Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Three

“Yes, it’s pretty far!” she said.

“Shall we meet again tomorrow?” I said.

“I can’t,” she said. “We’re going out in the boat.”

“On Thursday then?”

“Yes. Will you come up here?”

“Yes, of course.”

The bikes were between us the whole time. It wasn’t possible to lean over and kiss her. And perhaps she wouldn’t have wanted it either, right in front of her house.

I got back on my bike.

“I’ll be off then,” I said. “See you!”

“Bye,” she said.

And I cycled off as fast as I could.

Well, it could have been worse. I hadn’t gotten very far, but nothing had been ruined forever. It couldn’t continue like this, I realized, we couldn’t just talk, if we did, everything would wither and die. I had to kiss her; we had to do what real boyfriends and girlfriends did. But how to make the move? I had fooled around with Mariann, but I hadn’t been that excited about her, it hadn’t been a problem, I had just put my arms around her, pulled her to me, and kissed her. I had just taken her hand when we walked side by side. I couldn’t do that with Kajsa, though, couldn’t just put my arms around her, out of the blue. Imagine she didn’t want it! Imagine if I couldn’t pull the move off! It had to happen, and it would have to happen next time, that much was certain. And in a suitable place where no one could see us.

Thank God for the boat trip. It gave me two whole days to plan.

As I was about to fall asleep I remembered we had soccer practice on Thursday. That meant I would have to call and tell her. For all of the next day I dreaded it. Our telephone at home was in the hall, everyone could hear what was said, unless I closed the sliding door, but that was bound to arouse their curiosity, so the best would be to call from a telephone booth. There was one by the bus stop opposite the Fina station and I cycled down as late as I could, to be precise, a little after eight. If there was nothing special going on, I had to be home by half past eight, because I had to be in bed by nine-thirty on weekdays, the rule was still inflexible, even though everyone I knew stayed up later.

Having parked my bike outside, I searched for their home number in the telephone directory. What I was going to say had been reverberating around my head.

I dialed the whole number, apart from the last digit, very quickly. Then I waited a few seconds to get my breathing under control and dialed the last digit.

“Pedersen,” a woman’s voice said.

“May I speak to Kajsa please?” I said hurriedly.

“Who’s calling?”

“Karl Ove,” I said.

“Just a moment.”

There was a pause. I heard footsteps fading into the distance, voices. A bus came down the hill and slowly pulled into the bus stop. I pressed the receiver tighter against my ear.

“Hello?” said Kajsa.

“Is that Kajsa?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“This is Karl Ove,” I said.

“I could hear that!” she said.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” she said.

“I have to go to soccer tomorrow,” I said. “So I can’t make it to your house as we agreed.”

“Then I’ll see you down there. You’ll be at Kjenna, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Was it nice?” I said.

“Was what nice?”

“The boat trip? Was it nice?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“See you tomorrow then!” I said.

“Yes. Bye,” she said.

“Bye.”

I put down the receiver and my eyes were met by those of an old teacher in his forties who worked with Dad; he was on the bus and looked away when I saw him. I opened the dusty door and went out. The air was warm and full of the fumes from the idling bus engine. A family with two children was sitting outside the Fina station eating ice cream. As I cycled by, John came out the door. He was holding a helmet in one hand. Bare chest, clogs on his feet.

“Hi, Karl Ove!” he called.

“Hi,” I shouted back.

He put on his helmet, it was black with a black visor, and he got on the back of a motorbike. The driver started it up with two hefty kicks. Afterward they roared up the hill behind me. John waved an arm in the air as they raced past. My forehead was soaked with sweat. I ran my hand through my hair. My hand was sweaty, too. But my hair was fine; I had washed it the night before so that it would be perfect for the following day and the date with Kajsa. At the bus stop, on the crest of the hill, outside B-Max, I stopped. Rested my foot against the curbstone.

Suddenly I knew how I would do it.

Only a few weeks ago I had been here, surrounded by a whole crowd of people, with Tor as the center of attention. He had built his own bicycle, mounted a motorbike saddle and an enormous, new cogwheel at the front. He was doing wheelies, back and forth, spitting great gobbets of saliva across the tarmac. Merethe, his girlfriend, was also there. I had just been hanging out, with Dag Magne, and we had bumped into them and stayed there. Tor cycled over to Merethe and kissed her. Then he took a watch from his inside pocket, it was on a chain, glanced at it, and said, “Want to see how long we can make out?” Merethe nodded, and then they leaned toward each other and kissed. You could see their tongues working in each other’s mouths. She had her eyes closed and her arms around him; he stood with his hands in his pockets and his eyes open. Everyone was watching them. After ten minutes he held up his watch and straightened his back. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ten minutes,” he said.

That was how to do it. I would take off my watch and ask if we could see how long we could kiss. And then all we had to do was kiss.

I pushed off with my foot and cycled down to Holtet. It was important to find a suitable place. In the forest, of course, but where? Up at her place? No, I didn’t know my way around there. It should be somewhere nearby here.

Perhaps not too close to either of us.

We were meeting at her house.

But of course. Oh, yes. In the forest, by the path up from Fina. Under the trees there. That was perfect. No one would see us. The ground was soft. And the light was so wonderful as it fell between the treetops.

So as not to be the very first to arrive at soccer practice the next afternoon, I pushed my bike up all the hills, not that it made much difference, because when I saw the field in front of me it was deserted, covered with clicking, murmuring jets spraying water around, each at its own rhythm. Christian and Hans Christian were sitting on the gate by the entrance squinting at me in the sunshine.

“Anyone have a ball?” I said.

They shook their heads.

“Is it true you’re going out with Kajsa?” Christian said.

“Yes,” I said, biting my lip to stop myself smiling.

“She’s pretty,” he said.

Christian had never gone out with any girls, he wasn’t the type. But at the Norway Cup the previous summer he had bought a porn magazine from the kiosk outside the school the evening we arrived. Unfortunately for him his father, who coached the juniors, found him lying in his sleeping bag ogling the hypnotic pictures. With everyone on the team watching, he had to go and throw the magazine in the trash and apologize to his father.

“Ye-es,” I said.

Soon after, Øyvind came with the balls and keys, and we ran out between the sprinklers to the goal furthest away and we began to take shots while Øyvind switched off the water and moved the sprinklers off the field. When everyone was there we ran around the field a couple of times, did some stretching exercises, and practiced some set pieces before playing seven against seven on half of the field. Kajsa didn’t come until close to the end, with the three girls she had been with before. She waved to me; I waved back.