Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Two

He met me outside the main building, told me without delay that he had never experienced anything like the time I had been at the seminar for debut writers, nothing even remotely near it. I understood what he meant, the atmosphere had been so special then, not only for me.

The lectures were boring and the discussions tedious, or else it was just that I was too happy to show any interest. A couple of older Icelandic men were the only ones with anything original to say, so they were also the ones who had to face the strongest arguments. At night we drank, Henrik Hovland was there and entertained us with stories of life under canvas, one he told us was about how after a certain number of days the smell of your shit became so strong and individual that you could smell your way to each other in the dark, like animals, which no one believed, but everyone laughed, while I described the fantastic scene from one of Arild Rein’s books where the protagonist shits such a large turd that it can’t be flushed, so he takes it, puts it into the pocket of his suit jacket and goes out wearing it.

The next day two Danes arrived, Jeppe and Lars; Jeppe’s talk was good, and they were great drinking company. They travelled back with me to Stockholm, we went on the booze, I texted Linda, she met us at Kvarnen, embraced me when she arrived, we laughed and chatted, but suddenly my spirits sank, for Jeppe was charismatic, more than usually intelligent and had a strong masculine presence, by which Linda was not unaffected, I sensed. Perhaps that was why I started a discussion with her. Of all the subjects to choose I chose abortion. It didn’t seem to bother her, but she went home afterwards, while we continued, ending up going to a nightclub where Jeppe was refused admittance, it must have been something to do with the plastic bag he was carrying, his worn appearance and the fact that he was very drunk. We went back to my place instead, Lars fell asleep, Jeppe and I sat up, the sun rose, he told me about his father, a good person in all ways, and when he said he was dead, a tear ran down his cheek. It was one of those moments that will live long in the memory, perhaps because the confidence came without warning. There was just his head resting against the wall, illuminated by the first soft light of morning, the tear running down his cheek.

The following day we had breakfast in a café, they left for Arlanda Airport, I went back to sleep, left the window open, it rained, the computer, without any form of back-up, was soaked.

I switched it on the next day and it worked fine. Nothing could go wrong any more. Geir called, it was 17 May, Norwegian Independence Day, should we go out for a meal? Him, Christina, Linda and me? I told him about our discussion, he said there were very few topics you should never discuss with women, abortion was one of them. Bloody hell, Karl Ove, almost all of them have had an abortion at some point. How can you wade out into such deep waters? Call her and ask her out, it may not mean anything. She probably hasn’t given it a thought.

‘I can’t ring her after that.’

‘What’s the worst that can happen? If she’s angry with you, she’ll just say no. If she isn’t she’ll say yes. You’ll have to suss it out. You can’t stop meeting her because you suspect she doesn’t want to know about you.’

I rang.

Yes, she would like to go out.

We went to Creperiet, talked mostly about the relationship between Norway and Sweden, Geir’s showpiece. Linda kept looking at me, she didn’t seem to be offended, but I couldn’t be sure until we were on our own and I could apologise. Well, there’s nothing to apologise for, she said, you have the opinions you have. No big deal. What about Jeppe then? I thought, but said nothing of course.

We went to Folkoperan. It was Linda’s favourite place. Every night when they closed they played the Russian national anthem, and she loved all things Russian, especially Chekhov.

‘Have you read Chekhov?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Haven’t you? You must .’

Her lips parted over her teeth when she became enthusiastic, before she was on the point of saying something, and I sat watching her talking. She had such beautiful lips. And her eyes, greyish-green and sparkly, they were so stunning it hurt to look into them.

‘My favourite film’s Russian as well. Burned by the Sun . Have you seen it?’

‘Afraid not, no.’

‘We’ll have to see it one day. There’s a fantastic girl in it. She’s in the Pioneers, a fantastic political movement for children.’

She laughed.

‘It’s like I’ve got a lot to show you,’ she said. ‘By the way, there’s a book reading at Kvarnen in… five days. I’m going to read. Do you fancy going?’

‘Of course. What are you going to read?’

‘Stig Sæterbakken.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ve translated him into Swedish.’

‘Have you now? Why didn’t you say?’

‘You didn’t ask,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s coming too. I’m a bit nervous about that. My Norwegian’s not quite as good as I thought. But he’s read the book anyway and didn’t have any comments about the language. Do you like him?’

‘I like Siamese very much.’

‘That’s the one I translated. With Gilda. Do you remember her?’

I nodded.

‘But we can meet before. Are you busy tomorrow?’

‘No. It’ll be fine.’

Over the tannoys came the first notes of the Russian national anthem. Linda got up, put on her jacket and looked at me.

‘Here then? Eight?’

‘OK,’ I said.

We stopped outside. The shortest route to hers was along Hornsgatan while my place lay in the opposite direction.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ she said. ‘May I?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

We walked in silence.

‘It’s strange,’ I said as we turned into one of the diagonal streets towards Mariaberget. ‘I’m so happy to be with you, yet I’m unable to say anything. It’s as if you rob me of the power of speech.’

‘I’ve noticed that,’ she said, taking a swift glance at me. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not for me at any rate.’

Why not? I thought. What can you do with a man who says nothing?

We fell into silence again. Our footsteps on the cobbled stones were amplified by the brick houses on either side.

‘It was a nice evening,’ she said.

‘Bit strange,’ I said. ‘It’s 17 May, a date that is evidently in my blood, and I’ve felt there has been something missing all the time. Why is no one celebrating?’

She stroked my upper arm softly.

As if to tell me it didn’t matter if I came out with stupidities?

We stopped in the street beneath my flat. We looked at each other. I stepped forward and gave her a hug.

‘See you tomorrow then,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

I stopped inside the door and went back out a moment later. I wanted to see her for a last time.

She was walking down the hill alone.

I was in love with her.

So what the hell was it that was so painful?

The next day I wrote as usual, ran as usual, sat outdoors reading as usual, this time at Lasse in the Park, across from Långholmen Island. But I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t stop thinking about Linda. I was looking forward to seeing her, there was nothing I wanted more, but a shadow hung over these thoughts unlike all the others I’d had that day.

Why?

Because of what had happened that time?

Of course. But I didn’t know what, it was just a feeling I had, and I couldn’t hold it to shape it into a clear thought.

The conversation this evening was as tough going as before, and now it was dragging her down too, the enthusiasm and cheeriness of the previous day was almost totally gone.