Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

And oh the darkness that was a constant in Bergen! Not linked to night in any way, nor to shadow, nevertheless it was almost always here, this muted darkness suffused with falling rain. Objects and events became so concentrated when it was like this because the sun opened up airspace, and everything that was in it: a father putting shopping bags in a car boot outside Støletorget while the mother bundled their children onto the back seat, got in at the front, drew the safety belt across her chest and buckled it into place, watching this when the sun was shining and the sky was light and open was one thing, then all their movements seemed to flutter past and vanish the moment they were carried out; however, it was a very different matter watching the same family if it was raining, enveloped by the muted darkness, for then there was a leadenness about their movements, it was as if they were statues, these people, transfixed in this moment — which, the very next, they had left anyway. The dustbins outside the stairs, seeing them in strong sunlight was one thing, they were hardly there, as almost nothing was, but it was quite a different matter in rain-darkened daylight, then they stood like shining pillars of silver, some of them magnificent, others sadder and more wretched, but all there, just then, at that moment.

Yes, Bergen. The incredible power that lay in all the various house fronts squeezed together everywhere. The head rush you had as you slogged your way uphill and saw this, at your feet, could be wonderful.

But it was also good to lock yourself in your room after a walk through the town, it was like being in the eye of a storm, sheltered from prying eyes, the only place where I was totally at peace. This afternoon I had run out of tobacco, but I had known it would happen and had saved all my dog-ends from recent days. After putting on the coffee machine, I took the scissors from the drawer and set about snipping the ash off the stubs. When I had done that I opened them up and sprinkled the bone-dry tobacco into my pouch, which in the end was half full. My fingertips were black and reeked of smoke, I rinsed them under the tap, and then I cut a slice of raw potato and put it into the pouch; soon the tobacco would have absorbed the moisture and be like new again.

In the evening I went to the telephone box and rang Ingvild. Once again a man answered. Ingvild, yes, hold on a moment and I’ll see if she’s at home.

I was trembling as I waited.

Footsteps approached. I heard someone take the receiver.

‘Hello?’ she said.

Her voice was darker than I remembered.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Karl Ove here.’

‘Hi!’ she said.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘How’s it going? Have you been in town long?’

‘No, I arrived on Monday.’

‘I’ve been here a couple of weeks already,’ I said.

Silence.

‘We were talking about meeting if you remember,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if you still want to, but what about Saturday?’

‘Yes, I’ve got nothing on the calendar then, no.’ She chuckled.

‘Café Opera maybe? Then we can go to Hulen afterwards. What about that?’

‘Just like real students do, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sounds fine. But I warn you: I’ll be a bundle of nerves.’

‘Why?’

‘I haven’t been a student before, that’s for starters. And second, I don’t know you.’

‘I’ll be a bundle of nerves too,’ I said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘So perhaps it doesn’t really matter if we don’t say much.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Quite the contrary. That sounds great.’

‘Now don’t exaggerate.’

‘It’s true!’ I said.

She chuckled again.

‘This is my first student date,’ she said. ‘Café Opera on Saturday. Shall we say … well, when do students actually go out?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Seven?’

‘That sounds about right. Let’s say seven then.’

My stomach constricted as I crossed the street and went back into my bedsit. I felt as if I could throw up at any time. And that was after everything had gone well. However, a few words on the phone was not the same as sitting face to face with nothing to say and your guts on fire.

There were two things that particularly bothered me in those days. One was that I came too fast, often before anything had happened at all, and the other was that I never laughed. That is, it did happen once in a while, maybe once every six months, when I would be overcome by the hilarity of something and just laugh and laugh, but that was always unpleasant because then I completely lost control, I was unable to regain my composure, and I didn’t like showing that side of myself to others. So basically I was able to laugh, I had the capacity, but in my everyday life, in social situations, when I was with people around a table chatting, I never laughed. I had lost that ability. To make up for this, I smiled a lot, I might also emit some laughter-like sounds, so I don’t think anyone noticed or found it conspicuous. But I knew: I never laughed. As a result, I became especially conscious of laughter as such, as a phenomenon — I noticed how it occurred, how it sounded, what it was. People laughed almost all the time, they said something, laughed, others said something, everyone laughed. It lubricated conversations or gave them a shot of something else which didn’t have so much to do with what was being said as with being together with others. People meeting. In this situation everyone laughed, each in their own way, of course, and sometimes because of something genuinely funny, in which case the laughter lasted longer and could at times completely take over, but also for no apparent reason at all, just as a token of friendliness or openness. It could conceal insecurity, I knew that well, but it could also be strong and generous, a helping hand. When I was small I laughed a lot, but at some point it stopped, perhaps as early as the age of twelve, at any rate I remember there was a film with Rolv Wesenlund that filled me with horror, it was called The Man Who Could Not Laugh, and it was probably when I heard about it that I realised actually I didn’t laugh. From then on, all social situations were something I took part in and watched from the outside as I lacked what they were full of, the interpersonal link: laughter.

I wasn’t glum though. I wasn’t a wet blanket! I was no introverted brooder! I wasn’t even shy or diffident!

I just seemed to be.

Even though it was only the third time I had attended the Writing Academy it already felt familiar, almost homely, both the way there, first the steep hills down to Vågsbunnen, then along the row of office blocks and shops in Strandgaten, then up the hills by Klosteret and down the narrow alleyway opposite, all woven into the veil of rain that fell from the low sky, and even the room we occupied, with the bookshelf on one side, the board on another and the slanting wall with the windows on a third. I entered the room, said hi to those already present, took off my wet coat, retrieved my papers and book from my wet plastic bag, placed them on the table, poured myself some coffee and lit a cigarette.

‘What weather,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘Welcome to Bergen,’ Kjetil said, looking up from a book.

‘What are you reading?’ I said.

‘ All Fires the Fire. Short stories by Julio Cortázar.’

‘Are they good?’

‘Yes. But they’re perhaps a bit cold,’ he said, smiling. I smiled back. In the middle of the table was a pile of photocopies, I recognised them as mine from the typeface, the typewriter symbols and the few corrections I had made with a black felt pen, and took one.

Else Karin caught my eye.

She was sitting with one leg tucked underneath her on the chair, her left arm wrapped around her knee, her right hand holding a cigarette and my manuscript.