Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book One

“Alright,” I said. “I was on my way to Borghild’s funeral, was just about to leave in fact. So my suitcase is packed. I can leave now. Shall we meet there?”

“Fine,” Yngve said. “I’ll drive down tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Let me just think for a second.”

“Why don’t you fly over so we can go together?”

“Good idea. I’ll do that. I’ll give you a call when I know which plane I’ll be on, okay?”

“Okay, see you.”

After hanging up I went to the kitchen and filled the kettle, took a tea bag from the cupboard, put it in a clean cup, leaned over the counter and looked up the cul-de-sac outside the house, visible only as patches of gray between the green shrubs that formed a dense clump from the end of the small garden to the road. On the other side were some enormous, towering deciduous trees, beneath which a little dark alley led to the main road on which Haukeland Hospital was situated. All I could think was that I couldn’t think about what I should be thinking about. That I didn’t feel what I should be feeling. Dad’s dead, I thought, this is a big, big event, it should overwhelm me, but it isn’t doing that, for here I am, staring at the kettle, feeling annoyed that it hasn’t boiled yet. Here I am, looking out and thinking how lucky we were to get this flat, which I do every time I see the garden, because our elderly landlady looks after it, and not that Dad’s dead, even though that is the only thing that actually has any meaning. I must be in shock, I thought, pouring water into the cup although it hadn’t boiled yet. The kettle, a shiny deluxe model we had been given by Yngve as a wedding present. The cup, a yellow Höganes model, I couldn’t remember who had given it to us, only that it had been at the top of Tonje’s wedding list. I tugged at the tea bag string a few times, threw it in the sink, where it landed with a smack, and went into the dining room carrying the cup. Thank goodness no one else was at home!

I paced up and down for minutes, trying to invest the fact that Dad was dead with some meaning, but failed. There was no meaning. I understood it, I accepted it, and it was not meaningless in the sense that a life had been snatched away that might well not have been snatched away, but it was in the sense that it was one fact among many, and it did not occupy the position in my consciousness that it should have.

I wandered around the room, cup of tea in hand, the weather outside was gray and mild, the gently sloping countryside was full of rooftops and abundant green hedges. We had only lived there for a few weeks, we came from Volda where Tonje had been studying radio journalism and I had written a novel that was due to come out in two months. It was the first real home we had had; the flat in Volda didn’t count, it was temporary, but this was permanent, or represented something permanent, our home. The walls still smelled of paint. Oxblood red in the dining room, on advice from Tonje’s mother, who was an artist but who spent most of her time doing interior design and cooking, both at a high level — her house looked the way houses did in interior decor magazines, and the food she served was always meticulously prepared and exquisite — and eggshell white in the living room, as well as in the other rooms. But this was nothing like an interior decor magazine here, too much furniture, and too many posters and bookshelves, were a testimony to the student existence we had just left behind. We lived on student loans while I wrote the novel, for officially I was studying literary science as my main subject up to Christmas when my money ran out, and I had to ask for an advance from the publishing house, which had lasted me until just recently. Dad’s death came therefore as manna from heaven, because he had money, surely he must have had money. The three brothers had sold the house on Elvegata and shared the proceeds between them less than two years ago. Surely he couldn’t have squandered it in that short time.

My father is dead, and I am thinking about the money that will bring me.

So what?

I think what I think, I can’t help thinking what I think, can I?

I put the cup down on the table, opened the slender door, and went onto the balcony, supporting myself stiffly on the balustrade and gazing around as I drew the warm summer air, so full of the smells of plants and cars and town, into my lungs. A moment later I was back in the living room casting my eyes around. Should I eat something? Drink? Go out and do some shopping?

I drifted into the hall, peeped into the bedroom, at the broad unmade bed, behind it the bathroom door. I could do that, I thought, have a shower, good idea, after all soon I would have to set off.

Clothes off, water on, steaming hot, over my head, down my body.

Should I beat off?

No, for Christ’s sake, Dad’s dead.

Dead, dead, Dad was dead.

Dead, dead, Dad was dead.

Having a shower did nothing for me either, so I turned it off and dried myself with a large towel, rubbed a bit of deodorant under my armpits, dressed and went into the kitchen to see what time it was, drying my hair with a smaller towel.

Half past two.

Tonje would be home in an hour.

I couldn’t bear the thought of unloading all this onto her as she came in the door, so I went into the corridor, threw the towel through the open bedroom door, picked up the telephone receiver and keyed in her number. She answered at once.

“Tonje?”

“Hi, Tonje, it’s me,” I said. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, actually I’m editing at the moment, just popped into the office to get something. I’ll be home when I’ve finished.”

“Great,” I said.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

“Well, nothing,” I said. “But Yngve called. Dad died.”

“What? He’s died?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you poor thing! Oh, Karl Ove. .”

“I’m fine,” I said. “It wasn’t exactly unexpected. But I’ll be going there this evening anyway. First to Yngve’s place, and then we’ll drive to Kristiansand together early tomorrow.”

“Do you want me to come with you? I can do that.”

“No, no, no. You have to work! You stay here, and then come to the funeral.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she repeated. “I can get someone else to do the editing. Then I can come right away. When are you leaving?”

“There’s no hurry,” I said. “I’ll be leaving in a few hours. And being alone for a while is not such a bad thing.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. In fact, I don’t feel anything. But we’ve been through this plenty of times already. If he keeps this up, he’ll be dead soon. So, I’ve been prepared for it.”

“Okay,” Tonje said. “I’ll finish what I’m doing and hurry home. Take care of yourself. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said.

After putting down the phone I thought about Mom. She would have to be informed of course. I lifted the receiver again and dialed Yngve’s number. He had already called her.

I was dressed and waiting in the living room when I heard Tonje at the door. She skipped into the room like a fresh summer breeze. I got up. Her movements were flustered, her eyes compassionate, and she hugged me, said she wanted to be with me, but I was right, it was best that she stayed here, and then I called for a taxi and stood on the step outside the front door waiting the five minutes it took to come. We’re a married couple, I thought, we are husband and wife, my wife is standing outside the house, waving me off, I thought, and smiled. So where did this image’s unreal surface come from? Were we playing husband and wife, weren’t we really a couple?

“What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing,” I said. “A stray thought.”