Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

I found a dip in the sand and unrolled my sleeping bag, crept inside, pulled up the zip and closed my eyes. It was unpleasant, anyone could stumble across me out here, that was how it felt, but I was so tired after the last few days that in an instant I was gone, as if someone had blown out a candle.

I woke to rain. Cold and stiff, I struggled out of the sleeping bag, pulled on my trousers, packed everything and set off for the town. It was six o’clock. The sky was grey, there was a light, almost imperceptible drizzle, I was freezing cold and walked fast to generate some heat. I’d had a dream and the images were still tormenting me. Dad’s brother Gunnar had been in it, or his anger, that was because I had drunk so much and done so many bad things, I realised now as I hurried through the same low forest I had walked through the previous evening. All the trees were motionless, leaden, beneath the dense cloud cover, more dead than alive. The sand lay in mounds between them, swept up in their changing and unpredictable yet always distinctive patterns, like a river of fine sand grains traversing the coarser tarmac.

I came onto a bigger road, continued along it for some distance, put down my rucksack by a crossing and started thumbing. It wasn’t many kilometres to Hirtshals. Though what would happen there, I had no idea. I had no money so it wouldn’t be that easy to get onto the Kristiansand ferry. Perhaps I could arrange to have a bill sent on to me? If I came across a kindly soul who appreciated the predicament I was in?

Oh no. Now the raindrops were getting bigger as well.

Fortunately it wasn’t cold though.

I lit a cigarette, ran a hand through my hair. The rain had made my hair gel sticky, I dried my hand on my thigh, leaned forward and took the Walkman from my rucksack, rummaged through the few cassettes I had with me, chose Skylarking by XTC, put it in and straightened up.

Had there been an amputated leg in the dream as well? Yes. It had been sawn off just below the knee.

I smiled, and then, when the music began to flow out of the tiny speakers I was taken back to the time the record came out. It would have been the second class at gymnas. Mostly, though, I was filled with recollections of the house in Tveit: sitting in a wicker chair drinking tea and smoking and listening to Skylarking, head over heels in love with Hanne; Yngve, who was there with Kristin; all the conversations with mum.

A vehicle came down the road. It was a pickup truck with a company name on the bonnet in red, probably a builder on his way to work, as he raced past he didn’t even look at me, and then the second song seemed to rise out of the first, I loved this segue, something rose in me as well, and I punched the air several times as I slowly danced round and round.

Another vehicle hove into view. I stretched out my thumb. Once again the driver was sleepy and didn’t acknowledge my presence with so much as a glance. I was obviously hitching on a road with a lot of local traffic. But couldn’t they stop anyway? Take me to a main road?

Only after a couple of hours did someone take pity on me. A German in his mid-twenties with round glasses and a severe expression pulled over in a tiny Opel, I ran towards him, threw my rucksack onto the back seat, which was already full of baggage, and got in beside him. He had come from Norway, he said, and was on his way south, could drop me off by the motorway, it wasn’t far, but it might help. I said, yes, yes, very good. The windows misted up badly, he leaned forward as he drove and wiped the windscreen with a rag. Maybe that’s my fault, I said. What? he said. The mist on the window, I said. Of course it is, he hissed. OK, I thought, if that’s how you want it, and leaned back in my seat.

He dropped me off twenty minutes later, by a big petrol station, I walked back and forth outside asking everyone I saw if they were going to Hirtshals and whether they would take me with them. I was wet and hungry, my appearance was a mess after all the days on the road, and everyone shook their heads until, a long time later, a man driving a van I could see was full of bread and bakery products smiled and said, come on, jump in, I’m going to Hirtshals. The whole way I kept thinking I should ask him if I could have something to eat, but I didn’t dare, the closest I came was to say that I was hungry, but he didn’t take the hint.

As I was saying goodbye to him in Hirtshals a ferry was just about to leave. I ran over to the ticket office with my rucksack heavy on my back, breathlessly explained my situation to the clerk, I had no money, would it be possible to have a ticket anyway and have the bill sent on to me? I had a passport, so could produce ID and I was a reliable payer. She smiled nicely and shook her head, she was unable to help, I had to pay cash. But I have to get across! I said. I live there! And I haven’t got any money! She shook her head again. Sorry, she said, and turned away.

I sat down on a kerb in the harbour area with my rucksack between my legs and watched the big ferry slip its moorings, glide away and vanish from view.

What was I going to do?

One possibility was to hitchhike south again, to Sweden and then go up that way. But wasn’t there some water that had to be crossed as well?

I tried to visualise the map, wondering if there was a land connection between Denmark and Sweden somewhere, I didn’t think there was, was there? So you would have to go right down to Poland and then up through Russia to Finland and from there into Norway, was that right? A couple of weeks’ hitchhiking then. And you would probably need a visa or something for the Eastern Bloc countries. Of course I could go to Copenhagen, that was only a few hours away, and then do whatever it took to get some money for the ferry to Sweden. Beg on the streets if necessary.

Another way would be to get mum to transfer some money to a bank here. That wouldn’t be a problem, but it might take a couple of days. And I didn’t have any coins to phone home.

I opened another packet of Camels and looked across at the vehicles that were quietly rolling in and joining the new queue as I smoked three cigarettes, one after the other. Lots of Norwegian families who had been to Legoland or the beach in Løkken. Some Germans heading north. Lots of camper vans, lots of motorbikes and, furthest away, the juggernauts.

With a dry mouth I took out my Walkman again. This time I inserted a Roxy Music cassette. But after only the second song the sound became distorted and the battery light came on. I put the Walkman away and stood up, swung my rucksack over my shoulder and set off for the town centre, through the few dreary Hirtshals streets. Now and then hunger gnawed at my guts. I considered going to the bakery and asking if they could spare me some bread, but of course they wouldn’t give me any. I couldn’t bear the thought of such a humiliating rejection and decided to save my efforts until I was in serious discomfort, and wandered back towards the harbour. I stopped in front of a kind of café-cum-snack-bar, where it would surely be possible to get a glass of water at least.

The girl nodded and filled a glass from the tap behind her. I sat down by the window. The place was nearly full. Outside, it had started raining again. I drank the water and smoked. After a while two boys of my age came in the door, wearing full rain gear. They undid their hoods and looked around. One of them came over to me. Were the seats free? Of course, I said. We got into conversation, it turned out they were from Holland, on their way to Norway and they had cycled up. They laughed in disbelief when I told them I had hitchhiked from Vienna without any money and now I was trying to get on the ferry. Is that why you’re drinking water? one asked, I nodded, he asked if I would like a cup of coffee, that would be nice, I answered, he stood up and went off to get me one.