Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘Why not?’ Petra said, not that interested, she was staring into the distance and her lips slid over her teeth the way they did when she was thinking about something else or when I imagined she was thinking about something else.

‘You should keep your powder dry, in a way,’ I said. ‘Save it.’

‘Ach, that’s just what people say. You do as you like. If you want to talk about it, you just talk away to your heart’s content.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I said.

I always felt so pure and innocent when I was with her, like a squeaky-clean middle-class son, the teacher’s pet, good at school but zero at life. She told me that in recent weeks she had gone out nearly every night, on her own to the bar at Wesselstuen, and men always came up and bought her a drink, she didn’t spend a single krone all night, she said, and did nothing in return, except listen to them, not even that sometimes. It amused her, these men were entertaining, she said, and she would never have met them otherwise. I didn’t understand what pleasure she could derive from that, but I respected her, admired her even, for it, I had read Bukowski and Kerouac of course and all the other books about people hanging out in bars drinking, and I had been drawn to life in the glittering shadows ever since gymnas, but I didn’t know it, didn’t go there myself, to sit alone in a bar chatting with strangers would have been inconceivable for me, it was closer to my nature to make waffles alone in my bedsit, I reflected, that at least was the feeling Petra evoked in me, I was that type, a shallow happy-go-lucky chap who was always ringing mum and was a bit afraid of dad. She got off her high horse when she sat with me, and I didn’t understand why, but I was happy she did and so I just had to put up with her laughing at me and making derogatory comments. She did that to everyone anyway.

I looked behind me at all the small knolls, the heads.

Ingvild?

No.

Anyone else I knew?

No.

I looked at my watch. Half past eleven.

Angels studying the Bible in reverse!

Could I pull that one off?

‘I’m writing a short story about a hairdresser’s,’ Petra said. ‘There are two dogs lying in a basket. This is my idea!’

‘I’m sure it’ll be really good,’ I said.

‘Talking about it isn’t a problem anyway,’ she said, and smiled as her eyes narrowed into a sudden sneer.

‘Hello,’ said a familiar voice behind me.

It was Yngve.

‘Hello!’ I said. ‘I was hoping you would be out tonight.’

‘I’m just nosing around. I’ve come from work, thought I’d see if there was anyone here I knew.’

‘Get yourself a beer and sit down! This is Petra, by the way, from the Academy. This is my brother Yngve.’

‘Guessed as much,’ Petra said.

When he sat down a few minutes later I was a bit concerned that Petra would have a go at him, in her eyes he would seem really straight-laced, but that didn’t happen at all, on the contrary, they chatted while I leaned back and drank beer and relaxed and listened with half an ear. Petra asked Yngve what he was studying, and that alone was unexpected. Perhaps it was the Fosse incident that had forced her to pull herself together. Yngve started telling Petra about a book by Baudrillard on America, she was interested and I was happy. She got up to go to the toilet, Yngve said he liked her, she was nice, I said yes, but she’s got a terrible tongue on her when the mood takes her.

We stood in the taxi queue outside Wesselstuen, we waited twenty minutes, then we were in the back seat of an elegant low-slung Mercedes gliding through the rain-gleaming streets up to my place. I paid, checked there wasn’t a message by the front door or the door to my room, unlocked it, not caring what Petra might think about what she saw, which I would have done with almost anyone else, made some tea, put on some Velvet Underground, who for some reason I associated with her, perhaps it was her cynicism and urbanity that did it, she said Yngve had been pleasant and asked how we got on, I answered that we had a good relationship, but I might be too dependent on him in Bergen, at least that thought had gone through my head, I didn’t have any of my own friends, except for those at the Academy, so I had to rely on Yngve. Once a younger brother, always a younger brother, she commented. We smoked our cigarettes, I said I didn’t have a spare duvet, but she could have mine, she snorted and said the bedspread was enough, she would sleep in her clothes, that wasn’t a problem, she often did that. OK, I replied, but what about a sheet? She snorted again, as you wish, I said and stood up.

Should I get undressed in front of her? Or sleep with my clothes on as well?

No, to hell with it, I lived here, I thought, and started getting undressed. She turned away and fidgeted with something or other until I was in bed, supporting myself on one elbow. She looked at me.

‘What’s that there? Ugh, how revolting!’ she said. ‘Have you got three nipples?’

What on earth was she blathering about?

I looked down at my nipples.

She was right. An extra nipple had grown next to one of the original two, equally as big.

Horrified, I held it between thumb and forefinger.

Could it be cancer?

‘Yuk!’ she said. ‘If I’d known you were a freak I wouldn’t have stayed here.’

‘Relax,’ I said. ‘It’s just a pimple. It’s grown in a pore or whatever you call them. Look now!’

I squeezed the new nipple and a yellow blob squirted onto my chest.

‘Ugh! Ugh! What are you doing!’ she said.

I got up, took a towel from the cupboard and wiped the pus, looked down at my chest, which was back to normal now, and got into bed.

‘Will you turn off the light?’ I said.

She nodded, went over to the switch and pressed it, sat down on the sofa, swung her legs up and pulled the white bedspread over her.

‘Goodnight,’ I said.

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

I woke to her walking through the room and sat up.

‘Are you going?’ I said.

‘Reckon so,’ she said. ‘It’s nine. Sorry to wake you up.’

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Don’t you want any breakfast?’

She shook her head.

‘What a racket you made last night. Do you remember?’

‘No.’

‘You stood up, threw the duvet on the floor and stamped on it, really hard again and again. “What are you doing?” I said. “There’s a mink in the duvet!” you shouted. I almost died laughing. What a sight that was.’

‘Is that true? I don’t remember anything.’

‘It’s true. Thanks for the use of the sofa. See you!’

I heard her walk through the hall, heard the front door open and shut, her footsteps round the corner and fade as she went down the hill. A vague image of an animal appeared, it was between the duvet cover and the duvet, I remembered it and remembered throwing down my duvet in fear and disgust. I had no memory of stamping on it at all. How spooky. For all I knew, there might have been scenes like that here every night.

Two evenings later there was a ring at the door, I jumped up, absolutely convinced it was Ingvild, who else would ring?

Jon Olav.

He wondered what had happened to me, was I writing twenty-four hours a day or what?

Yes, it was a bit like that.

He asked me if I fancied going out for a beer, Sunday was a good day for it, everything was so still and peaceful.

I said probably not, I had a lot to do.

‘OK,’ he said, getting up and putting on his jacket. ‘Thanks for the chat.’

‘Thank you. Are you going out anyway?’

‘I’ll see. Incidentally, I met Ingvild yesterday.’