Karl Knausgaard: Some Rain Must Fall

He stopped inside the entrance and scanned the crowd. Looked at me.

‘No one I know. Let’s go upstairs.’

I followed him up, past some tables, which were laid out in exactly the same pattern as downstairs, and over to the bar. I had been there before, but only fleetingly and in the daytime; this was different. Everywhere people were drinking beer. The room looked a lot like an apartment, I reflected, with chairs and tables and a curved bar in the middle.

‘There’s Ola!’ Yngve exclaimed. I followed the direction of his nod. Ola, whom I had met once earlier this summer, was sitting at a table with three others. He smiled and waved. We walked over.

‘Find yourself a chair and let’s sit here, Karl Ove,’ Yngve said.

There was a chair beside a piano by the other wall, I went and took it, feeling quite naked as I lifted it into the air, was that how I should do it? Could I carry it through the room like this? People looked at me, the place was full of students, regulars who were on their home ground, and I blushed, but saw no alternative and carried the chair to the table where Yngve was already sitting.

‘This is my little brother, Karl Ove,’ Yngve said. ‘He’s about to start at the Writing Academy.’

He smiled as he said that. I briefly met the eyes of the three people I hadn’t seen before: two girls and a boy.

‘So you’re the famous little brother,’ said one of the girls. She had fair hair and narrow eyes, which almost vanished when she smiled.

‘Kjersti,’ she said.

‘Karl Ove,’ I said.

The other girl had black hair in a page-boy cut, bright red lipstick and a black outfit, she told me her name, and the boy next to her, a shy figure with reddish-blond hair and pale skin, followed suit with a broad smile. I forgot their names the very next second.

‘Do you want a beer?’ Yngve said.

Was he going to leave me here, all on my own?

‘Please,’ I said.

He stood. I looked down at the table. Suddenly remembered I could smoke here, took out my tobacco pouch and began to make a roll-up.

‘Were you at R-Roskilde?’ Ola said.

He was the first person I had met since junior school who stammered. You wouldn’t believe it to look at him. He had Buddy Holly glasses, dark hair, regular facial features and even though he didn’t dress flashily at all there was still something about him that had made me think he was in a band the first time I saw him. Nothing had changed. He was wearing a white shirt, black jeans and a pair of black pointed shoes.

‘Yes, I was,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t get to see many bands.’

‘Why n-not?’

‘There was so much else going on,’ I said.

‘Yes, I c-can imagine.’ He smiled.

You didn’t have to be with him for long to know that he had a warm heart. I was glad he was Yngve’s friend, and the stammering, which had made me ill at ease the previous time — did Yngve have friends who stammered? — didn’t feel as disconcerting now that I could see that at least he had three more friends. None of them reacted to the stammer, either with forbearance or condescension, and what I myself felt when he said anything — that the situation I found myself in, he is stammering now and I mustn’t show that I’ve noticed, was so obvious and awkward, because couldn’t he see that was what I was thinking while he was talking? — wasn’t apparent on their faces.

Yngve placed the beer on the table in front of me and sat down.

‘What do you write then?’ said the dark-haired girl, looking at me. ‘Poetry or prose?’ Her eyes were also dark. There was something unmistakably aloof about her manner.

I took a long swig of beer.

‘I’m writing a novel at the moment,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure we’ll be doing some poetry as well. I haven’t done much of that, but perhaps I’ll have to … heh heh!’

‘Wasn’t it you who had your own radio programme and stuff?’ Kjersti said.

‘Plus a review column in the local paper,’ Yngve added.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But that’s a while ago now.’

‘What’s your novel about then?’ said the dark-haired girl.

I shrugged.

‘Variety of things. It’s a mixture between Hamsun and Bukowski, I suppose. Have you read any Bukowski?’

She nodded and slowly turned her head to watch the people coming up the stairs.

Kjersti laughed.

‘You’ll have Hovland as your teacher, did Yngve tell you? He’s fantastic!’

‘Right,’ I said.

There was a little pause, the focus of conversation moved away from me, and I leaned back as the others chatted. They knew one another as they were in the same department, Media Studies, and that was what they were talking about. Names of lecturers and theorists, titles of books, records and films ping-ponged across the table. While they were talking Yngve took out a cigarette holder, stuck a cigarette in it and started smoking with gestures that the holder made seem affected. I tried not to look at him, not to show I had noticed, which is what the others did too.

‘Another beer?’ I said as a distraction, he nodded and I walked over to the bar. One of the barmen was standing by the beer taps on the opposite side while the other was putting a tray of glasses through a hatch which turned out to be a dumb waiter.

How wonderful, a little lift going up and down between floors with food and drink!

The barman by the taps turned lethargically, I raised two fingers in the air, but he said nothing and turned back. The second barman faced me, and I leaned over the bar to signal that I wanted to order.

‘Yes?’ he said.

He had a white towel slung over his shoulder, a black apron over a white shirt and long mutton chops, and what looked like a tattoo was visible on his neck. Even the barmen looked cool in this town.

‘Two beers,’ I said.

He held the glasses in one hand under the two taps while scanning the room.

A familiar face appeared at the back, it was Yngve’s friend Arvid, he was with two others, they made a beeline for the table where Yngve was sitting.

The first barman put two half-litre glasses on the bar.

‘Seventy-four kroner,’ he said.

‘But I’ve just ordered them from the other barman!’ I said, nodding towards the second man.

‘You just ordered two from me. If you’ve ordered two from him as well, you’ll have to pay for four.’

‘But I haven’t got enough money.’

‘Are you expecting me to tip the beer away? You have to be clearer with your orders. One hundred and forty-eight kroner, please.’

‘Just a moment,’ I said, and went over to Yngve.

‘Have you got any money?’ I said. ‘You’ll get it back when I have my study loan.’

‘Weren’t you supposed to be paying for this round?’

‘Yes …’

‘Here you are,’ he said, handing me a hundred-krone note.

Arvid looked at me.

‘Ah, it’s you, is it?’

‘Yes,’ I said with a quick smile, not knowing quite what to do, and ended up pointing towards the bar and saying, ‘Just gotta …’ and going to pay.

When I returned they had sat down at another table.

‘Did you get four beers?’ Yngve said. ‘Why?’

‘Just the way it went,’ I said. ‘Some mix-up with the order.’

The following morning it was raining, and I stayed in the flat all day while Yngve was at work. Perhaps it was meeting his friends that had done it, perhaps it was just term fast approaching, at any rate I suddenly panicked: I was no good and soon I would be sitting alongside the other students, who were probably much more experienced and gifted than me, writing texts, reading them out and being judged.

I took an umbrella from the hat shelf, opened it and trotted down the hill in the rain. There was a bookshop in Danmarksplass, as far as I remembered. Yes, there it was. I opened the door and went in, it was completely empty and sold predominantly office equipment, it seemed, but they had some shelves of books, which I ran my eye along with the dripping umbrella in my hand. I had very little money, so I decided to buy a paperback. Hunger by Hamsun. It cost 39.50, which left me with twelve kroner — I spent it on a nice loaf at the baker’s in the little market square just behind. I plodded back uphill in the pouring rain which, along with the dark heavy clouds, cast a thick shroud over the landscape and changed its whole appearance. The water ran down windows and over car bonnets, trickled out of gutters and down the hills, where it made plough-shaped wavelets. The water gushed past me as I trudged upwards, rain beating down on my umbrella and the bag containing the loaf and the book slapping against my thigh with every step I took.