Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

We rang off, I walked home in the gathering dusk, lay on my bed reading Mark Twain, whom Ragnar Hovland had talked about, fell back into reality now and again, into the darkness surrounding the meagre light from the reading lamp, the material of the light blue pillow, the thought of grandma, the first person close to me who had died. It was impossible to understand. But she was at peace now. She had been tormented, now she had peace. I read on, the thought of her lay constantly in the shadows of my consciousness, now and then it stepped out, she was dead, she was no more, grandma, dear grandma. I hadn’t known her, but what is there to know? I had known who she was, who she was to me, ever since I had been a small boy. And that was what filled my mind now, her gentle presence, her eyes. How heart-breaking it must have been for her to depart this world, solely because her body no longer obeyed her, it refused her the most elementary support.

I had to write about this, had to write about her.

I got up, sat at my desk in just my underpants and wrote a poem:

Growing Wild

Your eyes are gone from the day

you’re gently faded out

My thoughts like mirrors

I lose control

Feel you within

Soft nights fall over me

My eyes are plunged in darkness

I want to fly

Want to believe in miracles

Feel you within

I shy from light and darkness

Who knows what you see

Who knows what will happen

Silence, silence

growing wild

The days crumble, disappear

Leaving no trace

I am always awake, waiting

Feel you within

feel you within

I shy from light and darkness

Who knows what you see

Who knows what will happen

Silence, silence

growing wild

The following day Espen came over to me in the reading room and gave me the Mandelstam essay. We went for a coffee, chatted about our course, some writing that had impressed us, I asked him a few questions about himself, where he came from, what he did and I told him I had attended the Writing Academy. He knew, he said. He held the cup with both hands, but not in an embracing kind of way, more a confirmation by his hands, here we have a cup, while he held his head slightly lowered, staring straight down at the table. Sitting like this, it was as though he was negating the situation, as though it didn’t exist. There was great strength in him, it gripped my insides, have I said something tedious? Something boring? Something stupid?

Then he cast a glance up at the clock, smiled and said he hoped I would enjoy the essay and he was looking forward to discussing it with me.

We went back to the reading room, I started Olof Lagercrantz’s book about Dante and sat over it until the afternoon, when I went to the canteen to eat. It was Friday and they always had rice pudding.

Ann Kristin was sitting at a table on the first floor. She smiled when she saw me and I went over holding a tray of rice pudding, juice and coffee.

‘Hi, Karl Ove,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long time. Take a seat. This is Rolf, by the way.’

She nodded towards a man on the other side of the table.

‘So you’re Karl Ove,’ he said. ‘I had your father at gymnas. He’s the best teacher I’ve ever had. He was fantastic.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘Where was that?’

‘Vennesla.’

‘Right,’ I said and sat down, took the bowl of rice pudding, the cup of coffee and the glass of juice off the tray, pushed it away and started to eat.

‘What’s he doing now?’

‘He’s working in northern Norway. He’s remarried and has a child.’

‘Classic midlife crisis,’ Ann Kristin said. ‘Heard by the way that you went to Italy with Yngve.’

I nodded and swallowed.

‘Florence.’

‘Shame you couldn’t be at the funeral.’

‘Yes. How was it?’

‘It was dignified and lovely.’

Ann Kristin was the eldest daughter of my mother’s sister Kjellaug and Jon Olav’s sister. In our childhood it had always been her and Yngve and Jon Olav and me, and that had continued during our studies, at least at first when Yngve and Ann Kristin had spent a lot of time together. But they had drifted apart, unless it had been prompted by a particular event, I wasn’t aware of anything, I only knew they didn’t meet outside family commitments any more.

She was a strong character and could appear a little brusque, especially with Jon Olav, but she didn’t hold back with me either, not that I was afraid of her, it was just surface, underneath it all she was nice and more than usually considerate. I liked her, I always had done.

This Rolf, was he her boyfriend?

‘Do you study Russian too?’ I said.

He nodded.

‘That was where we met,’ he said.

‘Rolf’s the department’s wunderkind,’ Ann Kristin said.

‘You weren’t the boy who always got the top grade at gymnas, were you? Dad talked about it for a while.’

‘I’m afraid so.’ He smiled.

‘You really were his favourite pupil,’ I said.

‘Yes, what do you expect?’ said Ann Kristin. ‘Of course the teacher likes someone who only gets top grades.’

‘Not dad,’ I said, to flatter him.

‘Give him my best regards,’ Rolf said.

‘Will do,’ I said.

‘How’s Yngve getting on?’ Ann Kristin said. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages. Is he still with … what’s her name …?’

‘Ingvild?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, they finished this spring,’ I said.

‘She was so like your mother.’

‘Was she?’

‘Didn’t you notice?’

‘No. Where was the resemblance?’ I said.

‘The eyes, Karl Ove. They had the same eyes.’

She smiled and turned to Rolf, who raised his eyebrows and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

‘Can you manage on your own?’ Ann Kristin said to me. ‘Or should we stay and keep an eye on you?’

‘Think I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘Nice to see you both. Bye!’

They left by the door on the first floor, where corridors branched off to various other parts of the building, and I ate the rice pudding alone.

The following Sunday I met Gunvor. It was a coincidence, I had gone out with Yngve for a beer, he had been working, he met some people he knew, one of them invited us to his place, candles were lit, tea was served, quiet records were played. I sat on some kind of pouffe and was itching to leave when a girl sat down beside me. She was small, fair-haired with a small retroussé nose and beautiful gentle eyes. Her energy levels were high, her personality was winning.

‘Who are you?’ she said.

‘I’m Yngve’s brother,’ I said.

‘Well, that leaves me none the wiser. Who’s Yngve?’

‘The guy standing over there and flirting.’

‘Oh. I haven’t seen him before either. But, at any rate, it’s not hard to see you’re brothers!’

‘No,’ I said.

‘What are you doing in Bergen then?’

‘Lit.’

‘Do you like Ragnar Hovland? He’s my all-time favourite. Suicide in Turtle Café, just the title.’

‘Yes, he’s funny. What are you studying?’

‘Admin and organisation theory. But I’m going to start history after Christmas.’

‘History? I fancy doing that as well.’

She was open, but not in a naïve way, she wasn’t the type to burst out with something she didn’t understand, she was just very self-confident.

The others left one by one, we sat chatting, it was the kind of night when you could tell each other everything about yourself, and it is meaningful because there is also a common willingness to listen. She was from a farm in Vestland, she had two brothers and a sister, she loved riding, particularly Icelandic horses, she had worked for a year on an Icelandic farm and spoke Icelandic fluently. I asked her to say something in Icelandic, she said Thad er ekki gott ad vita hver Karl Ove er! It’s not easy to know who Karl Ove is. I laughed, I had understood. She said Icelandic horses had two additional gaits, and I laughed again, I found it difficult to understand how you could be so passionate about animals. Try riding one yourself some time and you’ll understand, she said.