I’ve been thinking about going to see her one evening this week for a chat.

I can see writing is an earnest business for you. It must be good to have found something you want to invest time and effort in. The possibilities are endless if you have the courage. That’s what I believe.

As for the jumper, I’ve bought a pattern that can be adapted to suit you. But at the moment I have no desire to either knit or crochet. I might buy one here or send you the money. Have to see. Good luck with everything!

Love, mum.

Could it be true that Kjartan had said I had talent? And that I should send my short story to a publisher?

She would never have written it if it wasn’t.

But what did she mean by my personal development ? Either the texts were good or they weren’t ?

I opened the letter from Hilde. As expected, I was showered with superlatives. She was looking forward to reading more, she wrote in that open-hearted passionate way only she had.

I put it aside and sat down in front of the typewriter. As soon as I had plugged it in I knew what should happen in the bonfire stories.

They were burning dead bodies! All the fires across the whole of the unending plain were funeral pyres! At first he didn’t understand, but then he went closer and that was when he saw. They were pushing a kind of flat wooden spade under each body and lifting it into the flames.

I finished the story in an hour, tore the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and hurried up to the school to copy it.

Three days later Irene stood at my door.

I invited her in.

The mood was tense, she tried to handle it as well as she could, we drank tea and chatted, nothing happened.

When she was about to go, she put her arms around me and as she looked up at me I bent down and kissed her.

She was warm and soft and full of life.

‘When will we see each other again?’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘When would suit you?’

‘Tomorrow?’ she said. ‘Are you at home then? I can get someone to drive me here.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Come tomorrow.’

I stood in the doorway and watched her walk towards the car. My member ached with desire. She turned and waved, then she got into the car and I closed the door, went in and sat on the sofa. I was full of feelings for her, but they were not unambivalent, I liked her and wanted her, but did I like her enough ? She had been wearing blue jeans and a blue denim jacket, surely everyone knew that didn’t go? At least girls knew? And her note, all the dialect, I hadn’t really liked that.

We should get drunk together, then all the ambivalence would be gone. And if I was drunk enough would I be able to see her naked without. . well, without that happening?

I was asleep when she rang the next evening. I dashed into the hall and opened the door. She had her thumbs in her pockets and was smiling at me. Behind her a car was waiting with the engine idling.

‘Fancy a trip to Finnsnes?’ she said.

‘Definitely,’ I said.

The same friend who had been with her the first time, and whose name I had forgotten, was sitting next to the driver, a young man of my age, perhaps her boyfriend, perhaps not. I got in beside Irene, and then we were off. Like everyone here, he drove fast. The music was loud, Creedence Clearwater Revival, obviously a local favourite, and by the bottom of the hill I had a bottle of beer pressed into my hand. All the way there I wanted her, she was so close to me, especially when she laid her arms on the seat in front and leaned forward to chat with the others. They asked me some questions, I answered and asked them some questions, and Irene filled the subsequent silence by chatting with the two at the front. Occasionally she turned to me and explained the background to what they were talking about, her face constantly alternating between a smile and a great tremulous earnestness the times our eyes met.

After around an hour the driver parked in front of the discotheque in Finnsnes, we went in, found a table and ordered some wine, which we shared. We danced, she pressed against me, I wanted her so much I didn’t know where to start. Bloody small talk, what good was that? I knocked back the wine to fill the abyss in me, my pulse accelerated, soon we were dancing all the time. On the way home, at a hundred and twenty over the long flats, we sat in the back smooching. When ‘Stand by Your Man’ came on, I leaned back and laughed, I would write about this in my letters, that’s how redneck this place was, this was what my life was like now. She asked me what had made me laugh, nothing, I said, I’m just happy.