Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Three

“Hi,” I said.

She put the book down.

“Hi,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“Mm,” I said. “Around and about. We found some bottles and we’re going to get the money back on Monday.”

“Nice,” she said.

“Are you going to make pizza this evening?” I said.

She smiled.

“That’s what I’d planned.”

“Great!” I said.

“Have you started the book you got?”

I nodded.

“I started yesterday. It seems really good. I’m going to go to my room and read some now in fact.”

“You do that,” she said. “Food’ll be ready in a quarter of an hour.”

She always brought something when she came on Fridays, and this time it had been a book. A Wizard of Earthsea, written by someone called Ursula K. Le Guin, and already after the first few pages I knew that this was an absolutely fantastic book. Yet I didn’t settle down with the book without some hesitation, because Mom was at home and I wanted to be with her as much as possible. On the other hand, she was here and almost all the qualities her presence brought to my life were in place, not least the fact that Dad never did anything awful when she was here, never had one of his furious outbursts, always controlled himself, even though I was lying on my bed and she was in the kitchen.

I watched the English Football League match with Yngve and Dad. He had bought toffees as usual, and both Yngve and I had been given a pools coupon with eight rows of twelve matches each. I got five correct results, which the others laughed at because that was less than half and I might just as well have rolled a dice. Dad said it was as hard to get five as it was ten. But whereas those who got ten right were sent money by Norsk Tipping, those who got five had to pay money to them, he said. Yngve got seven right and Dad got ten, but unfortunately this time there was no payout for ten.

By the time all the results were in it was two minutes to six. Outside, Ketil came whizzing down the hill on his bike with a bulging plastic bag strapped to the luggage rack. I jumped up and said I had to go.

“What are you going to do now?” Dad said. “Children’s TV is starting.”

“I’m not in the mood for it,” I said. “And I’m meeting Geir.”

“Meeting, eh?” Dad said. “Well, that’s fine. Just make sure you’re back home by eight.”

“Are you going out?” Mom said from the doorway. “And here I was thinking you could help me make the pizza.”

“I’d love to, but I’ve arranged to meet someone,” I said.

“Our son has started making arrangements,” Dad said. “Are you sure it’s Geir? Not a little sweetheart?”

“Yes, I’m absolutely sure about that,” I said.

“Be back home by eight then,” Mom said.

Dad stood up.

“Soon we’ll be all alone in the evenings, Sissel,” he said, hauling his trousers up by the belt loops and running a hand through his hair. I was already on my way down the landing and didn’t hear what she answered. My throat was thick with excitement, my whole body tingling. In the hallway, I put on my sneakers — if we were lucky the forest would be dry now — the blue sweater, and the blue quilted vest Mom had made for me, opened the door, and rushed out to meet Ketil, who was sitting on his bike with one foot on the pedal and one on the ground, and Geir, who was standing next to him. Both glanced toward me.

“Let’s go to the boathouse,” I said. “No one will see us there.”

“OK,” Ketil said. “I’ll cycle round. See you down there.”

Geir and I ran down the slope and onto the path, jumped over the stream, and scurried down the hill, which seemed to vibrate beneath our feet, crossed the field, the gravel road, and only slowed down when we reached the grassy incline at the same time as Ketil hove into view at the top of the hill, beside the old, white house.

Ketil was two years older than us and kept himself very much to himself, at least that was how it appeared to us. The high cheekbones, the narrow eyes, and the gleaming, black hair made him look like an Indian and caused a stir among the girls. It wasn’t long since that had started. From one day to the next Ketil became the one they talked about and looked at, suddenly you heard his name all over the place, and the strange thing about this was not the way that he suddenly existed now, having existed before in a kind of vale of shadows, but that there was a certain pride in the girls who talked about him and eyed him, as if they were the ones who became interesting by making such an unexpected selection, almost more interesting than he was. For he just carried on with his life, cycling round, one day here, one day there, invariably alone, and always friendly to us.

He kicked down the stand on his bike, an orange DBS racer with drop handlebars and the tape hanging off one end, lifted the spring flap on the luggage rack, took the bag, and strolled over to where we were lying in the grass, each with a sprig of grass in our mouths.

“It’s porn time!” he said, grabbing the bag from the bottom and spilling the magazines over the grass.

The sun was low in the sky over the ridge behind us, and his shadow stretched a long way across the ground. From the islet in the bay came the sound of screeching gulls. Feeling weak all over, I took a magazine and rolled onto my stomach. Even though I looked at the pictures one at a time, and focused on one part, such as the breasts, which I only needed to catch a glimpse of to feel an electric shock of excitement shoot through me, or such as the legs and the wild thrill aroused by the sight of the slit between them, more or less open, more or less pink and glistening, often accompanied by a finger or two nearby, or near the mouth, which was often open, often contorted into a grimace, or such as the buttocks, sometimes so wonderfully round that I couldn’t lie still, this wasn’t about the parts in themselves, this was more like bathing in the totality, a kind of sea in which there was no beginning and no end, a sea in which, from the first moment, from the first picture, you always found yourself in the middle.

“Can you see a big mons anywhere, Geir?” I said.

He shook his head. “But there’s one here with enormous tits. Do you want to see?”

I nodded, and he held up the magazine for me.

Ketil sat some meters from us, with his legs crossed and a magazine in his hands. But after only a few minutes he threw it down and got to his feet.

“I’ve looked at them so many times,” he said. “I’ll have to get some new ones.”

“Where did you get them?” I said, gazing up at him and shielding my eyes from the sun.

“I bought them.”

“BOUGHT THEM?” I said.

“Yes.”

“But they’re old, aren’t they?”

“They’re used, you chump. There’s a hairdressing salon in town that also sells old magazines. They’ve got loads of porn mags.”

“Are you allowed to buy them?”

“Obviously,” he said.

I stared at him for a few seconds. Was he pulling my leg?

Didn’t look like it.

I flicked through. There were photos of two girls on a tennis court. They wore short skirts, one light blue, the other white, white shirts, a sweat band over their wrists, white socks, and white sneakers. Each was holding a racket. Surely they weren’t going to …?

I flicked on.

One was lying on the grass and had opened her shirt so you could see her breasts. Her head was back. Was she wearing any panties?

Nope.

Soon they were both naked, on their knees by the net, with their bottoms in the air. It was fantastic. Fantastic. Fantastic.

“Look, Geir,” I said. “Two playing tennis!”

He glanced at me and nodded, too absorbed in his own pictures to waste any time.