Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

Oh, it was great. But at home things continued as always, autumn passed, I couldn’t write, Tonje worked, I gave a start whenever the telephone rang, expecting only nastiness. Several times someone had rung without speaking, that kind of thing goes on of course, but it was impossible for me not to connect it with what had happened almost a year ago.

Then, in February, I had a dream. I dreamed that I was standing in front of a bull, it was buried in the sand and struggling to get out. I had a sword in my hand. I slashed at the bull’s neck. Its head fell off, but the bull kept fighting, it tore its way out of the sand and I woke up.

Something terrible was going to happen. I knew it was. The dream had told me.

But what?

My first thought was the woman who lived above us, she was young and had a permanent job, so we didn’t see much of her, but as she was in the house I thought the attack might come from her, she would report me for molestation or something because she had become unstable and was fixated on me. I’d had this obsession for a while, it was totally without justification, rooted in my own bad conscience and mangled self-image, but with the dream as well I could imagine it happening.

The whole day passed. I worked in my study, Tonje came home, we ate, I went to my study to read, I had an armchair there, a little table with an ashtray and a cup of coffee, bookshelves circled the walls, one of my greatest pleasures was to sit looking at all the books, taking them out, browsing. Now I was reading Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy. It was just after eleven, the house was silent, the streets outside still. I put a CD on the mini-stereo I had bought, Tortoise, I lit a cigarette, poured some coffee.

From the sitting room came the sound of the phone ringing, I just heard it, as if from a distance.

I switched off the stereo.

If someone was calling so late, it meant something had happened.

Someone must have died. But who?

Tonje opened the door.

‘Phone for you,’ she said.

‘Who is it?’

‘He didn’t say. Some friend or other I haven’t met because he made a joke.’

‘A joke?’

‘Yes.’

I got up, went into the sitting room and picked up the phone. Tonje followed.

‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Is that the rapist Karl Ove Knausgård?’

‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘Who is it?’

Tonje had stopped, she was standing by the wall and looking at me.

‘You know bloody well what I’m talking about. You raped my girlfriend a year ago.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘But you know what I’m referring to?’

‘Yes, but it wasn’t rape.’

As I said that I glanced across at Tonje. Her face was white. She was staring at me with large eyes. She almost stumbled back against the wall.

‘Yes, it fucking was. And unless you admit it we’ll be round your place right now. If you don’t open the door, we’ll smash it in. If you don’t admit it then, we’ll smash you in. We’ll beat your face to pulp. Now, writer, do you admit it?’

‘No. It wasn’t rape. We went to bed together, I’ll admit that. But it wasn’t rape.’

Tonje’s eyes stared and stared at me.

‘It bloody was. She woke up with her clothes torn. How do you explain that? She’s right here.’

‘It wasn’t rape. Whatever you say and whatever she’s told you.’

‘Then we’re on our way up.’

‘Let me talk to her.’

‘If you admit you raped her.’

‘It wasn’t rape.’

‘Well, then you can hear it from her own mouth.’

Seconds passed. I looked up. Tonje had left the room.

‘Hello,’ she said from the other end.

‘Your boyfriend says it was rape,’ I said. ‘How can you say that? You were up for it as much as I was.’

‘I don’t remember anything. I woke up with all my clothes torn. I don’t know what happened. It might not have been rape. But this has been terrible. So I told him and he wanted to drive up and get you. I managed to stop that. But they’re off their heads.’

‘They?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said.

Apparently there were two of them, one was her ex-boyfriend, the other a writer I didn’t know but had met many times.

‘He says you aren’t as good as everyone makes out,’ she said.

‘What’s he got to do with this?’

‘He’s a friend.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I can’t have it said about me that I’ve raped someone. It wasn’t rape. Tell them it wasn’t rape.’

‘It wasn’t.’

‘Are they still coming up here?’

‘I don’t know what they think now.’

‘The best thing would be if we met,’ I said. ‘You, your boyfriend and me. So that we can talk about it.’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘What about tomorrow? Two o’clock in the café by the decorative art museum?’

‘Yes, that’s fine. I want to talk too. I’ve rung you several times, but your wife has always picked up.’

‘See you,’ I said and rang off.

At that moment Tonje came into the room, she must have been waiting. She glared at me.

‘We need to talk,’ I said.

We sat in my office. It was as though I had stepped into a zone, the light was all white, nothing existed beyond it. We talked about what had happened. I told her about the night in detail. Why didn’t you say anything? Tonje kept saying. Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you say anything? I apologised, I said I hadn’t meant it, I asked for her forgiveness, but we were both in a completely different place, this wasn’t about forgiveness, this was about what we had together, which had been so wonderful that it was ruined. The way all of this had come out, the brutal and uncontrolled manner of it, had given her a shock, she was in shock, her face was still ashen, but she wasn’t crying, she was just attempting to grasp the significance of it. I was also in shock, the white light seared out everything else, all that was left was the terrible deed. I told her it wasn’t rape. Of course, she said, I know, that’s not what this is about. For me though it was also what this was about, anything could happen, she could go to the police, they might come here and arrest me. No one in the world would believe me, I would be convicted as a rapist, the worst thing that could befall me, the greatest ignominy, for all the future, for the rest of my life. What was more, I was in the public eye, if the press got hold of it I would be hung out to dry on every single front page in the whole country. I didn’t give that any thought then though as we sat talking in my study, it was what I had done to Tonje that counted. She didn’t cry, but she had withdrawn, she was deep inside herself, shaken to the very bottom of her soul.

The next day I walked into town, which had totally disappeared, it had been erased, the thought of what I had done was all that existed.

They weren’t in the café. I waited for an hour, they didn’t come.

I rang Tomas and brought him up to date. He was furious. He said he knew Arild, which was his name, her ex, he was a criminal, a drug addict, he was nothing to be afraid of, but if you like, Karl Ove, I can go and pay him a visit and frighten him so much he’ll never contact you again. I’ll knock him senseless if necessary. Shall I? Let’s wait a bit, I said, and see what happens. If he contacts me again you could perhaps have a word with him. I’ll do that. You can rely on me. That kind of person is just evil.

When I returned, the flat wonderfully illuminated by the glow of the winter sun, I heard Tonje running water into the bath. I didn’t want to disturb her, I went into the sitting room and looked up at the mountain opposite.

The sound of running water stopped.

A long drawn-out heart-rending sob came from her.