Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

I went into the sitting room, she was standing and talking to Ola, the music was loud, on the verge of distortion, around them some people were dancing, I watched them until she looked at me. Then I smiled, and she smiled back.

‘Can I talk to you?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘The music’s so loud here,’ I said. ‘Shall we go into the hall or something?’

She nodded. We went into the hall.

‘You’re so beautiful,’ I said.

‘Was that what you wanted to say?’ She laughed.

‘There’s a room upstairs, on the second floor. Shall we go up there? It’s an old servant’s room, I think.’

I set off up the stairs and a moment later heard her following me. I waited on the first floor, took her hand and led her up to the room, which was exactly as I remembered it.

I put my arms around her and kissed her. She stepped back and sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘There’s something I have to tell you,’ I said. ‘I’m … well, a kind of monster when it comes to sex. It’s a bit difficult to explain, but … oh, to hell with it, it doesn’t matter.’

I sat down beside her, put my arm around her and kissed her and laid her down and kissed her again, she was bashful and reserved, I kissed her neck, caressed her hair, slowly pulled up her jumper, kissed one breast, and she sat up and pulled down her jumper and looked at me.

‘This doesn’t feel right, Karl Ove,’ she said. ‘You’re moving too fast.’

‘Yes,’ I said, and sat up as well. ‘You’re right. I apologise.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ she said. ‘Never apologise. There’s nothing I hate more.’

She got up.

‘Are we still friends?’ she said. ‘I like you very much, you see.’

‘And I like you,’ I said. ‘Shall we join the others downstairs?’

We joined the others, and perhaps because her rejection had sobered me up I suddenly saw everything very clearly.

There were very few people there. Eight, apart from us — that was the extent of the party. What for several hours had appeared to be a grand decadent human spectacle, the great student party with quarrels and friendship, love and confidences, dancing and drinking, all borne aloft on a wave of happiness, collapsed in an instant and revealed itself for what it was: Idar, Terje, Jon Olav, Anne, Asbjørn, Ola, Arvid and Yngve. All with small glazed eyes and ungainly movements.

I wanted the party back, I wanted to be in the centre again so I poured some wine and drank two glasses quickly, one after the other, and then one more, and that helped: slowly the thought of the meagre turnout relaxed its grip and I sat down beside Asbjørn on the sofa.

Jon Olav came in from the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway. People clapped.

‘Wahey!’ Ola shouted. ‘Back from the dead!’

Jon Olav smiled and sat down on the chair beside me. I continued talking with Asbjørn, trying to explain to him that I also wrote about young people who drank and took dope in as cold and stripped-back a style as that American writer Asbjørn had mentioned earlier. Jon Olav looked at us and grabbed one of the half-full bottles of beer on the table.

‘ Skål to Karl Ove and the Writing Academy!’ he shouted. Then he laughed and took a swig of the beer. I was so angry that I stood up and leaned towards him.

‘What the FUCK do you mean?’ I yelled. ‘What the FUCK do you know about anything? I’m SERIOUS about what I do, do you understand? Do you know what that is? Don’t you bloody come here and be ironic with me! You think you’re so damned clever! But you study law! Remember that! Law!’

He looked up at me, surprised and maybe a bit frightened too.

‘Don’t you bloody come here!’ I yelled and left the room, put on my shoes, opened the door and went outside. My heart was beating fast, my legs were shaking. I lit a cigarette and sat down on the wet brick step. The rain was percolating down through the darkness above and landing in the small front garden with a quiet pitter-patter.

If only Ingvild would come now.

I inhaled deeply in order to do something at a slow deliberate pace. I let the smoke settle deep into my lungs before gently exhaling it again. I felt an urge to smash something. To take one of the kerbstones and hurl it through the window in the door. That would give them something to think about. Bloody twats. Fucking shitheads.

Why didn’t she come?

Come on, Ingvild, come on!

Getting steadily wetter in the rain, I finally decided to stand up, threw the cigarette end into the garden and went to join the others. Ingvild was in the doorway talking to Yngve, they didn’t see me and I stopped and tried to catch what they were saying, perhaps she was asking him questions about me, but no, they were talking about the best way home. Yngve said he would call a taxi for her if she wanted, she did, and when he turned down the music and lifted the receiver I went into the bedroom to keep out of her way, mostly so as not to remind her of what had happened. She started to put on her coat and hat, I went into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa, and waved to her when she poked her head round to say goodbye. And that was fine, I was one of them, and not the person who had tried to sleep with her in the loft.

Shortly afterwards Yngve ordered two more taxis, and then there were only Ola, Asbjørn, Yngve and me left. We played records and chatted about them, stared for long spells into the air until someone made a move and put on another good song. In the end, Ola got up, he was going to take a taxi, Asbjørn went with him, and I asked Yngve if it was OK if I slept on his sofa, and it was, of course.

On waking, my first thought was the scene in the maidservant’s room on the second floor.

Was it real? Had I dragged her there, pushed her down on the bed and pulled her jumper up over her breasts?

Ingvild? Who was so fragile and apprehensive and shy? Whom I loved with all of my heart?

How could I have done that? What was I thinking?

What a stupid idiot I was.

I had ruined everything.

Everything.

I sat up, pulled the blanket to the side, ran my hand through my hair.

Jesus Christ.

For once none of the details of the night’s events had disappeared, I remembered everything, and not only that, the images of Ingvild, the way she looked at me, which I hadn’t taken in at the time, but which I grasped the full significance of now, were ever-present, they quivered in my consciousness, especially when I pulled up her jumper, the look she gave me, because she didn’t want it, yet she let me do it anyway, it was only when I closed my lips around her nipples that she sat up and said no.

What must she have thought? I don’t want this, but he wants it so much, shall I let him?

I got up and went to the window. Yngve must have been asleep, at any rate it was silent in the flat. My head was heavy, but it wasn’t bad considering how much I had drunk. What was it again? Beer on wine, not so fine. Wine on beer, never fear? I had drunk beer first, then wine, that was why.

Oh hell!

Hell, hell, hell.

What a bloody fool I was.

She was so lovely and so alive.

I went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. The clouds over the town were dense and greyish-white, the light between the houses was like milk.

From the bedroom came the sound of footsteps. I turned, Yngve appeared in just his underpants, he went into the bathroom without looking at me. He looked pale and groggy. I brewed coffee, found some ham and cheese and salad, sliced the loaf and listened to him showering.

‘So,’ he said as he emerged, wearing a light blue shirt and jeans. ‘Was it a good party?’