Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book Two

Not many people approach the world with the same energy.

He was kind to me, I felt like a kind of younger brother, someone he took under his wing and showed things while curious to know what I was getting out of being here, or herrre , as he said. One evening he asked if I wanted to read something he had written, I said, yes, of course, he passed me two sheets, I began to read, it was an absolutely fantastic introduction, an apocalyptic explosion of dynamite in an old rural world, a child running out of school and into the forest, it was magical, but when I happened to glance up at him he was sitting with his head hidden in his great hands like an ashamed child.

‘Ooooh, it’s so embarrassing,’ he said. ‘So damned embarrassing.’

What?

Had he gone mad?

This man, with all of his character, as obstinate as he was generous, as movable as he was irrepressible, was going to visit Linda and me in Stockholm.

Two days before, we had to go to a birthday party. Mikaela was thirty. She lived in a one-room flat in Söder, not far from Långholmen, it was jam-packed with people, we found some room in a corner, talked to a woman who was the director of some kind of peace organisation, from what I could glean, and her husband, who was a computer engineer and worked for a telephone company. They were good company, I had a couple of beers, felt like something stronger, found a bottle of aquavit and started drinking from it. I got more and more drunk, night fell, people started going home, we stayed, in the end I was so plastered that I was making paper balls from the serviettes and throwing them at people nearby. There was only the hard core left, Linda’s closest friends, and if I wasn’t having fun and throwing balls at their heads I was babbling away about whatever occurred to me and laughing a lot. Tried to say something nice about everyone, failed, but at least my intention had been clear. In the end Linda dragged me out, I objected, now that everything was so cosy, but she tugged at me, I put on my coat, and then we were suddenly on our way down the street far below the flat. Linda was furious with me. I didn’t understand, what was the matter now? I was so drunk. No one else was drunk, hadn’t I noticed? Only me. The other twenty-five guests had been sober. That was how it was in Sweden: one aim of a successful evening was that everyone left the party in the same state as they arrived. I was used to people drinking until the ceiling lifted. Wasn’t this a thirtieth-birthday party? No, I had disgraced her, she had never been so embarrassed, these were her best friends, and there I was, her man, about whom she had said such incredibly nice things, there he was talking drivel and tossing paper balls at people and insulting them, completely out of control.

I lost my temper. She had crossed the line. Or else I was so drunk there was no line. I swore at her, shouted that she was terrible, all she ever thought about was making me toe lines, putting obstacles in my way, clinging to me as tightly as possible. It was sick, I yelled, you are sick. Now I’m going to fucking leave you. You’ll never see me again.

I walked away as fast as I could. She came running after me.

You’re drunk, she said. Calm down. We can talk about this tomorrow. You can’t go to town in that state.

Why the hell not? I said, pulling her hand off me. We had reached the tiny patch of grass between her street and mine. I never want to see you again, I shouted, strode across the street and went down towards Zinkensdamm Station. Linda stopped outside her flat and called after me. I didn’t turn. Crossed Söder, through the Old Town to Central Station, still fuming the whole way. My plan was simple: I would get on the train to Oslo and leave this shit town and never go back. Never. Never ever. It was snowing, it was cold, but the anger was keeping me warm. Inside the station I could barely distinguish the letters on the departures board, but after some intense concentration, which I also had to apply in order to keep my balance, I saw that there was a train between nine and ten in the morning. It was four o’clock now.

What should I do in the meantime?

I found a bench at the back and settled down to sleep. The last thought I had before falling asleep was that I mustn’t waver when I woke up, I had to stick to my decision, Stockholm was the past, irrespective of how sober I was.

A station guard shook my shoulder; I opened my eyes.

‘You can’t sleep here,’ he said.

‘I’m waiting for a train,’ I said, sitting up slowly.

‘Fine. But you can’t sleep here.’

‘Can I sit?’ I asked.

‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘You’re drunk, aren’t you. Perhaps the best would be to go home.’

‘OK,’ I said. Got up.

Whoops. Yes, still drunk.

It was just after eight. The station was crowded. All I wanted was to sleep. My head was terribly heavy, it burned in a kind of fever, such that nothing I saw took root, everything glanced off, I trudged down through the Metro corridors, got on a train, got off at Zinkensdamm, up to the flat, no key, so I had to bang on the door.

I had to sleep. Couldn’t give a toss about anything else.

Linda came running into the hall on the opposite side of the glass door.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, wrapping her arms around me. ‘I’ve been so afraid. I’ve rung every hospital in town. Has a tall Norwegian been brought in…? Where have you been?’

‘At Central Station,’ I said. ‘I was going to catch the train to Norway. But now I have to sleep. Leave me be, and don’t wake me.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Do you want anything when you wake up? Coke, bacon?’

‘Couldn’t care less,’ I said, and stormed into the flat, tore off my clothes, got under the duvet and was asleep in an instant.

When I woke it was dark outside. Linda was sitting on the chair in the kitchen and reading beneath the lamp, which, like a wading bird standing on one leg, long and thin, with its head slightly slanted, was lit above her.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

I poured myself a glass of water and drank it in one swig.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Apart from the angst.’

‘I’m very sorry about last night,’ she said, putting the book on the armrest and getting up.

‘Me too,’ I said.

‘Is it true that you were going to leave?’

I nodded.

‘I was. I’d had enough.’

She put her arms around me.

‘I understand,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t just what happened at the party. It’s much more.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Come on. Let’s go into the sitting room,’ I said. Refilled my glass and sat down at the table. Linda followed and switched on the ceiling light.

‘Do you remember the first time I came here?’ I said. ‘To this room, I mean.’

She nodded.

‘You said you thought you were becoming kjær , fond, of me.’

‘It was an understatement.’

‘Yes, I know that now. But in fact I was offended. Kjær sounds very weak in Norwegian. You can be fond of an aunt. I didn’t know that kjær in Swedish was the same as forelsket in Norwegian. In love. I thought you said you were beginning to like me a little, and it might become something, given time. That was how I interpreted you.’

She gave a faint smile and looked down at the table.

‘I plunged in with both feet,’ she said. ‘Got you up here and told you what I felt for you. And then you were so cold. You said we could be friends, do you remember? I had invested everything and lost everything. I was so desperate after you’d left.’

‘But now we’re here.’

‘Yes.’

‘You can’t tell me what to do, Linda. That won’t wash. I’ll leave you. And I don’t mean about drinking. I mean about everything. You can’t do that.’