Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

I hung up my apron, made a dash for the door at the end of the stairs.

She was all hat and scarf, two big eyes and smiling mouth.

‘Hi,’ she said, bending forward to give me a hug.

It was the first time we had touched.

‘Come in,’ I said.

She followed me down the stairs and into the hallway, removed her outdoor clothes while she looked around. What was there to see? Brick walls, a few posters, a kitchen further along, brick walls there too, and the adjacent room, a bed, a bookcase, an armchair, a desk, some posters, a couple of rag rugs from Ikea.

And yes: three lit candles in a candelabra on the windowsill.

‘How nice it is here,’ she said. Glanced at the two pans. ‘What are we going to eat?’

‘Well, it’s just a spaghetti dish.’

I spooned some spaghetti onto the two plates, added the sauce, got a small black stool and placed it in front of her so that at least she had something reminiscent of a table, put my plate on my lap and then we ate.

‘Mm, that was good!’ she said.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t. I poured in some white wine, but it was too sweet.’

‘It was a little sweet, yes,’ she said with a smile.

I removed the plates, put on a record, Siamese Dream by the Smashing Pumpkins, we sat drinking sweet white wine, her in the yellow armchair, me on the bed. I didn’t want her to think I only wanted to sleep with her and made no attempt to get close. We talked, that was all. For some reason the conversation turned to various Bergen bands. Completely out of the blue, she said the vocalist in the band we were discussing was bisexual. Our eyes happened to meet just as she said it and I blushed. I thought she might think I was bisexual. Even if she didn’t, the fact that I blushed at the very moment the word was uttered would make her suspicious. I tried to find a different topic of conversation, but failed, and the ensuing silence was awkward and unpleasant.

This was no good. She would never be mine. How could I make her mine?

It would be so much easier to give up, to say a cold goodbye and not contact her again. All the problems, all the pain, all the defeats would finish there.

But I couldn’t.

She stood up, it was late, time to go home. I accompanied her to the door, said bye, watched her go, she walked up the hill without turning.

When I went back down I put on Siamese Dream again, lay back on the bed and let my mind fill with thoughts of her.

The next time we met it was a little better, we ended up in a café just below Steinkjellersmauet, it was late and we were the only ones there. We sat by the window, snow covered all the surfaces outside, which seemed to break the fall the town found itself in when the rain deluged down in the autumn, then it was as though everything was sinking, the streets, the narrow passages, the houses, the parks. The snow held the town firm, and I loved it, loved the new light it cast all around, the moods it created. And I loved her. She talked about her family, there was a grandmother and a mother, there were brothers and a sister, a father and a father’s twin brother, I said it sounded like a Bergman film. She smiled and said she was moving at the weekend, could I give her a hand? Of course I could. I appeared outside her flat between the bus terminal and the train station on Saturday afternoon, a white van was parked on the pavement, five people were already carrying furniture and boxes. Tonje brightened up when she saw me. I hurriedly shook hands with all the others, three boys, one of whom was her brother, and a girl, and grabbed a box. The stairway was run-down and draughty, the flat was on the third floor and big, it had two rooms but was in a state of disrepair, and the toilet, I discovered, was on the other side of a narrow open passageway, like a bridge, on the outside of the building.

‘Even Fridtjof Nansen would think twice about going to the toilet in the morning,’ I said. ‘Imagine what it’s like when it’s raining. Or if it’s snowing!’

‘It does have its charms,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Yes. You can imagine it’s the bridge on a ship or something like that in the worst storms.’

I placed the box on the worktop and went downstairs to get another, nodded briefly to the others as they came clumping up. My role in all this was a bit unclear. The others were obviously good friends. No one could maintain I was. So what was I?

Whatever I was, there was nowhere else I would rather have been. Carrying up her possessions to her flat. Catching a glimpse of a mixer. A glimpse of a shoe sole in another box — imagine, that’s her shoe. Her saucepans, bowls, plates, cups, glasses, cutlery, frying pans, records, cassettes, books, clothes, shoes, stereo, TV, chairs, tables, bookcases, stools, bed, plants, her whole world, I was helping to carry the whole of her life up the stairs this Saturday afternoon.

The van did two trips, and after the last load had been deposited Tonje went out for some takeaway pizzas, which we ate in the middle of the chaos. I said nothing, I didn’t want to occupy space, the others knew her better, I would fit in wherever.

This was great because, sitting there on the floor, my back to the wall with a slice of pizza in my hand, listening to the conversation, I knew she was mine. Occasionally she flashed me a little glance and a smile, sending shivers through me. The thought of her was light, it arched like a sky over everything, but the thought of approaching her was heavy. What if I was wrong? What if she said no? What if she laughed at me? What has got into you? Who do you think you are? Do you imagine I would go out with you ? You’re just a miserable wimp!

But tonight I would have to!

Tonight I had to.

Her brother said his goodbyes and left. One of the others did the same. I stayed where I was. When the last two stood up to go, I followed suit.

‘Are you going too?’ she said.

‘I thought I would,’ I said.

‘Couldn’t you stay and give me a hand with the unpacking? I have to assemble the bookcase. That’s hard to do on your own.’

‘Yes, no problem.’

We were alone.

I sat against the wall smoking and drinking Coke. She sat on a wooden box in the middle of the room swinging her legs.

I was burning up. She was making me burn up. If she looked at me my cheeks went hot.

‘Are you the handyman type?’ she said.

‘Me? No,’ I said.

‘Guessed as much.’

‘Are you?’ I said.

‘In fact I am. I like fixing things. My dream is to have an old house one day, do it up and design it exactly to my taste.’

‘What else do you like doing?’ I said.

‘I like sewing. And cooking. I love cooking. And playing the drums.’

‘Mm,’ I said.

‘And you? What do you like?’

‘I don’t like sewing. I don’t like cooking.’ I like you. Say it now! Say it, say it!

‘I asked you what you liked doing. Not what you don’t like doing!’

I like you, I like you!

‘I like playing football,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t played for years. And I like reading.’

‘That’s not my strong suit,’ she said. ‘I prefer to see films.’

‘What films do you like?’

‘Woody Allen. He’s a favourite.’ She got up. ‘Shall we assemble the bookcase so that we can play some music?’

I nodded. When we had found all the bits I held it while she screwed the cross braces into position and slipped in the shelves. Then she started to put together the stereo.

‘Isn’t that the same one as at your mother’s house?’ I said.

‘Yes. She said I could borrow it if I was careful with it.’

She put a speaker on either side of the room, opened a box of CDs and flicked through.