Karl Knausgaard - Some Rain Must Fall

‘Oh yes.’

I fetched cups and we sat down. He wasn’t quite himself, perhaps lost in his own thoughts.

‘I’ve read your manuscript,’ he said.

‘That’s good,’ I said. ‘Have you got time to talk about it now?’

He nodded.

‘But perhaps we should go out for a walk? It’s easier to talk then. Sitting still soon gets a bit claustrophobic.’

‘Yes, I’ve been indoors all day, so going out is not a bad idea.’

‘Shall we go then?’ Espen said, getting up.

‘And the coffee?’

‘We can have it when we’re back.’

I put on my raincoat and boots, waited for a moment in the hall below for Espen, who appeared shortly afterwards in his thick old waterproof jacket and locked up.

‘The toilet paper disappeared again last night,’ he said, turning to me as he stuffed his bunch of keys into his pocket. His toilet was in the hallway. Anyone could use it.

‘I know who it is. I heard him and so I looked out of the window afterwards. You know that little Sunnmøre guy who lives across the yard?’

I shook my head, started to walk downstairs.

‘Well, anyway, it was him. He ran down the road with a toilet roll in each hand. Imagine sinking so low as to steal toilet paper!’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘It’s very irritating. What do you think I should do? Take the matter up with him? Tell him I know it’s him?’

‘No, are you out of your mind? Just drop it.’

‘But it’s so unbelievably cheeky!’ Espen said.

‘He’s a criminal,’ I said. ‘If you start messing with him you know what can happen.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Espen said. ‘But he’s so loathsome. I think he’s a pervert. He doesn’t flush after he’s been either, you know. His shit’s in the bowl when I go in there.’

‘Ooh, bloody hell,’ I said.

We arrived at the bottom hallway and emerged onto the worn cracked brick steps. Rain was falling and had been for a long time. Both the building we exited and the one rising before us, three metres away, were dark and gleamed with moisture in the street lighting, and all the protruding sills, ledges and gutters dripped. The narrow passage in front of us was overgrown and full of old refuse; the path between the two buildings was covered over and looked more like a tunnel or a grotto with its green stains and cracks.

When I saw the dustbins I remembered the rat, a memory I had succeeded in repressing, I hadn’t thought about it all day.

Perhaps it was still alive. Crawling around and gorging on all the delicious rubbish. What did it matter that it was caught in a trap? If it used its rear feet it could paddle alongside the bulging plastic bags, gnaw at them and they would open and all sorts of splendours would fall out, straight into its mouth. If there was nothing? Well, keep paddling.

We walked up, alongside the other brick buildings, where our sister flats were, all identical, and down the underpass to the left. Water ran and dripped everywhere, graffiti and unintelligible symbols covered the walls, some of the lamps on the ceiling were smashed, and no one ever stopped here unless they wanted something from the Narvesen kiosk, which was in the middle, where I used to buy newspapers every morning. We walked past and up the other side, following the road to town.

‘Shall we turn right here and walk to the centre? It’s quite a nice area,’ Espen said.

‘Can do,’ I said.

The road came out by the hospital, which now towered over the mist, like a fully illuminated castle, under the mountains. One of the town’s big cemeteries lay just below, strategically placed to ensure the sick would not be allowed to forget they wouldn’t be living for ever.

We walked side by side into town. Espen said nothing, I said nothing.

‘I don’t know how to start,’ Espen said at length. ‘I was wondering at first whether it was a young adult novel you’d written.’

Everything inside me sank.

‘A young adult novel?’ I said. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Something about the tone,’ he said. ‘The way they speak. Young adult novels are good!’

I said nothing, studied the ground in front of us, the light gleamed on the wet tarmac.

‘There’s a lot of wonderful material in it, really,’ he continued. ‘I loved some of the descriptions of nature.’

‘But?’ I said.

Espen glanced at me.

‘In my opinion, it doesn’t work as a whole,’ he said. ‘Somehow, it’s not enough. It’s difficult to understand why this story of all stories is being told. There’s no spark in it, to be blunt.’

‘What about the language?’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s a bit bland. Bit impersonal. It hurts me to say this. I’d have loved to say something else. But I can’t. I have to be honest.’

‘I’m really glad you’ve been honest,’ I said. ‘Not many people would have been. Most would have played along and said they liked it. You’re very brave to say what you think. Thank you.’

‘But it isn’t bad, ’ Espen said. ‘I mean, that’s not what we’re talking about. I just don’t think you make the most of the material you have.’

‘Do you think I could? That I could keep working on it and raise it somehow?’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘But it’d be a major job. It might be better if you started afresh.’

‘That difficult?’ I said.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘I don’t like saying this, believe me. I’ve been as nervous as a kitten all day.’

‘But it’s good you did. I’m pleased you did. I know you’re right. I’ve known it deep down the entire time. In fact, it’s wonderful to have this feeling confirmed. It doesn’t matter.’

‘I’m happy you’re taking it like this,’ he said.

‘Not at all. Why shoot the messenger,’ I said.

‘It’s one thing to say that and another to mean it. Most people take it very personally. It’s perceived as an insult. Well, you know that, you were at the Academy for a year.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But we’re friends. If you can be so sincere I know there’s nothing behind it.’

We walked on in silence.

I really meant what I had said. He was courageous and I could trust him. But it didn’t prevent me from being upset. That had been my last hope and now it was over. I couldn’t write any better than that.

Back home, I threw the copy Espen had read into the waste-paper basket and wiped the document on the disk. Now there was just the assignment left to do. ‘The Concept of Intertextuality with Special Reference to James Joyce’s Ulysses ’, as it was now called.

Sandviken Hospital wasn’t far from the town centre, set back beneath the mountain. The buildings were massive, like a monument, as all the institutions from that time were. I jumped off the bus and walked up the hill. Above me the windows shone in the mist. After having wandered around for a few minutes between the blocks I eventually found the right one and went in.

The interview consisted largely of a woman entering my details into the system, checking which department was in the most urgent need of help, ringing them and giving them my name, putting the receiver down and looking at me, could you do a shift tomorrow? Afternoon?

‘Yes, I can manage that,’ I said.

‘If everything goes all right, and I’m sure it will, you’ll get more shifts. If you want them, that is.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said and stood up.

‘Not at all,’ she said and turned her attention to the pile of papers she had lying in front of her.

Next day, in the afternoon, I got off the bus at the same stop and walked with a palpitating heart up the stairs to the ward I had been allocated. A thin woman with red hair and a slightly childlike expression, thirty-five or so, said hello and shook my hand as I stepped into the duty room. Her name was Eva. Another woman, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, with a Mediterranean complexion and gentle curves, maybe thirty, stood up behind her. Fantastic breasts, as far as I could judge from the corner of my eye. A fresh personality, and presumably fresh in the other sense, for what was she not saying as she regarded me through the narrow glasses on the tip of her nose?