Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

Now and then I was struck by the enriching thought that here I was, in my bedsit, surrounded by my friends and, only a metre away, was the girl I loved more than all else.

Life can’t get better than that.

‘Anyone want another beer?’ I asked, rising to my feet. Idar and Terje and Anne nodded, I fetched four beers from the fridge, handed them round, saw there was a space between Jon Olav and Ingvild on the sofa if they budged up, and sat down there. When I opened the beer it foamed over, I held it away from me, the froth landed on the table, oh shit, I said, put down the bottle, went for a cloth from the kitchen and wiped it up. On the wall between the windows, just behind the sofa, there was a nail, and for some reason I hung the cloth there.

‘A wet cloth has come between us,’ I said to Ingvild, and plumped down on the sofa. She looked at me in bemusement, and I guffawed from the pit of my stomach, haw, haw, haw.

I rang for two taxis from the telephone box opposite. The others stood on the steps drinking and chatting. I watched them, thinking once again, they’ve come for a pre to my place. The rain had eased, but the sky was still overcast. A pale darkness hovered in the streets, through which we passed shortly afterwards, it suddenly became lighter as we emerged by Puddefjorden and the high open sky there, then it became darker again as we climbed the hills in Solheimsviken between the rows of workers’ houses.

It was already half past nine. We were more than slightly late. Yngve had said eight or half past when I asked him when we should turn up, however this was worse for us, not for them, not for all Yngve’s friends and acquaintances, our presence didn’t mean anything to them.

I paid one taxi driver, Jon Olav paid the other, and then I walked up the short drive with the others close on my heels, and rang the bell.

Yngve opened the door. He was wearing a white shirt with grey stripes and black trousers, his hair was combed back except for a strand hanging over one side of his forehead.

‘We’re a bit late,’ I said. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘The party’s a flop anyway. No one’s turned up.’

I looked at him. What did he mean?

He said hi to the others, didn’t make any fuss about Ingvild, fortunately, I didn’t want her to realise how much I had talked about her to Yngve. We took off our shoes and coats in the entrance hall and went into the sitting room. It was empty apart from Ola, who was watching TV.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

‘Are you watching TV?’ I said.

‘Yes? No point starting a party if there are no people.’

‘Where are they then?’

Yngve shrugged and forced a weak smile.

‘I didn’t give much advance warning. But there are lots of you!’

‘Yes,’ I said, sitting down on the sofa under the Once Upon a Time in America poster. I was shaken, this was a bolt out of the blue, I had imagined the rooms would be packed with people, sophisticated young men and women, a buzz of conversation, laughter, the air dense with smoke, and then this! Yngve and Ola watching the Saturday film on NRK? And it would have to be when I brought Ingvild! I wanted her to see Yngve and his friends, students who had been here several years and knew the town, knew the university, knew the world, so that I could share the limelight with them, he was my brother, I was invited to his parties. But what did she see? Two guys watching TV, no guests, they hadn’t come, they had other, better, things to do on a Saturday evening than go to a party at Yngve’s.

Was he a loser? Was Yngve a sad loser?

He switched off the TV, moved the two chairs to the table with Ola, fetched some beers and sat down, started talking to the others, a bit of polite small talk to make them feel at home, Anne and Ingvild and Idar and Terje, what they studied, where they lived, and the atmosphere, which at first had been somewhat hesitant, despite the fact that we had been drinking together for more than two hours, soon began to lift. The conversation went from involving the whole table to breaking up into smaller groups, I chatted with Anne, she was unstoppable, suddenly there was so much she had to tell me, I felt claustrophobic and said I had to go to the toilet. From there I went into the kitchen, where Terje was chatting to Ingvild, smiled at them, went over to Ola and Yngve, there was a ring at the door, Asbjørn walked in, followed closely by Arvid, and now the flat was full, there were people everywhere, or so it felt, faces and voices and bodies in motion everywhere, and I mingled among them, to and fro, drank and chatted, chatted and drank, getting drunker and drunker. The sense of time vanished, everything was open, I was no longer inhibited by my own shortcomings, I walked around happy and free without a thought for anything except the moment and Ingvild, whom I loved. I kept my distance, if there was one thing I knew about girls it was that they didn’t want someone who was easy to get, someone who followed them round, slack-jawed, so instead I chatted with the others, who, in intoxication’s shining light, were drawn from the darkness as if by a torch. Everyone was interesting, everyone had something to say that I could listen to and be moved by until I left and they were reclaimed by the darkness.

I sat between Ola and Asbjørn on the sofa. On the other side of the table sat Anne, she asked if she could bum a fag off me, I nodded, the next moment her head was down and she was concentrating on making a roll-up.

‘I th-thought of something,’ Ola said. ‘George V. Higgins, have you r-read anything by him?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘You sh-should do. It’s good. Really good. Almost only dialogue. Very Am-m-merican. Hard-boiled. The Friends of Eddie Coyle. ’

‘Then there’s Bret Easton Ellis,’ Asbjørn said. ‘ Less Than Zero. Have you read that one?’

I shook my head.

‘An American in his twenties. It’s about a gang of kids in Los Angeles. They’ve got rich parents and do what they like. It’s all boozing and dope and parties. But everything’s utterly cold and stripped back. It’s a very good novel. Kind of hyper-realistic.’

‘That sounds good,’ I said. ‘What was his name again?’

‘Bret Easton Ellis. Remember you heard it here first!’

He laughed and looked away. I glanced at Yngve, who was talking to Jon Olav and Ingvild, he had that excited flush he sometimes had when he was trying to make a point.

‘And the latest John Irving is also very good,’ Asbjørn said.

‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘John Irving’s a bloody pulp fiction author.’

‘He can still be good,’ Asbjørn said.

‘Can he hell,’ I said.

‘But you haven’t read it!’

‘No, but I know it’s poor.’

‘Ha ha ha! You can’t say that.’

‘I write myself, for Christ’s sake. And I’ve read John Irving. His latest novel is poor, I know it is.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Karl Ove,’ Asbjørn said.

‘Imagine us sitting here, Anne!’ I said. ‘So far from shitty Kristiansand!’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know what I’m doing here. You know what you’re doing. You’re going to be a writer. But there’s nothing I want to be.’

‘I am a writer,’ I said.

‘Know what?’ she said.

‘No?’ I said.

‘The only thing I want to be is a legend. A real legend. I’ve always thought that. And I’ve never doubted that that’s how it will be.’

Asbjørn and Ola exchanged glances and laughed.

‘Do you understand? I’ve always been sure of it.’

‘What kind of legend?’ Asbjørn said.

‘Any kind,’ Anne said.

‘What can you do then? Sing? Write?’