Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Two

‘My basic feeling is the opposite. In fact, it pervades everything. And don’t say I should have therapy.’

‘I didn’t say a word!’

‘You feel the same,’ I said. ‘The only difference is that you also have periods when your self-esteem is intact, not to put too fine a point on it.’

‘Just hope Vanja will be spared this,’ Linda said, looking at her. She smiled at us. The whole table was covered with rice, and the floor under the chair. Her lips were red with sauce, and white grains were stuck around her mouth.

‘But she won’t be,’ I said. ‘It’s impossible. Either she has it from the start or she picks it up on the way. It’s impossible to hide. But it might not mark her. It doesn’t have to, does it?’

‘I hope not,’ Linda said.

Her eyes were moist.

‘That was delicious anyway,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ll do the washing-up. Should manage it before they come.’

I turned to Vanja.

‘How big is Vanja?’ I asked.

She stretched her arms above her head proudly.

‘So big!’ I said. ‘Come on, and I’ll give you a little wash.’

I lifted her off the chair and carried her into the bathroom, where I rinsed her face and hands. Held her up in front of the mirror and rested my cheek against hers. She laughed.

Then I changed her nappy in the bedroom, set her down on the floor and went in to clear the table. After it was done and the dishwasher was humming beneath the worktop I opened the cupboard to check in the unlikely event that something had happened to the bottles.

It had. Someone had drunk from the grappa bottle since yesterday, and I was absolutely certain because the contents had been level with the edge of the label. The cognac was standing in a different position and although I wasn’t quite so sure of this, it appeared some had been drunk.

What the hell was going on?

I refused to believe that Linda was behind this. Especially after we had been chatting about it the night before.

But there was no one else here.

It wasn’t as if we had a home help or anything.

Oh shit, no.

Ingrid.

She had been here today. And yesterday. It had to be her, it was obvious.

But was she drinking while she was looking after Vanja? Was she sitting here with her grandchild around her legs and knocking back the juice?

If so, she would have to be an alcoholic. Vanja was everything to her. She wouldn’t risk anything, for Vanja’s sake. But if she was still drinking, the urge had to be stronger in her, it had to be, she was willing to risk everything for it.

Oh, Lord above, please be merciful.

From the bedroom floor I could hear Linda’s footsteps approaching, so I closed the cupboard door, went to the worktop, took a cloth and began to wipe down the surface. It was ten minutes to six.

‘I’ll go down for a smoke before they come. Is that OK?’ I said. ‘There’s a bit left to do, but…’

‘Of course. Off you go,’ Linda said. ‘Take the rubbish down on the way, will you?’

At that precise moment the doorbell rang. I went to open up. A young man with a beard and a shoulder bag stood there smiling. Behind him was another man, older, dark-skinned, with a large camera bag over his shoulder and a camera in one hand.

‘Hi,’ the young man said, proffering his hand. ‘Kjetil Østli.’

‘Karl Ove Knausgaard,’ I said.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

I shook the photographer’s hand and asked them in.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

I went into the kitchen, fetched the Thermos of coffee and three cups. When I returned they were looking around the living room.

‘Getting snowed in wouldn’t be a problem here,’ the journalist said. ‘You’ve got the odd book or two!’

‘Most of which I haven’t read,’ I said. ‘And the ones I have I don’t remember a thing about.’

He was younger than I had thought, probably no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven, despite the beard. His teeth were large, his eyes jovial and his personality was easy-going and cheery. This type was not unfamiliar to me, I had met several people who reminded me of him, but only in recent years, never when I was growing up. It might have had something to do with class, geography or generation, probably all of them at once. South-east Norway, middle class, I guessed, possibly academic parents. Well brought up, self-confident manner, sharp-witted, good social skills. Someone who had not been buffeted by adversity yet, that was the impression he gave in the first few minutes. The photographer was Swedish, thereby evading any chance I had of detecting nuances in the way he presented himself.

‘In fact, I had decided to turn down all interviews from now on,’ I said. ‘But they said at the publisher’s you were so good that I absolutely mustn’t let the opportunity slip through my fingers. Hope they’re right.’

Bit of flattery never hurts.

‘I hope so too,’ the journalist said.

I poured them a cup of coffee.

‘Could I take a few shots here?’ the photographer asked.

As I hesitated he assured me they would only be of me and nothing else.

At first the journalist had wanted to do the interview at home, and I had said no, but when he rang to arrange where to meet I said they should come up after all. Then we could take it from there. I could hear he was pleased.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Here?’

I stood in front of the bookshelves with a cup of coffee in my hand, he walked round taking photos.

What a load of shite this was.

‘Could you raise your hand a bit?’

‘Doesn’t that look a bit artificial?’

‘OK then. We’ll let that one go.’

From the hallway I heard Vanja crawling in. She sat up in the doorway and looked at us.

‘Hi, Vanja!’ I said. ‘Are there lots of scary men here? But you know me, don’t you…’

I lifted her up. At that moment Linda came in. She gave a perfunctory greeting, took Vanja and went back into the kitchen.

Everything I didn’t want to be seen was seen. Everything that was me and mine became stiff and stilted. I didn’t want it to be like this. No bloody way. But there I went again, grinning like an imbecile.

‘Can I have a couple more?’ the photographer asked.

I posed again.

‘A photographer once told me that taking pictures of me was like taking pictures of a lump of wood,’ I said.

‘Must have been a rotten photographer,’ said the photographer.

‘But you know what he meant?’

He stopped, took the camera away from his face, smiled, put it back and continued.

‘I think we should go to Pelikanen,’ I said to the journalist. ‘That’s my local. And there’s no music. Should do the trick.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Let’s do a few shots outside first. Then I’ll let you two get on with it,’ the photographer said.

At that moment the journalist’s mobile rang. He scrutinised the number.

‘I’ll have to take this,’ he said. The conversation, which lasted no more than one, maximum two, minutes, was about snowfall, a car, train times, a skiing hut. He rang off and met my glance.

‘I’m going skiing with some friends for the weekend. That was our lift from the train to the hut. An old boy who’s always helped us out.’

‘Sounds nice,’ I said.

A hut, skiing with friends, that was something I had never done. While I was at gymnas and for a couple of years into the course at university, this had been a sore point. I barely had any friends. And the few I had didn’t know each other. Now I was too old to bother about that sort of thing, but nevertheless I did feel a stab of pain, on behalf of the old me, as it were.

He put the mobile into his pocket and set the cup down on the table. The photographer was packing away his gear.