Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘She’s an artist. But she doesn’t do much art any more.’

‘It’s great,’ I said.

‘It’s quite funny,’ she said. ‘The pictures would go like hot cakes if she had a mind to sell them.’

I took off my jacket and sat down in a chair.

‘Anything you’d like? Tea?’

‘Tea would be perfect,’ I said.

She went down to the floor below, I sat still until she returned five minutes later with a cup in each hand.

‘Do you like jazz?’ she said.

I shook my head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’d be lying if I said I did. But you do, I can see.’

‘Oh, yes. I love jazz.’

‘Then play some.’

She got up and put a record on the old Bang & Olufsen stereo.

‘What is it?’

‘Bill Frisell. You have to hear it. It’s fantastic.’

‘I only hear sounds,’ I said. ‘Slightly strained sounds.’

‘I work at the Molde Jazz Festival every year,’ she said. ‘Have done since I was sixteen.’

‘What do you do?’

‘I take care of the musicians. Pick them up from the airport and drive them around and try to entertain them the best I can. Last year I went fishing with them.’

I imagined her wearing a chauffeur’s cap and uniform and laughed.

‘What are you laughing at?’ she said.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just like you so much.’

She looked down and pursed her mouth for an instant, the way I had noticed she was wont to do, then she looked up at me and smiled.

‘I hadn’t anticipated I would be sitting here with Karl Ove at the crack of dawn when I left home last night,’ she said.

‘Do you see that as positive or negative?’ I said.

‘What do you think?’ she said.

‘It would be smug to say positive. So it has to be negative.’

‘Do you really imagine I would have invited you up here then?’

‘Who knows,’ I said. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘And I don’t know you,’ she said.

‘No,’ I said.

The sense of falling snow had stayed with me; as we sat there I imagined it swirling down from on high and landing soundlessly on the roof above us, flake by flake. We talked about Student Radio and the people there, we talked about music and about playing the drums, she wanted me to teach her, I explained to her that I wasn’t really any good at it. She told me she had worked in local radio ever since she went to ungdomskole and for a long time she had worked at one of Bergen’s most controversial stations, run by an anti-immigration MD, so controversial that even I had heard of him. She said he was a friendly though eccentric man, she didn’t agree with his opinions, but freedom of speech was paramount and it was strange that so few people remembered that when they condemned him and his radio station. As she talked she became more and more heated and involved, I could see she was committed, committed to radio and free speech, and liked that, however unfamiliar this was to me, because it was fringe. The milieu she was describing was right on the fringe irrespective of how matter-of-fact her tone.

‘I’m chattering away here,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t usually do that.’

‘I believe you,’ I said.

Down below a door opened.

‘They must be waking up now,’ she said.

‘Yes, I should go,’ I said.

Up the stairs crept a little girl. As thin as a straight line, large brown eyes, wearing a white nightdress down to the floor.

‘Hi, Ylva, are you out of bed?’ Tonje said. ‘This is Karl Ove. A friend of mine.’

‘Hi,’ she said, staring at me.

‘Hi,’ I said and stood up. ‘I have to go now.’

I took my jacket from the arm of the chair.

‘You’re so tall,’ she said. ‘How tall are you?’

‘One metre ninety-three,’ I said. ‘Would you like to try on my coat?’

She nodded. I held it out, she stuck first one arm in and then the other. Took a few steps, the lowest part hung like a train behind her. She laughed.

I was in a family house.

Tonje accompanied me to the door, we said goodbye and I walked downhill into town, which during the time I had been at Tonje’s had totally changed character: big buses were driving through the streets now, people got on and off, hurried up and down the streets, most with umbrellas because the weather had turned milder and the snow that fell was wet and heavy. It was past seven o’clock, there was no point going home, so I headed for the Student Centre, let myself in and went up to the office.

Someone was sleeping on the floor of the conference room.

It was Sverre Knudsen.

Beside him was a kind of board, and I immediately recognised it, it was the same colour as the door. I stepped back and checked: spot on, the top piece, over the lintel, had been removed. So that was how he had got in. How he had circumvented the front doors, however, was a mystery.

I went into the room, crouched down beside him and placed my hand on his shoulder.

‘You can’t sleep here,’ I said.

‘Whazzat?’ he said, sitting up.

‘You can’t sleep here,’ I said. ‘People’ll be here soon.’

‘You,’ he said. ‘I remember you. You were with that Tonje.’

I got up.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ I said.

He nodded and went into the office with me, sat down on the sofa and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he jumped up, went over to the window and peered down at the road.

‘You didn’t notice a green Beetle when you arrived, did you?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said.

‘They’re after me,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think they know I’m here. Perhaps they’re waiting for me in Oslo. I know who shot Nygaard.’

‘So you said last night,’ I said.

He didn’t answer, sat down on the sofa.

‘You probably think I’m paranoid,’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘But why did you sleep here?’

‘That Tonje said she worked for Student Radio. I thought she might be here.’

‘I’ve been a fan of The Aller Værste! ever since I was a little boy,’ I said. ‘It’s great to meet you. I’ve also read one of your books. Butterfly Petrol. ’

He waved his hand dismissively.

‘Shall we do an interview now that you’re here?’ I said. ‘About The Aller Værste! days?’

‘All right,’ he said.

I passed him a cup of coffee, drank mine standing beside the desk. On the stairs I saw Johannes coming up.

‘Early start today?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘See you later,’ he said and went down to the other end. He was doing his national service.

I put the radio on to hear what was being broadcast and who was there.

Sverre Knudsen studied me.

‘This is going to be a sensation,’ he said. ‘Just wait.’

Half an hour later we went up to the studio. I put on a reel, flicked up a knob on the mixing console and went back to him. I was really exhausted and at the same time full to the brim with the events of the night, and found it difficult to concentrate, but that was nothing compared with Sverre Knudsen. Sweat was pouring down his face as he sat there trying to recall the events of fifteen years ago, which, even with the best will in the world, he was unable to summon any interest in now. After twenty minutes I said stop, he seemed relieved, I shook his hand, he stumbled down the steep stairs and hurried into town while I went back to the office and tried to kill time so that I could … well, could do what?

Be alone and think about Tonje.

All day flashes of happiness swept through me. Something fantastic had happened.

But what?

Nothing had happened. We had chatted a bit, that was all.

For a year she had worked here, for a year I had seen her going to and fro, and she had seen me. I had never felt any of what I felt now. Not once, not even close.