Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Three

“The annual then?”

“You can have that,” he said. “But bring it back when you’ve finished!”

On Saturdays we had cold rice pudding in the morning and a hot meal in the evening, usually a casserole, always in the dining room, and not in the kitchen where we normally ate. There was a napkin by each place. Mom and Dad drank beer or wine with the food; we were given a soft drink. After eating we watched TV. More often than not there was some Broadway-style show from a studio in Oslo, with women dressed in net stockings, jackets, and hats and carrying canes, while men in dinner jackets, white scarves, and hats and carrying canes came down a white staircase singing some song or other. Frequently it was “New York, New York.” Sølvi Wang, whom Mom liked, usually was featured. Leif Juster, Arve Opsahl, and Dag Frøland were other regular contributors to Saturday night TV. Wenche Myhre used to perform a sketch playing a young girl in a nursery, or there was the Eurovision Song Contest, which, aside from the FA Cup Final, the European Cup Final, and Wimbledon, was the pinnacle of the year’s TV.

On this evening, a man dressed in rags sat on a roof singing and he had an incredibly deep voice. Oul Man Rivå, he sang. I was humming the song all evening. Oul Man Rivå, I sang as I was brushing my teeth, Oul Man Rivå, I sang as I was getting undressed, Oul Man Rivå, I sang lying in bed and going to sleep.

Mom and Dad had closed the sliding door and were in the living room sitting and chatting, smoking, listening to music, and finishing off the bottle of wine after dinner. Between the songs I could just hear Dad’s rumbling voice and was aware that Mom said something in the pauses, although I couldn’t hear her.

I fell asleep. When I awoke they were still there. Were they going to talk all night, or what? I thought and fell asleep again.

The warm, bright September days were summer’s last burst of energy before abruptly crumbling, and in its place came rain. T-shirts and shirts were exchanged for sweaters and long trousers, jackets were put on in the morning and, when the torrential autumn rain set in, rubber boots and raincoats. Streams swelled, gravel roads were covered in puddles, water poured down the gutters in the streets, bringing with it sand, small stones, and pine and spruce needles. Beach life stopped, people no longer went on trips in their boats on the weekends, and the traffic to and from the pontoons was all about fishing now. Dad also got out his fishing equipment, the rod, the reel, the lures, and the gaff, put on his dark-green oilskins, and chugged to the far side of the island, where some weekends he stood alone for hours, fishing for the big cod that were there during the winter season. It was very appropriate that the swimming class started at this time because there was something unnatural about the thought of swimming in an indoor pool when the sun was baking hot outside. It was every Tuesday evening all autumn, and everyone in the class had signed up. Since Mom left for work before I got up in the morning I reminded her about the course the night before, so that she would remember to buy me a swimming cap on her way home. We should have done it a long time ago, but for some reason or other it hadn’t happened. When I heard her car coming up the hill I ran down into the hall and waited. She came in wearing her coat, carrying a bag over her shoulder, and, on seeing me, smiled a weary smile. No plastic bag from a sports shop in evidence anywhere. Perhaps it was in her handbag? After all, a bathing cap occupied no space.

“Have you got the cap?” I said.

“Oh no, do you know what?” she said.

“You forgot it? You didn’t forget it, did you? The course is today!”

“I did. I was lost in my own world on the way back from work. But you know … when does it start?”

“At six,” I said.

She looked at her watch.

“It’s half past three now. The shops close at four. I can make it if I go now. I can do that. Tell Dad I’ll be back again in an hour, will you?”

I nodded.

“Hurry up then!” I said.

Dad was in the kitchen frying chops. A cloud of cooking fumes hovered in the air above the stove. The lid on the potatoes clanked against the side of the pan with the pressure from the steam. He had the radio on and stood with his back to it, one hand holding the spatula and the other resting against the edge of the counter.

“Dad?” I said.

He swivelled round.

“What?” he said. And when he saw me, “What do you want?”

“Mom’ll be back in an hour,” I said. “She told me to tell you.”

“Has she been here and gone off again?”

I nodded.

“Why? What for?”

“To buy a swim cap. I’ve got my swimming course today.”

The irritation in his eyes was unmistakable. But I wasn’t out of the woods yet. I couldn’t just turn on my heels and go.

Then he nodded in the direction of my room, and I went, glad to have got off so lightly.

Ten minutes later he called us. We slunk onto the landing from our rooms, warily pulled our chairs back from the table, sat down, waited until Dad had put the potatoes, a chop, a little pile of browned onions, and some boiled carrots on our plates before, sitting up straight and utterly still, apart from our forearms, mouths, and heads, we started to eat. No one said a word during the meal. When our plates were empty, except for the potato skins and the bones that had been gnawed clean, we thanked Dad and went back to our rooms. From the whistling I could hear I concluded that Dad was making coffee in the kitchen. After it had stopped, he went down to his study, probably with a cup of coffee in his hand. I lay on my bed reading with my ears tuned to the noises outside the house, the drone of cars passing, and I recognized the sound of Mom’s VW the moment it turned into the road further down, Beetles were unmistakable and, had I made a mistake, nonetheless, I was absolutely certain I was right a few seconds later when it entered Nordåsen Ringvei. I got up and went onto the landing above the staircase. As Dad was in his study, it was the best place to wait.

The door opened, I heard her taking off first her boots, then her jacket, which she hung on the hat stand in the corner, and her footsteps across the carpet in the hallway below, which, as they began to climb the stairs, seemed to merge into the sight of her.

“Have you got it?” I said.

“Yes, no problem,” she said.

“Can I see it?”

She passed me the white Intersport bag she was holding. I opened it and pulled out the bathing cap.

“But Mom, it’s got flowers on it!” I said. “I can’t wear a cap with flowers on it! That’s no good! It’s a woman’s! You bought a woman’s swimming cap!”

“Isn’t it lovely?” she said.

I looked down at the cap with tears in my eyes. It was white, and the flowers decorating it were not just printed on but small, raised plastic imitations of flowers.

“You’ll have to go and change it,” I said.

“Karl Ove, my love, the shops are closed. I can’t.”

She laid her hand on my head and looked at me.

“Is it really that bad?” she said.

“I can’t go to the class with this. I won’t go. I’ll stay at home.”

“But Karl Ove,” she said.

The tears were streaming down my cheeks now.

“You’ve been looking forward to the class so much,” she said. “Surely a few flowers don’t matter that much, do they? You can still go. Then we’ll buy you a new cap for next time. I can use this one. I need one. And I think the flowers look lovely, I really do.”

“You don’t understand anything, do you,” I said. “I can’t go. That’s a woman’s swimming cap !” I shouted.