Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

Ingvild got out, waved to us, Yngve turned the car and started to drive back to town.

‘That went well, didn’t it,’ he said.

‘Do you think so?’ I said. ‘Did she enjoy herself?’

‘Ye-es. I’m sure she did.’

‘The waffles were good anyway.’

‘Yes, they were.’

Not a lot more was said before he dropped me outside my bedsit. I jumped out, thanked him for the lift, closed the door and ran up the three steps to the door as he drove round the corner.

I had imagined it would be good to get home, but the smell of the freshly cleaned floor and bed linen, which still hung in the air, reminded me of the plans I’d had before the evening started, imagining I would wake up here with Ingvild this morning, and a new wave of despair and anger at myself washed over me, as well as all my feelings about the Academy, which launched themselves at me from all sides. The typewriter, the books, the plastic bag with my notebook, the pens, yes, even the sight of the clothes I had worn there depressed me and filled me with a sense of hopelessness.

Bonfire of books, Ola had said, and I understood the need for it very well, just chuck everything you don’t like and don’t want, all life’s detritus, on the flames and start afresh.

What a fantastic thought. Lug all my clothes, all my books and all my records into the park, pile them up on the grass, plus my bed and desk, typewriter, diaries and all the damned letters I had received, in fact everything that carried the tiniest hint of a memory: onto the fire with it! Oh, the flames licking up at the dark night sky, all the neighbours flocking to their windows, what’s going on, well, it’s just our young neighbour purging his life, he wants to make a new start, and he’s right, I’d like to do that too.

And then all of a sudden bonfire after bonfire, the whole of Bergen aflame at night, helicopters with TV cameras hovering above, reporters in dramatic mode, saying Bergen is ablaze tonight, what is happening, they appear to be setting light to the fires themselves.

I sat down on the chair by my desk, the sofa and the bed were too soft and giving, I wanted something harder. I rolled a cigarette and lit it, but the roll-up was too crooked and saggy, I stubbed it out after a few puffs, there was a packet of cigarettes in my jacket pocket, wasn’t there, yes, much better, and then, staring down at the table I tried to do a reality check, look at the situation as rationally and objectively as I could. The Writing Academy, it had been a defeat, but first of all was it such a problem that I couldn’t write poems? No. Secondly, was this always going to be the case? Couldn’t I teach myself, couldn’t I develop over the year? Yes, of course. And if I was going to develop I would have to be open and, importantly, unafraid to make mistakes. Ingvild, with her I had made a fool of myself, once by being boring and reticent, once by coming on to her much too quickly and with force. In other words, I had been insensitive. I hadn’t taken her wishes into account sufficiently. That was the point. I hadn’t considered her feelings, only my own. But, firstly, I had been drunk, that did happen now and then, it happened to everyone. And, secondly, if she had any feelings for me, surely that wouldn’t ruin everything? If she had any feelings for me surely she would be able to put herself in my shoes too and understand how things turned out the way they had? Fortunately, we had two previous meetings to build on, one in Førde, when everything had gone like a dream, and the other in the canteen, when at least we had chatted normally. Furthermore, there were the letters. They were funny, I knew that, or at least they weren’t boring. Moreover, I was attending the Writing Academy, so I wasn’t like all the other students, I was going to be a writer, people found that interesting and exciting, perhaps Ingvild did too, although she hadn’t said as much. And then there was the waffle session at Yngve’s that we’d just had — that did a little to remedy the impression I had made the previous night — now at any rate she could see how nice Yngve was, and as we were brothers, the notion that I was nice as well might not be too distant.

At around seven I went down and rang the bell at Jon Olav’s.

‘Good to see you!’ he said with a smile. ‘Come in. We’ve got a little debriefing to do.’

‘Good to see you too,’ I said, and followed him in. He brewed some tea and we sat down.

‘I’m sorry I shouted at you,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to apologise.’

He laughed.

‘Why not? Are you too proud?’

‘I was angry when you said what you said. I can’t apologise for that.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I went too far there. But you were too much. You were almost manic.’

‘I was just drunk.’

‘I was also drunk.’

‘No hard feelings?’ I said.

‘No hard feelings. But did you mean what you said? That law is nothing?’

‘Of course not. I had to say something.’

‘I don’t have much time for the legal milieu myself,’ he said. ‘I see law primarily as a tool.’

He looked at me.

‘Now you have to say that you see writing as a tool!’

‘Are you at it again?’ I said.

He laughed.

When I returned I lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I could still be friends with Jon Olav. That was no problem. But not with Ingvild, that was quite a different matter and much more complicated. The question was basically what to do. What had happened had happened and couldn’t be undone. For the future, though, what could I do? What would be best?

I had taken the initiative twice now, invited her out today and yesterday. If she was interested she would contact me, drop by — she knew where I lived — or write a letter. It was up to her. I couldn’t invite her out again, that would be, firstly, too pushy and, secondly, I had no idea if she was really interested in me, and I needed a sign.

The sign would be her coming here.

That was how it would have to be.

I didn’t expect any move on the Monday after Yngve’s party, it was too early, Ingvild wouldn’t contact me that evening, I knew that, yet still I sat waiting and hoping; whenever I heard footsteps in the street I leaned forward and peeped out of the window. If someone stopped on the steps, I froze. But of course it wasn’t her, I went to bed, another day dawned, more rain and mist, another evening spent waiting and hoping. Tuesday was a more realistic bet, she would have had time to think, distanced herself from what had happened and her real feelings would have had time to develop. Someone walking in the street: over to the window. Someone on the steps: I froze. But no, it was too early, tomorrow maybe?

No.

Thursday then?

No.

Friday, would she come with a bottle of wine we could share?

No.

On Saturday I wrote her a letter, even though I knew I wouldn’t post it, she was the one who had to take the initiative, she was the one who had to make an approach.

In the evening I heard music coming from Morten’s room in the basement, we hadn’t spoken since the last time at Høyden when he was so desperate, I thought I could join him for a little while, I hadn’t spoken to a living soul all day and was hungry for company. I went downstairs and knocked on his door, no one answered, but I knew he was there, so I opened it.

Morten was kneeling on the floor, his hands folded and outstretched in supplication. On a chair in front of him sat a girl. She was leaning back with her legs crossed. Morten turned to me, his eyes crazed, I closed the door and hurried back to my room.

He came up next morning, said he had made a last-ditch attempt, but it had led nowhere, it had failed, she didn’t want him. Nevertheless he was in fine fettle, it shone through his stiff body language and formality of expression, what radiated from him was not despair but warmth.