Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Three

I dangled my legs and drummed my fingers on the table while humming, Kisses for me, save all your kisses for me, bye bye, baby, bye bye.

“Kanestrøm caught tons of mackerel today,” I said. “I saw them. He showed me the bucket. It was full to the brim. Are we going to get a boat soon, do you think?”

“Take it easy now,” she said. “A boat and a cat! Well, it’s not impossible, but not this year, that’s for certain. Next year maybe. It all costs money, you know. But you can ask Dad.”

She passed me back the scissors.

You ask Dad, I thought, but didn’t say anything, trying to slide the blade of the scissors along without making a cut, but it stopped, I squeezed the handles together and made a jagged cut.

“Goodness, Yngve’s late,” she said, looking out of the window.

“He’s in safe hands,” I said.

She smiled at me.

“I suppose so,” she said.

“The note,” I said. “The swimming class. Can you sign it now?”

She nodded. I got up and ran along the landing into my room, took the form from my satchel, and was about to run back when the door downstairs opened and I realized what I had done as my heart skipped an extra beat.

Dad’s heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. I stood motionless outside the bathroom as his gaze met mine.

“No running indoors!” he said. “How many times do I have to tell you? It makes the whole house bang and shake. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

He came up and walked past me, his broad back in the white shirt. When I saw he was heading for the kitchen all my happiness evaporated. But I had to go back in there, where he was.

Mom was sitting as before. Dad was standing at the window, looking out. I put the form carefully down on the table.

“Here,” I said.

There was one book left. I sat down and made a start on it. Only my hands moved, everything else was still. Dad was mulling over something.

“Yngve’s not home yet, is he?” he said.

“No,” Mom said. “I’m getting a bit uneasy.”

Dad looked down at the table.

“What’s that you’ve brought?” he asked.

“The swimming class,” I answered. “Mom was going to sign it.”

“Let me have a look,” he said, taking the form and reading it. Then he took the pen from the table, wrote his name, and passed the form to me.

“There we are,” he said, nodding in the direction of the table. “Now you take all this stuff to your room. You can finish it there. We’re going to have supper now.”

“Yes, Dad,” I said. Put the books in a pile, rolled up the paper, and stuffed it under my arm, grabbed the scissors and the Scotch tape with one hand, the books with the other, and left the kitchen.

While I was at the desk cutting the paper for the last book, a bike rolled up on the gravel outside. Just then the front door opened.

Dad stood waiting for him in the hall when he came up the stairs.

“What time’s this supposed to be?” he said.

Yngve’s answer was too subdued for me to hear, but the explanation must have been good because the next moment he went into his room. I laid the book on the paper I had cut out, folded it, and placed another book on top as a weight while I tried to pick the tape free from the roll. When I finally loosened a corner and pulled some off, it tore and I had to start again.

Behind me the door opened. It was Yngve.

“What are you up to?” he said.

“Wrapping my books, as you can see,” I said.

“We had buns and pop after the training,” Yngve said. “In the clubhouse. And there were girls on the team. One of them was really good.”

“Girls?” I said. “Is that allowed?”

“Apparently. And Karl Frederik was great.”

Through the open window came the sound of voices and footsteps going up the hill. I stuck the bit of tape I had on my finger on the paper and went over to see who it was.

Geir and Leif Tore. They had stopped outside the drive to Leif Tore’s and were laughing about something. Then they said bye, and Geir ran the short distance to his drive. When he turned in there and I saw his face for the first time there was a little smile on his lips. His hand was clenched around something in his shorts pocket.

I turned to Yngve.

“What position are you going to play?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably defense.”

“What color’s your strip?”

“Blue and white.”

“Just like Trauma’s?”

“Close,” he said.

“Come and eat!” Dad called from the kitchen. When we went in, there was a plate with three slices of bread on it and a glass of milk in our places. Clove cheese, brown cheese, and jam. Mom and Dad were in the living room watching TV. The road outside was gray, and so, almost, were the branches on the trees at the edge of the road, whereas the sky above the trees, across Tromøya Sound, was blue and open, as though it arched above a different world than the one we were in.

The next morning I was woken by Dad opening the bedroom door.

“C’mon, up, sleepyhead!” he said. “The sun is shining and the birds are singing.”

I pulled the duvet to the side and swung my feet onto the floor. Apart from the sound of Dad’s footsteps, fading as they went down the landing, the house was perfectly quiet. It was Tuesday. Mom started work early, Yngve had to be at school early while Dad didn’t have to start until the second period.

I went to the wardrobe and searched through the piles of clothes, chose a white shirt, which was the best I had, and blue cords. But the shirt was probably too smart, I thought, he would notice, perhaps ask why I was all tarted up, perhaps tell me to take it off. Better to wear the white Adidas T-shirt.

With my clothes under my arm I went into the bathroom. Fortunately Yngve had remembered to leave the water in the sink. I closed the door behind me. Lifted the toilet seat and peed. The pee was a greenish yellow, not dark yellow as it often was in the morning. Even though I tried carefully to make sure all the drops fell inside the bowl when I shook myself dry, some landed on the floor, small transparent globules of moisture on the bluish-gray linoleum. I dried the floor with some toilet paper, which I threw in the bowl before pulling the chain. With the flushing noise in my ears I stood in front of the sink. The water was a pale-green color. Small transparent flakes of God knows what were floating in it. I cupped my hands, filled them with water, leaned forward, and dipped my head in. The water was a tiny bit colder than me. A shiver ran down my spine as it settled on my skin. I soaped my hands, rubbed them quickly over my face, closing my eyes as I did so, and rinsed and dried them and my face on the light-brown towel hanging on my hook.

Finished!

I pulled the bedroom curtain aside and peered out. The trees in the forest, above which the sun had just risen, cast long, dark shadows over the shimmering tarmac. Then I put on my clothes and went into the kitchen.

There was a bowl of cornflakes in my place, with a carton of milk beside it. Dad wasn’t there.

Had he gone to his study to get his things together?

No. I heard him moving in the living room.

I sat down and poured milk over the cornflakes. Dipped the spoon in and put it to my mouth.

Oh my God.

The milk was off, and the taste of it, which filled all my mouth, caused me to retch. I gulped it down because at that moment my father came across the floor. In through the doorway, across the kitchen, over to the counter, and leaned against it. He looked at me and smiled. I took another spoonful from the bowl and put it to my mouth. The mere thought of the taste made my stomach turn. But I breathed through my mouth and swallowed it after only a couple of chews.