Karl Knausgaard - My Struggle - Book One

When had I accompanied Grandma to the fish hall?

I hadn’t stayed with my grandparents on many weekdays when I was growing up. So it must have been the winter holiday that Yngve and I had spent there. When we caught the bus on our own to Kristiansand. That meant Yngve must have been with us on that day as well. But in my memory he wasn’t. And the crabs could not have been there; the winter holiday was usually in February when you couldn’t buy live crabs. If it had been February they wouldn’t have been in a wooden crate. So where did this image, so distinct and detailed, actually come from?

Could have been anywhere. If my childhood was full of anything, it was fish and crabs, shrimp and lobsters. Many was the time I had seen Dad fetch cold leftovers of fish from the fridge, which he ate standing in the kitchen at night, or on weekend mornings. He liked crab best, though; when late summer came and they began to fill out he used to go to the fish wharf in Arendal after school and buy some, if for once he didn’t catch them himself, in the evening or at night, on one of the islets in the skerries, or by the rocks on the far edge of the island. Sometimes we joined him, and there is one special occasion that sticks in my memory, one night by Torungen lighthouse under the bluish-black August sky, when the gulls launched themselves at us as we were leaving the boat to make our way across the islet, and afterward, with two buckets full of crabs, we lit a fire in a hollow. The flames licked at the sky. The sea around us was immense. Dad’s face shone.

I set down the glass, cut off a piece of fish, and stuck my fork into it. The dark gray, oily meat separated by the three prongs was so tender that I could break it up with my tongue against my palate.

After eating we resumed the cleanup. The stairs were finished, so I took over where Tove had left off while Yngve began in the dining room. Outside, it was raining. A fine layer of drizzle fell against the windows, the veranda wall was slightly darker, and at sea, where presumably it would have fallen with greater force, the clouds on the horizon were striped with rain. I wiped the dust off all the small ornaments, the lamps, the pictures and the souvenirs that littered the shelves, and put them on the floor piece by piece in order to clean the shelves themselves. An oil lamp that looked like something from One Thousand and One Nights , both cheap and precious, with ornate, gilt decorations, a Venetian gondola that gleamed like a lamp, a photograph of my grandparents in front of an Egyptian pyramid. As I examined it I heard Grandma get up in the kitchen. I wiped the glass and frame and put it down, reached for the little stand holding old-fashioned 45 rpm records. Grandma stood with her hands behind her back, watching me.

“No, you really don’t need to do that ,” she said. “You don’t need to be so thorough.”

“It won’t take a second,” I said. “Might as well while I’m at it.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “It’s looking nice.”

After wiping the stand down I put it on the floor, piled the records beside it, opened the cupboard and removed the old stereo player.

“You don’t take a little drop in the evening, do you?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Not during the week anyway.”

“I guessed as much,” she said.

In the town on the other side of the river the lights had started to shine more brightly. What could the time be? Half past five? Six?

I cleaned the shelves and replaced the stereo. Grandma, who must have gathered that there was nothing more to be gained here, turned with a sigh and went down to the second living room. Immediately afterward I heard her voice, and then Yngve’s. On entering the kitchen to get some newspaper and a window spray I noticed through the open door that she had taken a seat at the table to chat with Yngve while he was working.

Drink really had gotten a hold on her, I was thinking, as I took the spray from the cupboard, tore a few pages from the newspaper on the chair under the wall clock, and returned to the living room. Not exactly a surprise. He had been systemically drinking himself to death, no other way of explaining it, and she had been here to witness it. Every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every night. For how long? Two years? Three years? Just the two of them. Mother and son.

I sprayed the glass door of the bookcase, crumpled up the newspaper, and rubbed it over the runny liquid a few times until the glass was dry and shiny. Looked around for more to do while I had the spray in my hand, but saw nothing apart from the windows, which I had determined to save till later. Instead, I went on with the bookcase, cleaned up everything, starting with its contents.

In the meantime the air in the harbor basin was streaked with rain. The next moment it beat against the window in front of me. Large, heavy drops that ran down and formed tremulous patterns across the whole pane. Grandma walked past behind me. I didn’t turn, but her movements were still engaging my mind as she stopped, picked up the TV remote control, pressed it, and sat in the chair. I put the duster on the shelf and went to see Yngve.

“They’re full of bottles as well,” he said, nodding toward the line of cupboards along one entire wall. “But the dishes are fine.”

“Has she asked you if we usually take a drink?” I said. “She must have asked me ten times since we arrived. At least.”

“Yes, she certainly has,” he said. “The question is whether she should have a little drink. She doesn’t need our permission, but that’s what she’s asking for. So … what do you think?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you understand?” he asked, looking up again. With a tiny mirthless smile on his lips.

“Understand what?” I replied.

“She wants a drink. She’s desperate.”

“Grandma?”

“Yes. What do you think? Is it okay for her to have one?”

“Are you sure that’s what it is? I was thinking the opposite.”

“That was my first thought too. But it’s obvious when you think about it. He lived here for a long time. How else could she have stood it?”

“Is she an alcoholic ?”

Yngve shrugged.

“Thing is she wants a drink now. And she needs our permission.”

“Shit,” I said. “What a mess this is.”

“It’s fine, but surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a little drink now, would it? She is in shock, kind of.”

“So what do we do?” I said.

“Well, we can ask her if she wants a drink? Then we can have one with her.”

“Okay, but not right now, surely?”

“Let’s finish up for the evening. And then ask her. As though it were nothing out of the ordinary.”

Half an hour later I had finished the bookcase and went onto the terrace, where it had stopped raining and the air was full of fresh fragrances from the garden. The table lay under a film of water; the seat covers were dark with moisture. Plastic bottles lying on their sides on the brick floor were dotted with raindrops. The bottlenecks reminded me of muzzles, as if they were small cannons with their barrels pointing in all directions. Raindrops hung in clusters along the underside of the wrought-iron fence. Now and then one let go and fell onto the wall beneath with an almost imperceptible plop. That Dad had been here only three days ago was hard to believe. That he had seen the same view three days ago, walked around the same house, seen Grandma as we saw her and thought his thoughts only three days ago was hard to grasp. That is, I could grasp that he had been here recently. But not that he couldn’t see this now. The veranda, the plastic bottles, the light in the neighbor’s windows. The flakes of yellow paint that had peeled off and now lay on the red terrace by the rusting table leg. The gutter and the rainwater still running down it into the grass. I could not grasp that he wouldn’t see any more of this, however hard I tried. I did grasp that he wouldn’t see Yngve or me again, that had something to do with our emotions, in which death was interwoven in a completely different way from the objective, concrete reality that surrounded me.