Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Three

“Want one?” he said, holding out the bag to him. Stig smiled and chose a baby’s dummy. So I had to offer him one afterward, too. Why on earth had Geir done that? We didn’t exactly have a lot of candy.

Stig was in the class above ours and did gymnastics training in Arendal three times a week. He competed at the national level, but there wasn’t a touch of arrogance about him, as there was with Snorre, who swam for the national squad and wanted nothing to do with us. Stig was nice, one of the nicest boys I knew, in fact. When the bus came he sat in the seat in front of Geir and me. By the end of Langbrygga the conversation had petered out, he turned round and sat like that for the rest of the journey. Geir and I were quiet, too, and the thought of the missing sock returned with renewed vigor.

Oh no, oh no.

What was going to happen?

What was going to happen?

Oh no oh no oh no.

No, no, no!

Perhaps he had noticed that we were late. Perhaps he would be standing there waiting. On the other hand, he might not be, he might be busy with something else, in which case I was safe; if I could get from the hall to the boiler room unnoticed everything would be fine because I had my other socks there and I could change into them.

The bus drove onto Tromøya Bridge and was buffeted by the wind. The windows vibrated. Geir, who always wanted to be the first to pull the bell cord, reached up and rang, even though we were the only passengers to get off here. The bus stop was right at the bottom of the hill, and I always felt guilty when I alighted here because the bus would have to set off again and wouldn’t be able to pick up speed until it had passed the brow of the hill a few hundred meters further on. Sometimes this feeling was so strong in me that I didn’t get off until the next stop, up by B-Max, especially when I was on my own. Even now, with thoughts of the sock burning in my consciousness, I felt a little pang as Geir pulled the cord and the bus braked with a sigh of irritation to drop us off.

We stood by the drifts of snow and waited until the bus had pulled out again. Stig raised his hand to say goodbye. Then we crossed the road and walked up the path to the estate.

Usually I would kick my boots against the doorstep a couple of times to shake the snow off and then brush my trousers with the broom leaning against the wall for that very purpose, but this time I skipped the kicks, fearing he might hear, just brushed my trousers and cautiously opened the door, sidled in, and closed it behind me.

But that was enough. From inside, I heard his study door open, and then the door to the porch.

He stood in front of me.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I said. “But Geir fell and hurt himself on the road, so we missed the bus.”

I started undoing the boot with a sock in it.

He didn’t show any sign of wanting to leave.

I pulled the boot off and placed it by the wall.

Looked up at him.

“What is it?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said.

My heart was pounding in my ears. Getting up and walking with one boot on across the floor was obviously not an option. Standing still and waiting for him to leave was not an option, either, because he wasn’t going anywhere.

Slowly I began to untie my laces. While doing so I had a brainwave. I unwound my scarf, placed it beside my boot, and, after undoing the laces, I pulled it off, took the scarf, and casually tried to cover my naked foot.

Then, with the scarf half-covering my foot, I stood up.

“Where’s your sock?” Dad said.

I looked down at my foot. Glanced at him.

“I couldn’t find it,” I said, my eyes downcast again.

“Have you lost it?” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

The next instant he was up close to me, grabbing my arms in an iron grip and pinning me to the wall.

“Have you LOST your sock?”

“Yes!” I shouted.

He shook me. Then let me go.

“How old are you now? And how much money do you think we’ve got? Do you think we can afford to lose items of clothing?”

“No,” I said to the floor, my eyes full of tears. He held my ear and twisted it.

“You little brat!” he said. “Keep an eye on your things!”

“OK,” I said.

“You can’t go to the swimming pool anymore. Is that understood?”

“Eh?”

“YOU CAN’T GO TO THE SWIMMING POOL ANYMORE!” he said.

“But …,” I sobbed.

“NO IFS OR BUTS!”

He let go of my ear and marched to the door. Turned to me.

“You’re not old enough. You’ve shown that tonight. You can’t go there again. This was the last time. Have you got that?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Go to your room. There’ll be no supper for you. You can go straight to bed.”

The following week I didn’t go swimming, but I missed it so much that the next week I acted as if nothing had happened, packed my things, and caught the bus with Geir and Dag Lothar. My fears trickled through at various points, but something inside me said I would be fine, and I was, on my return everything was as normal and so it stayed, he never said another word about my not being able to continue the class.

At the start of December, three days before my birthday and two days before Mom came home again, I was sitting on the toilet, taking a dump, when the familiar sound of Dad’s car turning and parking in the drive was not followed by the equally familiar sound of a door being opened and closed but by the door bell ringing.

What could this be?

I hurriedly wiped myself, pulled the chain, yanked up my trousers, opened the window above the bathtub, and poked my head out.

Dad was standing beneath me wearing a new anorak. On his legs he wore knee-length breeches and long, blue socks, and on his feet a pair of blue-and-white boots, all equally new.

“Come on!” he said. “We’re going skiing!”

I got dressed in a flash and went outside, where he was tying my skis and sticks to the roof rack beside a pair of brand new, long, wooden Splitkein skis.

“Did you buy some skis?” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Isn’t it great? So we can go skiing together.”

“OK,” I said. “So where are we going?”

“Let’s go to the west of the island,” he said. “To Hove.”

“Are there slopes there?”

“There? Oh yes!” he said. “They’ve got the best.”

I doubted it, but didn’t say anything, got in the car beside him, how unfamiliar he looked in his new clothes, and then we left for Hove. Not a word was said until he parked and we got out.

“Here we are!” he said.

He had driven through Hove Holiday Center, which consisted of a large number of red houses and huts originating from the last war, most probably built by the Germans, like the firing range, which, I had heard rumored, had been an airfield, like the concrete gun placements towering above the sea-smoothed rocks and the pebble beaches close to the edge of the forest, and the fascinating low bunkers among the trees, where we used to play on the roofs and in the rooms when we were here in the afternoon on 17th of May celebration days, he had driven past all this, along a narrow road into the forest, which came to an end by a small sand quarry, where he stopped and parked.

After taking the skis off the roof, he came over with a little case full of ski-waxing equipment he had also bought, and we waxed the skis with blue Swix, which, after reading the back of one of the tubes, he said had to be the best. Apparently unfamiliar with bindings, it took him a bit longer to put on his skis than it did me. Then he put his hands through the loops on the poles. But he didn’t do it from underneath so that the loop wouldn’t slip off even if he lost hold of the pole. No, he put his hands straight through.