Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Three

“Are they in your class?”

“Yes. Kajsa and Sunnva. The others are in HC’s class.”

So she was called either Kajsa or Sunnva.

I leaned back with my hands behind my head on the grass and my eyes squinting into the rays of the orange sun. One of the others ducked the whole of his head into a bucket of water by the touchline. He straightened up and tossed his head. The drops of water formed a glittering arc in the air for a brief instant before dissipating. With prong-like fingers he plowed both hands through his wet hair.

“I’ve seen one of them before,” I said. “The one on the far right. What’s her name?”

“Kajsa?”

“Oh, really?”

Lars glanced at me. He had curly hair, freckles, and a slightly cheeky expression, but his eyes were warm and always had a glint.

“We’re neighbors,” he said. “I’ve known her since I learned to walk. Are you interested?”

“No-oo,” I said.

Lars bored a rigid finger in my chest a few times.

“Ye-es,” he grinned. “Shall I introduce you?”

“Introduce?” I said, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Isn’t that what it’s called, you who knows everything?”

“Yes, I suppose it is. No. Not now. That is, not at all. I’m not interested. I was just wondering. I thought I had seen her before.”

“Kajsa’s nice, she is,” Lars said. Then he whispered: “And she’s got big breasts.”

“Yes,” I said. I turned without thinking and looked at her. Lars laughed and got up. She looked at me.

She looked at me!

I got up too, and followed Lars down to the changing rooms.

“Can I have some?” I said.

He threw me the XL1 bottle, I leaned back and squirted the greenish liquid through the long, narrow plastic pipe and down my throat.

“Are you going for a shower?” he said.

“No, I’ve got to go home,” I said.

“Perhaps Kajsa will be in the showers, too,” he said.

“You think?” I said. He eyed me. I shook my head. He smiled. Behind us the others straggled in. In the changing room I just put on my T-shirt, tracksuit top, and shoes, then I placed my bag on the rack of my bike and cycled home along the old gravel road through the forest where the air soon cooled in places the sun hadn’t been shining for a while, and I had to close my mouth because these cool, gray pockets buzzed with large swarms of insects. The sun shone on the ridge close by, still bare after a fire the previous year, before it disappeared where the hills began and tall, dense spruce trees lined both sides of the road like a wall. My bike was the same one I’d had since I was small, a DBS kombi, with the seat and the handlebars raised as far as they would go, which made it look like a kind of mutant, a bike’s first, clumsy transition from a bike. I sang at the top of my voice as I raced between all the bumps and potholes and sometimes skidded sideways with a static rear wheel.

Shoot, Shoot!

Dodiddilidodo

Shoot, Shoot!

Dodiddilidodo

Shoot, Shoot!

Dodiddilidodo

You come all flattarp he come

Groovin’ out slowly he got

Ju ju eyeball he won

Holy roller he got

Here down to his knees

Got to be a joker, he just do what he pleases

Shoot, Shoot!

Dodiddilidodo

Shoot, Shoot!

Dodiddilidodo

Shoot, Shoot!

Dodiddilidodo

That was the opening track on the Abbey Road LP, “Come Together,” or at least how it sounded to my ears. Well, I knew it wasn’t exactly what they sang, but what did it matter as I whizzed down the hill in the forest, absolutely throbbing with happiness? Down at the crossroads I braked in front of a car, then picked up speed and pedaled as hard as I could up the gravel on the other side. I swallowed a midge or two and tried in vain to cough them up, crossed the main road at the top of Speedmannsbakken, and followed the cycle path down to the Fina station, where a gang of kids was sitting at the tables outside and not, as in winter, in the café. Their bikes and mopeds were parked a little way from them. I wasn’t frightened of going in there anymore, the worst that could happen was that someone might make a comment, but I still didn’t like it, so when I passed them it was on the other side of the road. There were three from my class with them this evening, John and I also saw Tor and Unni, and then Mariann from the parallel class. I had been out with her. No one took any notice of me, if indeed they saw me at all.

The quickest way to cycle home was along the main road, but I jumped off on the way up to the path and began to push my bike uphill. As soon as the trees closed off the view of the main road behind me the scenery became rural and I liked the change enough to relish the extra minutes it took.

Then it was all forest, not a house or a road to be seen, there were trees everywhere, tall, broad-crowned deciduous trees, crammed with green leaves, full of chattering birds. The path, which was no more than beaten earth and bare rock face, was crossed in several places by huge roots resembling prehistoric animals. The grass growing alongside the bed of a stream was thick and lush, in the wilderness at the bottom there were fallen trees with smooth trunks, and many plants covered the bed between the dry, lifeless branches, which had been there for as long as I could remember, and behind them there was a ridge of stumps between the long grass and the new trees that had shot up. Walking down the first hundred meters of the path, you could imagine the forest was deep, indeed, endlessly deep, and full of mystery. It wasn’t hard to dismiss the thought that between the branches in autumn and winter you could glimpse the long, rocky slope down from the road that went around the estate or glimpse the orange roof of one of the houses. The problem is not so much that the world limits your imagination as your imagination limits the world. But this time I was not outside to play but to surround myself with nature and to cultivate the feeling of liberation Kajsa’s gaze had given me.

Kajsa, her name was Kajsa!

With my bike bumping along beside me, I trudged up the hills, across the gentle slope, then jumped on my bike again when I emerged on the road, just below the parish hall. Outside Ketil’s house the road teemed with kids playing soccer. His father sat in a camping chair on the terrace wearing shorts, with his belly bulging out of an open, short-sleeved shirt. Smoke wafted over from a barbecue not far away from him.

Oh, the smell!

On the other side, Tom was washing his car. He was wearing large aviator glasses and denim shorts with long, frayed threads hanging down his thighs, otherwise nothing. I recognized the music blaring out through the open doors, which made the car look like a small, plump airplane, it was Dr. Hook. Then I reached the hill and saw the distant blue of Tromøya Sound behind the green trees, and the white gas holders on the other side. The wind forced tears from my eyes as I hurtled downhill. Another crowd of kids was playing kids on the road outside our house. Marianne’s little brother, Geir Håkon’s little brother, Bente’s little brother, and Jan Atle’s little brother. They said hello, I didn’t say hello back, I jumped off my bike, and trundled it down the drive, where there were two cars. There was Anne Mai’s big Citroën and Dagny’s 2cv. I had completely forgotten they were coming, and a little shiver of pleasure went through me when I saw them.

They were sitting in the living room with Mom. She had baked a cake, perhaps there was a third left, and she had made coffee. Now they were chatting, wreathed in clouds of smoke. I said hello, they asked how I was, I said fine, I had been at soccer practice, had the school holiday started, they asked, I answered yes, and it was wonderful. Anne Mai took out a packet of Freia Ms.