Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book One

Did she imagine that we drank as well? It wasn’t just Dad who ruined his life but also his sons?

“No. Absolutely not.”

Grandma didn’t appear to want to say anything else, and I went downstairs to the cellar floor, which still stank to high heaven, even though the source of the stench had been removed, rinsed the red bucket, filled it with fresh, scalding hot water and started to wash the bathroom. First the mirror, on which the yellow-brown coating was proving stubborn to shift, and only came off when I used a knife, which I ran upstairs to fetch from the kitchen, and a coarse scouring pad, next it was the sink’s turn, then the bathtub, then the windowsill above, then the narrow, rectangular, frosted window, then the toilet bowl, then the door, the sill, and the frame, and finally I scrubbed the floor, poured the dark gray water down the drain and carried the bag of garbage onto the steps where I stood for a few minutes gazing into the murky summer dusk, which was not really dark, more like defective light.

The rise and fall of loud voices on the main road beyond, probably a group of people out on the town, reminded me that it was a Saturday night.

Why had she asked if we drank? Was it just Dad’s fate that had prompted her, or was there something else underlying it?

I thought of my graduation celebrations, ten years ago, of how drunk I had been in the procession, my grandparents standing in the crowds along the route and shouting to me, their strained expressions when they realized the state I was in. I had started drinking seriously that Easter at the soccer training camp in Switzerland, and just continued through the spring, there was always an occasion, always a gathering, there were always others who wanted to join in, and dressed in prom gear everything was allowed and forgiven. For me this was paradise, but for Mom, with whom I lived on my own, it was different, in the end she threw me out, which did not concern me too much, finding somewhere to sleep was the easiest thing in the world, whether it was a sofa in a friend’s cellar or on the prom bus or under a bush in the park. For my grandparents this partying period was the transition to academic life, as it had been for my grandfather and his sons, there was a solemnity about it which I degraded by drinking myself senseless and getting stoned, and by being the editor of the student newspaper, which had illustrated the lead story, a deportation case from Flekkerøya, with a picture of Jews being deported from the ghettos to concentration camps. There was also the matter of tradition; my father had in his turn been the editor of the student magazine in the final school year. So I dragged everything into the dirt.

I didn’t give this a moment’s thought, however, which the diary I was keeping at the time made absolutely clear, the only thing I attached any importance to was a feeling of happiness.

Now I had burned all the diaries and notes I’d written, there was barely a trace left of the person I was until I turned twenty-five, perhaps for the better; no good ever came of that phase.

The air had become cooler now, and being so hot from work, I was aware of it enveloping me, pressing against my skin, and wafting into my mouth. Of it enveloping the trees in front of me, the houses, the cars, the mountain sides. Of it streaming somewhere as the temperature fell, these constant avalanches in the sky which we could not see, drifting in over us like enormous breakers, always in flux, descending slowly, swirling fast, in and out of all these lungs, meeting all these walls and edges, always invisible, always present.

But Dad was no longer breathing. That was what had happened to him, the connection with the air had been broken, now it pushed against him like any other object, a log, a gasoline can, a sofa. He no longer poached air, because that is what you do when you breathe, you trespass, again and again you trespass on the world.

He was lying somewhere in town now.

I turned and went in, someone opened a window on the other side of the street, and music and loud voices poured out.

Although the second bathroom was smaller, and not quite as filthy, it took me just as long to clean it. When I had finished I took the detergents, cloths, gloves, and the bucket and went up to the second floor. Yngve and Grandma were sitting by the kitchen table. The wall clock showed half past nine.

“You must have finished washing by now!” Grandma said.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve finished for the evening.”

I glanced at Yngve.

“Did you talk to Mom today?”

He shook his head.

“I did yesterday.”

“I promised to call today. But I don’t think I have the energy. Perhaps it’s a bit late too.”

“Do it tomorrow,” Yngve said.

“I do have to talk to Tonje, though. I’ll do it now.”

I went into the dining room and closed the kitchen door behind me. Sat in the chair for a moment to collect myself. Then I dialed our home number. She answered at once, as though she had been sitting by the phone, waiting. I knew all the cadences of her voice, and they were what I was listening to now, not to what she was saying. First the warmth and the sympathy and the longing, then her voice seemed to contract into something small, as if it wanted to snuggle up to me. My own was filled with distance. She came closer to me, and I needed that, but I didn’t go closer to her, I could not. Briefly I described what had been happening down here, without going into any detail, just said it was awful, and that I was crying all the time. Then we talked a little about what she had been doing, although at first she was reluctant, and then we discussed when she should travel down. After hanging up I went to the kitchen, which was empty, and drank a glass of water. Grandma was back in the TV chair. I went over to her:

“Do you know where Yngve is?”

“No,” she said. “Isn’t he in the kitchen?”

“No,” I said.

The stench of urine tore at my nostrils.

I stood there not knowing what to do. The evacuation was easy to explain. He had been so drunk he had lost control of his bodily functions.

But where had she been? What had she been doing?

I felt like going over to the television and kicking in the screen.

“You and Yngve don’t drink, do you?” she said out of the blue, without looking at me.

I shook my head.

“No, that is, it does happen on the odd occasion, but just a drop. Never much more.”

“Not tonight then?”

“No, are you out of your mind!” I said. “No, that would be unthinkable. For Yngve as well.”

“What would be unthinkable for me?” Yngve said from behind me. I turned. He walked up the two steps that separated the lower living room from the upper.

“Grandma’s asking if we drink.”

“I suppose, it does happen now and then,” Yngve said. “But not often. I’ve got two small children now, you know.”

“Have you got two ?” Grandma exclaimed.

Yngve smiled. I smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “Ylva and Torje. You’ve met Ylva, haven’t you. You’ll meet Torje at the funeral.”

The flicker of life that had risen in Grandma’s face died. I met Yngve’s eyes.

“It’s been a long day,” I said. “Time to hit the hay?”

“I’m going outside first,” he said. “Want to join me on the veranda?” I nodded. He went into the kitchen.

“Do you usually stay up late?” I asked.

“What?”

“We were thinking of going to bed soon,” I said. “Are you going to stay up?”

“No. Oh no. I’ll go too,” Grandma said.

She looked up at me.

“Are you boys sleeping downstairs, in our old bedroom? It’s free.”

I shook my head and arched my eyebrows in apology.

“We were thinking of sleeping upstairs,” I said. “In the loft. We’ve already unpacked our things there.”