Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

I lay still for a while to gather my thoughts, then dressed and went down to the basement with a towel in one hand and shampoo in the other. The corridor was full of steam, I placed my hand on the shower door, it was locked, a girl’s voice from inside shouted, I won’t be long! OK, I said, and leaned against the wall to await my turn.

The door beside me opened and a boy of my age with tousled hair stuck his head out.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Thought I heard someone. My name’s Morten. Have you moved into the bedsit on the ground floor?’

‘Yes,’ I said, shaking hands.

He chuckled. He was standing there in no more than his underpants.

‘What do you do?’ he said. ‘Are you a student?’

‘I’ve just come to town,’ I said. ‘I’m about to start a kind of writing course.’

‘Interesting!’ he said.

At that moment the shower door opened. A girl I reckoned was in her mid-twenties came out. She had a large towel wrapped around her body and a smaller one around her head. A cloud of steam followed.

‘Hi,’ she said with a smile. ‘We’d better do proper introductions later. Anyway, the shower’s free now!’

She went down the corridor.

Heh heh heh, Morten chuckled.

‘And what about you?’ I said. ‘Are you a student?’

‘Let’s save that for later! You have a shower, and we’ll come back to it!’

The shower-room floor was made of concrete and freezing cold where the hot water hadn’t been. The drain was full of tangled hair which glistened in the foam from her shampoo. The foot of one wall panel was warped, and the otherwise white door was black and discoloured at the bottom and a good way up. But the water was hot, and soon I was massaging shampoo into my hair and for some strange reason humming ‘Ghostbusters’.

Returning upstairs, I didn’t dare go out as Yngve hadn’t said when they would come, but that didn’t matter, my body felt much calmer than the day before, and I spent my time putting the kitchen utensils in their places, arranging clothes in the wardrobe, hanging up the last posters, making a list of what I needed to buy when the study loan arrived. That done, I stood by the door and tried to see the room through Yngve’s and Asbjørn’s eyes. The typewriter on the desk, that looked good. The poster of the barn and bright yellow corn under the dramatic black American sky, that was good, a source of inspiration. The poster of John Lennon, the most rebellious of the four Beatles, that was also good. And my record collection on the floor against the wall, it was large and impressive, even for Asbjørn, who I was told knew what he was talking about. On the downside, the book collection was limited, comprising only seventeen volumes, and I didn’t have enough experience of other collections to determine what impression the various titles made. Beatles and The Snails by Saabye Christensen couldn’t be too far wide of the mark though. The same was true for Ingvar Ambjørnsen. I had three of his books: The 23rd Row, The Last Fox Hunt and White Niggers.

I left Novel with Cocaine open on the table and placed a couple of issues of Vinduet next to it, one open, one closed. Three books open seemed a bit much, it looked arranged, but no one would be suspicious of two open and one closed, that was perfect.

An hour later, while I was trying to write at the desk, there was a ring at the door. Yngve and Asbjørn were standing on the steps. There was a restlessness about them, I felt, they couldn’t wait to move on.

‘Bit of a turn-up you coming to Bergen, Karl Ove,’ Asbjørn said with a smile.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Come in!’

I closed the door behind us. They stood in the middle of the floor looking around.

‘You’ve done a nice job here,’ Yngve said.

‘Mm,’ Asbjørn said. ‘Great place to have a bedsit. Hang on though.’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘The Lennon poster has to come down. That’s no good.’

‘Oh?’ I said.

‘That’s what you have at gymnas. John Lennon. Bloody hell.’

He smiled as he spoke.

‘Do you agree?’ I said, looking at Yngve.

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘What should I put up instead?’

‘Anything,’ Asbjørn said. ‘Norwegian C & W would be better. Bjøro Håland.’

‘Actually I like the Beatles,’ I said.

‘You don’t say,’ Asbjørn said. ‘Not the Beatles surely.’

He turned to Yngve and smiled again.

‘I thought you said your brother had great taste in music. And his own radio programme.’

‘No one’s perfect,’ Yngve said.

‘Take a seat,’ I said. Even though I had been wrong-footed by the Lennon-poster discussion, and my head was still buzzing, since I had understood exactly why it was wrong the moment Asbjørn said — it was schoolboy-ish of course — I was still proud to have them both here, in my bedsit, surrounded by my possessions.

‘We were thinking of going into town and having a café au lait or something,’ Yngve said. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Can’t we have a coffee here?’ I said.

‘It’s better in Café Opera, isn’t it?’ Yngve said.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Just a moment. I’ll put on some clothes.’

When we emerged onto the steps, both Yngve and Asbjørn donned shades. Mine were indoors, but it would have been too embarrassing to go back to fetch them, so I rejected the idea, set off down the hill with them, along the wet streets gleaming with the reflected sunbeams breaking through the holes in the clouds above us.

I had met Asbjørn only a couple of times, had never chatted with him at any length, but I knew he was important to Yngve, so he was important to me too. He laughed a lot and always went very quiet afterwards, I had noticed. He had short hair, a hint of sideburns, a slightly plump face and warm observant eyes. With a not infrequent glint in them. Today, like Yngve, he was dressed all in black. Black Levi’s, black leather jacket, black Doc Martens with yellow seams.

‘Getting into the Writing Academy is pretty cool,’ he said. ‘And of course Ragnar Hovland’s bloody great. Have you read anything by him?’

‘No, actually I haven’t,’ I said.

‘You must do. Sveve over Vatna, that’s the definitive Norwegian student novel.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Or the definitive Bergen novel. It’s completely over the top. Oh yes, he’s good, he is. He likes the Cramps. Enough said!’

Over the top was an expression they used a lot, I had noticed.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You’ve heard of the Cramps, I take it.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You’re starting tomorrow, aren’t you?’ Yngve said.

I nodded.

‘I’m a bit nervous, I must admit.’

‘You got in,’ Yngve said. ‘They know what they’re doing.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ I said.

Café Opera during the day was quite different from Café Opera in the evening. Now it was no longer packed with students drinking beer, now there were all sorts of people, even ladies in their fifties, each with a cup of coffee and a piece of cake in front of them. We found a window table on the ground floor, hung our jackets over the backs of our chairs and went to order. I was flat broke, so Yngve bought me a café au lait while Asbjørn ordered an espresso. When I saw him being handed a little cup I recognised it, it was like the ones Lars and I had been served at the first motorway café after the Italian border, we had asked for coffee and were given those tiny cups with coffee that was so concentrated and strong it was completely undrinkable. I had spat it back into the cup and looked at the waiter, who ignored me, nothing wrong with this coffee, ragazzi.