Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

Tonje arrived, I hugged her tight, we rocked back and forth, arms wrapped around each other.

‘It’s good you’re here,’ I said.

‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she said.

The house had been cleaned, it was still run-down, but as clean as it could be. I had washed all the plates, cutlery and glass, I had set the table and there were flowers everywhere. Yngve, Kari Anne, Ylva and little Torje had come. Dad’s brother Erling and his wife and three children were there. Grandma sat on a chair at the dining table, which we had moved into the parlour. She was going to bury her eldest son today, I couldn’t look at her, those vacant staring eyes. But an hour earlier there had been a glint in them when Yngve showed her Ylva, and she had tousled his hair.

I looked at Tonje.

‘Could you do my tie?’

She nodded, we went into the kitchen, she put it round my neck and — ta-dah — there it was, all done. It was the same tie I had worn at our wedding.

She took a step back and studied me.

‘Does it look OK?’

‘It looks very good,’ she said.

We rejoined the others, I made eye contact with Yngve.

‘Shall we go then?’

He nodded, a few minutes later we were off. The sky was white, the air was warm, we closed the car doors and walked towards the chapel. One of the undertakers came over to us and gave us the programme. Yngve glanced at it.

‘The name’s wrong,’ he said.

The undertaker stared at him.

‘I’m extremely sorry,’ he said. ‘But, regrettably, there’s no time to change it now.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Yngve said, catching my eye. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘I agree,’ I said. ‘These things can happen.’

Nevertheless we both had our own opinions about the name we didn’t bear ourselves. He had invented it, as his grandmother had invented ours.

Gunnar and his family arrived. Alf’s daughter came with Alf, who hadn’t changed and must have been eighty-odd now. He was senile, she led him with a kind but determined hand towards the entrance.

I took Tonje’s hand and we went in.

The first thing I saw was the white coffin.

Are you in there, Dad? I said under my breath. Is that where you are, Dad?

We sat down. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. Tonje squeezed my hand hard a couple of times. Apart from the family, which was tiny, there were three other people present.

I dreaded it, I knew what was awaiting us.

Behind me came a sound from Erling’s son. A pure high note. The note continued and concluded with a sudden plummet, and I realised he was crying, because then it came again, he was sobbing, and it was heart-rending, his little soul had seen the coffin, and it was enough, now he was crying for all he was worth.

The service commenced. The precentor we had hired was old, his voice was cracked and the cello sonata he played was not exactly a virtuoso performance, but it was apt, life was not perfect, only death is, and this was life watching death, the boy crying over the coffin.

The priest spoke. He talked about dad’s life and about those who were present today to take their leave of him. He said it was vital to have a focus. If you don’t, you fall by the wayside. It was vital to focus on your children, on your nearest and dearest, on what is important in our lives. If you don’t do that, you lose sight of everything and then you have nothing. No man is an island.

Yngve cried, and when I saw that, him sitting there and shaking, his face distorted into grimaces, him raising it to the ceiling and opening his mouth for air, I sobbed aloud with sorrow and joy, sorrow and joy, sorrow and joy.

We stood up and each laid a wreath on the coffin.

Stood in total silence before him with our heads bowed.

Fare well, Dad, I thought.

When we sat down and the cellist played Bach in his rusty, creaky way I cried so much I thought I was going to split in half, my jaw hung open, wave upon wave of the very deepest emotions, those which only appear when all else has gone, washed through me.

After it was all finished Yngve hugged me, we stood crying on each other’s shoulders and then, walking across the gravel, watching cars pass in the distance, an old couple walking through the cemetery, a gull sailing through the air above us, it was over. At long last it was over. I took several deep breaths and there were no more sobs.

The couple I didn’t know came over to us. They introduced themselves as the parents of Rolf, Ann Kristin’s husband. They said dad had been such a fantastic teacher and Rolf had talked about him with such enthusiasm. We thanked them for coming and they walked over to their car.

‘Who’s that?’ Yngve said, nodding discreetly in the direction of a woman. She wore a hat with a veil which concealed her face.

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘But all self-respecting funerals have a woman no one recognises.’

We laughed.

‘Well, the danger’s over now,’ Yngve said, and we both laughed again.

Close family returned to grandma’s house, smørbrød were served, no speeches were given or commemorative words said, I wished it had been otherwise, sitting between Yngve and Tonje, but that would have meant doing it myself, and it would have gone badly, I couldn’t have done it. Afterwards we sat outside on the veranda, Alf said there was a man on the roof and I realised he was back in time, long long ago, when he had been here and there had been a man on the roof. That was good. It was a day when both dad and his father had been alive.

The novel had been out for a few weeks, nothing had happened, when one morning the telephone rang. Tonje, who was having breakfast, picked it up, I was in bed though not sleeping, and I heard her say she would see if I was awake.

I went into the sitting room, put the phone to my ear.

‘Hello, Karl Ove here.’

‘This is Mads from Tiden. Have you read Dagbladet today?’

‘No, I was asleep.’

‘Then I think you should go out and buy it at once.’

‘Is there a review?’

‘Yes, you could say that. I won’t say any more. Go out and we’ll talk later!’

I replaced the receiver and turned to Tonje, who was standing beside the table and finishing off her tea. She ran her hand over her beautiful lips and smiled.

‘There’s a review in Dagbladet today,’ I said. ‘I’ll run up and get it.’

‘Did he say what was in it?’

‘No. He was being secretive. But I would guess it’s good.’

She put on her jacket in the hall while I got dressed in the bedroom. When I came out she was hanging over the handlebars of her bike.

We kissed fleetingly and she cycled down the hill while I walked up, beneath the heavy trees, continued along the road and up the slope to the hospital. A sallow-looking man was checking the magazine shelf, a fat woman sat in a wheelchair by the cash till with a purse in her lap, she wanted Hjemmet.

I stopped by the Verdens Gang and Dagbladet stand.

At the top, to the right of the logo, there was a little picture of me. Sensational debut, it said.

Well, that was good. At least I had won the bet with Tonje.

I took a newspaper, paid and went towards the entrance, opened it at the culture section. The review was a two-page spread. Rottem had written it. He compared me with Hamsun, Mykle and Nabokov.

Well, that was good. Could hardly have been better in fact.

I shoved the newspaper under my arm and walked back home, made myself a cup of tea, sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. Then I rang Tonje. She had just seen it and was deliriously happy for me. Personally, I wasn’t especially happy. In some strange way I had expected it.

Later that morning a journalist from Dagbladet rang, he wanted to interview me as a follow-up to the review. We agreed to meet at Hotel Terminus at two.