Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘Jazz?’ I said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘This is a song I want you to hear.’

‘Who by?’

‘The Smashing Pumpkins. It’s on an album with various groups. I haven’t seen it anywhere else. There it is!’

She flipped in the CD.

She stood watching me as the music flowed into the room. There was something dreamy and boundless about it, as though it embodied that which went on and on and never ended.

‘Isn’t that great?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Really great.’

Something inside me told me it would be fine if I got up and held her in my arms. She would respond and all I dreamed of would become a reality.

But I didn’t dare. I didn’t move and the moment passed; she set about organising the boxes.

I helped her to carry some into the kitchen, where she opened them and started putting items in their place. I watched for a while, wondering what would happen if I leaped forward and put my hands round her waist and kissed her fantastic neck.

She leaned forward, put a pile of pans on the worktop and opened the cupboard below.

‘I think I’ll be off then,’ I said.

‘OK,’ she said, straightening up. ‘Thanks for the help!’

I put on my jacket and shoes, opened the door, she went with me, I stepped out into the cold harsh light of the corridor and turned to her.

‘Bye then,’ I said.

‘Bye,’ she said.

And, I thought, now, now I’m going to do it.

I leaned forward to kiss her. At that very moment she moved her head to the side, the movement coincided with mine, so instead of my lips meeting hers, they met her ear.

I turned and went down the stairs as fast as I could, ran for a few blocks to put as much distance between me and the fiasco as possible.

What must she be thinking now? I was behaving like a teenager. Not only that, I also felt like one.

Soon I wouldn’t have many chances left. Not if I was going to continue like this. How was she supposed to react? What good was I to her?

I decided to return the following day, just pop by, hope she would invite me in, and then be determined and resolute. No more dithering, no more fumbling, no more flushed cheeks and stuttering.

If she said no, so be it.

I was at Yngve’s all Sunday afternoon and went at about seven, rang the bell, stepped back into the street and looked up at the windows on the third floor.

No lights?

Oh no, don’t say she’s not in.

A window opened and she stuck out her head.

‘Hi!’ she said. ‘I’ll come down and open the door!’

I walked to the doorstep. My heart was pounding.

The door opened.

‘Karl Ove …’ she said. ‘Come in.’

She said my name in such an affectionate way that I went weak. Up the stairs, which she managed with swift light strides, my legs were trembling.

What sort of hell was this?

I went into the kitchen, which was behind the door, took off my shoes and jacket, hat and gloves.

‘Would you like some tea?’ she said.

‘Yes, please,’ I said.

I went into the sitting room, which she had as good as finished. Sat down on the low chair, rolled a cigarette.

‘Can you roll me one too?’ she said.

‘Sure,’ I said.

I put all my concentration and expertise into it, as it would be hers, but still it was a bit hard in the middle and a touch fatter at one end than the other. She was in the kitchen, I tore it up and made a new one, which turned out better.

‘Here you are,’ I said, passing it to her.

She put it between her lips and lit up. Inhaled slowly, the smoke drifted between us for a second, then dissolved.

‘Do you like the room now?’ she said.

‘Yes. Very much.’

‘Actually you came just at the right moment,’ she said. ‘I want to move the bookcase over there. But I don’t want to take it to pieces.’

‘Shall we do it straight away?’ I said.

‘All right,’ she said, putting the cigarette in the ashtray and getting up.

After we had finished she put on the same song she had played the previous evening. We looked at each other and she took a step towards me.

‘You tried to kiss me yesterday,’ she said with a smile.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But you moved away.’

‘Not intentionally, of course. Try again.’

We embraced.

We kissed.

I held her tight and whispered her name.

I would never let her go. Never ever.

I stayed at hers all night. We sought each other, were completely open with each other, everything was filled with light. I ached with happiness because I had her, she was there, all the time. All the time she was there, around me, and I ached with happiness, everything was filled with light.

Life can be so fantastic. Living can be so fantastic.

We played the same song again and again. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. At the break of dawn we slept a few hours, I had to work, but it was no good, I couldn’t, not with her there, and we went outside to a telephone box. While I rang she waited outside, laughing, woollen gloves on her hands, hat on her head and a big scarf draped around her neck. No one had arrived yet, I spoke on the answer machine, said I was ill and couldn’t come to work, rang off, went out, hugged her and walked beside her as close as it is possible to be.

‘I’ve never skived before,’ I said. ‘Not once. I’ve got a bad conscience now.’

‘Have you got regrets? You can go in and tell them you suddenly felt better.’

‘Of course I haven’t got any regrets!’

‘Thought not!’

Of all the things to do, we went to the aquarium that day. It was January, not a soul was there, and we just ambled around, laughed when the penguins rushed towards us under the water, I took pictures of her with the camera I had rushed home to get, she talked at great length about what she would make for dinner, it had to be special, this was the first day we had been together. Because now we were together!

Wave after wave of happiness surged through me that day.

She made boeuf bourguignon, I stood watching, and she dipped a spoon in the saucepan, turned to me, put it in her mouth and rolled her eyes.

‘Mmm! Fantastic!’ she said.

‘I love you,’ I said.

She stiffened, glanced across at me, almost frightened. Turned, took the lid off the other saucepan and poked a little pin in a potato boiling in the bubbling water. The steam billowed out.

‘Two more minutes,’ she said.

I went over to her and wrapped my arms around her, kissed her neck. She turned her head and kissed me.

‘I had a day like this when I was small,’ she said. ‘When everything was fantastic. Mum took me out. We were going to have a duck day. We saw Donald Duck in the cinema, we fed the ducks in the park, I got a Donald Duck comic and finally we went to a restaurant to eat duck.’

‘Is that true? Wasn’t that a rather barbaric end to the day?’

She laughed.

‘I love duck. It’s my favourite meal. And it was then too! But the best bit was that it was only mum and me. All day. I’ve thought about it many times today. I’ve been so happy.’

After we had eaten she discovered she hadn’t got any coffee. She said she would just run down to the petrol station to buy a packet. I answered that she didn’t need to, but she insisted and was off down the stairs at once.

I was uneasy. The day had been so endlessly happy. Now I was imagining she was going to die out there. I knew it was a delusion, that the chance of this happening was so minute it couldn’t have been smaller, nonetheless I could see it in my mind’s eye, the bus coming, not seeing her, the lorry driver glancing up at the sun visor for an instant, he had a packet of cigarettes wedged up there, and didn’t see her as she ran across the road …