Dancing in the Dark

~ ~ ~

In the morning I woke to a discussion outside my half-open door. I recognised the voices of Espen, Trond and the girl from the night before. No, she said, it wasn’t me. Yes, it was. I saw you. You went into his bedroom. No, it wasn’t, she said. But we saw you. Yes, I went in with him, he was going to sleep, but I came out again at once, she said. Nothing happened. Ha ha ha! said Espen. You were shagging in there. No, we weren’t, she said. And where were you going just now? Were you going in? Why would you go in if you hadn’t shagged? You know him, don’t you? No. I was going to collect something I’d left there. What was that? My bag.

I hastily got up, put on a pair of trousers and a T-shirt, grabbed her bag and went out to them.

‘Here you are,’ I said, passing her the bag. ‘You forgot this.’

‘Thank you,’ she said without meeting my eyes, and went downstairs.

‘What a bloody mess the house is in,’ Espen said.

‘I can imagine,’ I said.

‘I’ll help you to tidy up.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll get Gisle and Trond to give a hand.’ He looked at me. ‘Did you shag Beate then?’

‘Was that her name?’ I said. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘She says you didn’t.’

‘I heard.’

‘Why?’

‘How should I know?’ I said.

Our eyes met.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Better go down and inspect the hell.’

There was nothing that could be done about the door, it would have to be changed. Nor about the slashes to the table. But all the rest? Couldn’t that be scrubbed clean? We tidied up and cleaned the house all morning. Espen, Gisle and Trond went home at one, I continued on my own with a steadily increasing sense of panic in my chest because no matter how much I tidied and cleaned, the place still looked as if a party had hit it.

Mum came at five. I went out to meet her so that it wouldn’t come as a shock. I didn’t want her to see it before I had told her.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How did it go?’

‘Not so well, I’m afraid,’ I said.

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘What happened?’

‘It got a bit out of control. Someone kicked in the bathroom door, among other things. And there are quite a few other bits and pieces. You’d better see for yourself. I’m extremely sorry.’

She looked at me.

‘I had a feeling it would be like this,’ she said. ‘We’d better go in and see.’

When the inspection was over, she sat down at the kitchen table, ran both hands over her face and looked up at me.

‘It’s dreadful,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘What shall we do about the door?’ she said. ‘We can’t afford a new one.’

‘Are we so hard up?’

‘I’m afraid so. Who kicked it in?’

‘Someone called Christian. An idiot.’

‘Surely he should replace it?’

‘I can tell him to.’

‘You do that.’

She got up with a sigh.

‘I suppose we’d better eat,’ she said. ‘I think there are some pollock fillets in the fridge. Shall we have those?’

‘OK.’

She went to the hall and hung up her coat, I found the two packs of fish, she started washing some potatoes while I sliced the frozen blocks into pieces.

‘We’ve had this conversation before,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘You have to make your own decisions. And if they’re poor ones you have to live with the consequences.’

‘Of course,’ I said, and sprinkled flour, salt and pepper onto a plate, turned the, by now soft, fish in the mixture, put the frying pan on the hob and watched the knob of butter slide across the black surface as the heat took hold, not unlike a house, it struck me, when the clay base it stands on starts slipping. Slow, erect, with a final dignity before it subsides.

‘A year’s wear and tear in one night,’ she said. ‘Or even more.’

‘The house was built in 1880,’ I said. ‘One year’s not so much.’

She ignored me.

‘You’re eighteen years old. I can’t tell you what to do any more. I can’t control you. All I can do is be here for you and hope you will turn to me if you need help.’

‘OK.’

‘I could have tried to stop you, but why should I? You’re an adult and you have to take responsibility for your actions. I trust you. You’re free to do what you want. But you have to trust me too. In other words, treat me like an adult. And what we share is this house. We share the responsibility for it.’

She squirted some soap onto one hand, rubbed both of them together under the running tap and dried them on the kitchen towel.

‘You’re washing your hands of me, I can see,’ I said.

She raised a smile, but it was mirthless.

‘This is serious, Karl Ove. I’m worried about you.’

‘You have no reason to be,’ I said. ‘What happened here, well. . it was a russ party, no more, no less.’

She didn’t answer, I put the fish fillets into the pan, diced an onion and added the little cubes, poured in a can of tomatoes, sprinkled in spices and sat down with the Saturday newspaper, flicked through to the page where my Prince article, which I had handed in several weeks ago, had finally appeared in print. I held it up for her.

‘Have you read it?’ I said.

On the Monday I went to Christian and told him the door was smashed beyond repair. Oh yes, he said. You kicked it in, I said. Yes, it was me, he said. So you should replace it, I think, I said. No, he said. What do you mean no? I said. I mean what I said, he replied. No. It was your party. But it was you who broke the door, I said. Yes, he said. So you won’t replace it? I said. No, he said. And then he turned and left.

When I got back home from school there was a letter with a foreign stamp in the post box. I opened it at once and read it walking up the hill. It was from the manager of the Grand Hotel in Lucerne. He wrote that, unfortunately, all the rooms were registered by surnames and therefore he couldn’t help me with Melanie’s address, but I could try the two travel bureaus involved, whose addresses he added afterwards: one in Philadelphia and one in Lugano.

I put the letter back in the envelope and went in. Bang went my plan to write letters for a year and then make a surprise visit, with the exciting possibility that it was there, in America, that my future lay.

For the rest of the spring I was drunk almost all of the time. The first thing I did when I woke up in the russ van or on a sofa at a friend’s or on a bench in the park was to get my hands on something to drink and continue where I had left off. And there was little that beat starting the day with a beer and walking around drunk in the morning. What a life. Going here, there and everywhere, having a drink, sleeping whenever an opportunity offered itself, eating something maybe and then just carrying on. It was fantastic. I loved being drunk. I came closer to the person I really was and dared to do what I really wanted to do. There were no limits. I only went home for a shower and a change of clothes, and once, when I was sitting in the living room with a six-pack of Carlsberg, which I drank while waiting for the russ van to come and collect me, mum suddenly flew into a rage. She had tolerated so much, but she drew the line here, at this, sitting alone and drinking in the living room, she would not put up with it. I could choose: either I stopped drinking or found myself somewhere else to live. It was a simple choice, I got up, grabbed the beers, said bye and went out, down the road, where I sat on the verge, lit a cigarette and opened a beer while waiting for the van. If she didn’t want me to live at home, well, I wouldn’t live at home.

‘What are you sitting there for?’ Espen said when the van pulled up in front of me.

‘I’ve been chucked out,’ I said. ‘Actually, it makes no odds.’

I got in, we drank what we had on the way to town, bought some more crates of beer at a supermarket, went on towards Vågsbygd, where we were meeting that night, a grass plain by the sea with an ancient deciduous forest sloping upwards, where we sat drinking, where I disappeared into myself and walked around without a thought in my head. It was fantastic, as always. The interpersonal shit I usually got bogged down in meant nothing, I was footloose and free, everything was as cold and clear as glass. I asked after Geir Helge, a lean sociable guy with glasses and a Mandal dialect. He smoked hash, everyone knew that, and now I wanted to do it too. I had been considering it for a long while. Smoking hash was a stigma, if you did you were on the outside, you were no longer a decent person, you were on the way to becoming a junkie. In any case that was how it was in Kristiansand. And the idea of it being the beginning of a road that would lead me to a life as a junkie was incredibly appealing and filled life with destiny and meaning. Being a junkie, just living for drugs, renouncing everything else, for me that was the worst of the worst. Junkies had abandoned their humanity, they were a kind of devil, it was terrible, terrible, the worst, hell. I laughed at those who associated hash with heroin, it was propaganda, nothing else, smoking hash was a bid for freedom for me, but although hash was completely harmless it was in the same category as harmful drugs, in a way smoking it made me a drug addict, and what an immense and exhilarating thought that was.

I wanted to steal, drink, smoke hash and experiment with other drugs — cocaine, amphetamines, mescaline — to freak out and live the great rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, to feel to the last drop of my blood that I couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything. Oh, what appeal there was in that! But then there was all the rest of me inside that wanted to be a clever student, a decent son, a good person. If only I could blow that to smithereens!

This was an attempt to do that. The thought of smoking hash, the thought that I could actually do it, that I could actually become a junkie, if I ever dared, it was only a question of doing it, making the move, this simply made my insides explode with happiness and excitement as I walked up the slope under the leafy trees to where Geir Helge hung out. I asked if he had anything to smoke, I said I had never done it before, he would have to show me, which he was more than happy to do. After we had finished I walked slowly down the slope and into the crowd. At first I didn’t notice anything in particular, perhaps I was too drunk, Geir Helge had said something about this, that it didn’t always work the first time and it didn’t always work if you were too drunk. But when I got into the back of the russ van, which was empty, something happened. I moved my shoulder and it was as though the joint had been lubricated with oil, indeed as though the whole of me was full of oil. A tiny, tiny movement anywhere was enough to fill my body with sensual pleasure. So I sat there wagging a finger, lifting one shoulder, shaking a hip, and wave after wave of pure sensuality washed through my body.

Espen stuck his head in.

‘What are you up to? Are you ill?’

I opened my eyes and straightened up. The movement was so vigorous that a jolt of pleasure rippled through me.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’m having an absolutely fantastic time. But I want to be alone. I’ll be out afterwards.’

I wasn’t, I fell asleep, and in the following days I smoked as much hash as I could, as well as drinking. The last nights before Constitution Day, 17 May, I was so stoned and drunk that I didn’t know where I had been, and when I woke up that morning I was in a russ van, we were parked in some square, and outside the windows the streets were lined deep with people. Vaguely I remembered we had been to Tresse and that at some point we had been sitting under a tarpaulin in a double-ender moored to the pontoons, together with some uncommunicative and inert man, and that Espen had later run over and dragged Sjur and me away, the man was dead, he said, but when we stood by the boat it was empty. Espen desperately ran up and down, and then I remembered nothing else. How many minutes of the long night were left? Ten maybe?

Once we came across a tramp, he was sitting on a bench in the park, we stood around him chatting. He said he had sailed with Leif Larsen during the war, running refugees and agents between the Shetlands and Norway. From then on I called him the Shetland Shit. Laughed and repeated it as often as I could. Hi, Shetland Shit! After a while I went behind him to have a piss, and then I pissed on him, up and down his back. Then we drifted on through the night, settling here, settling there, there was always someone with a beer or a bottle of spirits. I laughed, danced, drank and smooched with whoever was there. I could go over to a girl in the class and tell her she had always been on my mind, I had always stolen furtive glances at her, it was a lie, but it did the trick, everything had opened up. Everything was open.

When I woke up in the russ van on 17 May and saw I was surrounded by festively dressed people on all sides I was frightened. But not even that mattered, I just had to drink a couple more beers and the fear was gone, and we would go out and sell more russ newspapers so that we had the money for more beer, and when it was midnight I was as free as could be after several days’ drinking, running through the streets and shouting, chatting to strangers, joking with some, harassing others, happy but also extremely tired, and it was in this state, racing back and forth through the procession, streets on both sides packed with people, all wearing their best clothes, suits and national costumes and Norwegian flags everywhere, that I suddenly heard someone shout my name.

It was grandma and grandad.

I pulled up in front of them with a grin on my face. Gunnar’s son was there too, and it wouldn’t have surprised me if I was the first drunk he had ever seen. They stared at me through icy eyes, but it didn’t matter, I laughed and carried on, there were two days left to the exams and I didn’t want them to end. The final party was held at the Fun Senter, and the atmosphere was on the wane, however much I tried to resist it, and I and two others caught a taxi to Bassen’s late at night. He wasn’t at home, the house was empty, and we leaned a ladder against the first floor where there was a window ajar. Once inside we sat on the living-room carpet and smoked hash from perforated Coke cans. When Bassen turned up the following morning, he was furious, naturally enough, but not so much so that we couldn’t catch a couple of hours of shut-eye, but we all knew that the fun was definitively over. I was still drunk when I woke up, but this time there was no hair of the dog, and I was already beginning to sink deeper and deeper into myself on the bus home, it was terrible, everything was terrible. Mum said nothing about having thrown me out, we barely spoke, I lay in the bath with a layer of scum on the surface of the water. I was tired and went to bed early, we had the Norwegian exam the following day, but I couldn’t sleep. My hands were trembling, but that wasn’t all that trembled, the flex on the lamp writhed back and forth like a snake whenever I looked at it. The floor sloped, the walls leaned, I sweated and tossed and turned with my head full of extraneous images. It was dreadful, a night of hell, but then morning came and I got up, dressed and caught the bus to school. I was unable to concentrate, every twenty minutes I signalled to the invigilator, who accompanied me to the toilet, where I washed my face.

Of all the things I had done and that would come back to haunt me during these days the encounter with my grandparents was the worst. But surely they couldn’t know that I had drunk so much, could they? Surely they couldn’t know that I had not only been drinking but also smoking hash, could they? No, they couldn’t. And in my diary for the beginning of June that year I wrote that the months I had been a russ, celebrating the end of school, were the happiest in my life. I used those words: the happiest in my life.

Why did I write that?

Oh, I was so happy. I laughed and was free and friends with everyone.

At the end of June I left home, mum drove me to a flat at the hospital, I worked there for a month, was together with Line, drank wine in the evenings and at the weekends, smoked hash whenever I could get my hands on it. Espen rejected it point blank, it was filth, he said, and he continued to insist the story about the man he had found dead on the night before 17 May was true. One afternoon he rang up to say there had been an article in the newspaper about a man discovered floating in the harbour. ‘That’s him!’ Espen said. I didn’t know if he really meant it or was just trying to get as much mileage from the joke as he could. He said he had a vague memory, as if in a dream, of him dumping the body overboard. Why would you have done that? I said. I was drunk, he answered. No one else but you saw any dead man. It’s just a fantasy. No, he said, it’s true. What about the man sitting with us in the boat? Don’t you remember him? Yes, I do. You saw him then? Yes. He was dead. Now, come on, Espen, if he’d been dead why would you have heaved him over the side and then run to get us? I don’t know.

The month had been packed with such incidents, I wasn’t sure whether they had happened or not, and this combined with the feeling I had that everything was possible, that there were no limits and the enormous tracts of time of which I remembered nothing caused me to begin to lose sight of myself. It was as though I had disappeared. In part I liked this, in part I didn’t. The routines at the hospital, where I was mostly responsible for setting and clearing the tables at mealtimes and otherwise helping with anything of a practical nature, neutralised this feeling but didn’t erase it because in the evening I always went out, drank with the people I met, it was summer and there was always someone around I knew. One evening we were refused admission to Kjelleren, so Bjørn and I climbed up on the roof of the block behind, ran all the way across the rooftops, found a skylight, crawled in, went down to Kjelleren, which was absolutely empty, it must have taken us an hour. We went up a few floors, entered a flat, someone woke up and shouted at us, we said we had gone in the wrong door, walked amid gales of laughter to Tresse, a square in the centre of town where Bjørn’s dad had a flat and we could sleep. In the morning I rang the hospital and said I was ill, they probably didn’t believe me, but what could they do?

That night I drank with a radio technician, Paul, who had driven us to an Imperium concert in Oslo, and on the way home, in the middle of the night in Telemark, at twenty degrees below, the car skidded, left the road doing a hundred kilometres an hour, brushed against a lamp post, flew through the air and landed in a ditch. We’re going to die, I thought, and the idea of it didn’t bother me in the slightest. We didn’t die, the car was a write-off but we were in good shape. It was a great story, one we could tell others, also the sequel, the old house where we knocked on the door, the rifle standing in the hallway, the feeling of being in another, nastier world than our own, and the incredible cold outside as we hitched for more than two hours wearing trainers and suit jackets. We sat talking about that at Kjelleren, Paul and I and his girlfriend, she was wonderful, perhaps twenty-three, twenty-four, I had secretly had my eye on her for ages, and when she suggested taking a taxi back to hers to smoke some dope, of course I said yes, we smoked, and when I smoked I sometimes became so unbelievably horny, and sitting next to her on the sofa it hit me at once, I grabbed her, she laughed and wriggled away, saying she loved Paul, and then she put her hand between my legs and laughed even more and said you’ve grown up. Downstairs in Kjelleren she had been quiet most of the time, Paul had smiled at us, he trusted her, which he was right to do.

At work the next day they said nothing, but I noticed of course, I wasn’t someone they were interested in keeping however much effort I made to mollify them. I was employed for only a month, and when the time was up, I went back to our house, which was no longer ours, mum had sold it, for the next two days we packed everything into boxes, and then a big removal van came and took the lot.

Except for one thing, and that was the cat.

What should we do with the cat?

Mefisto?

Mum couldn’t have the cat where she was going to live, and I definitely couldn’t take him to Northern Norway.

We would have to have him put down.

He wound around our legs, mum put a tin of liver paste in his carrier, he ran in, mum closed the door, put the carrier on the passenger seat and drove to the vet in town.

That afternoon I lay on the rocks beneath the waterfall and swam. On my return, mum’s car was in the garage. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. She got up when I entered, walked past me without saying a word, her eyes downcast.

‘Is Mefisto dead now then?’ I asked.

Mum didn’t answer, just shot me a glance, then opened the door and went out. Her eyes were brimming.

That was the first time I had seen mum cry.

Eight days later, in a foetal position on the sofa in Håfjord, I lay asleep after emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet, so wonderful. My sleep was light, the revving of a car engine somewhere was all it required for me to open my eyes. But I didn’t have anything to do, I had no duties, I could lie in bed and sleep all Saturday and Sunday. Monday was an eternity away, I mused as I lay there feeling sleep steal over me again.

There was a ring at the door.

I went to answer it, surprised at how light my body felt.

It was Sture.

‘It’s football training,’ he said. ‘In fifteen minutes. Had you forgotten? Or are you too muzzy after yesterday?’

‘I’m a bit fuzzy,’ I said with a smile. ‘But not muzzy.’

I ran my hand through my hair.

‘I haven’t brought any boots with me. I was thinking of buying some but I forgot. So I suppose that’s me out.’

Sture brought his arm forward from behind his back. Two pairs of boots hung from his hand.

’Forty-five?’ he said. ‘Or forty-six?’

’Forty-five,’ I said, taking them.

‘See you up there then?’

‘OK, see you there.’

I hadn’t played football for a couple of months, and it felt strange to run around on a pitch again, not least on this pitch, for there was something about the location, squeezed in under the gleaming green mountain slopes, the sea straight ahead, which went against everything I associated with football. It didn’t improve matters that the team I was playing in were all fishermen, the whole bunch of them. A couple of them were good, particularly one called Arnfinn, who resembled one of the English midfield players we used to see on Saturday afternoon TV in the 1970s, balding and red-haired, relatively short, stocky with a paunch, not the quickest in the world, but he made things happen around him as soon as he had the ball, whether he was flicking it on, hitting a cross or threading a forward through, without even raising his head, as though he didn’t have to see, he could sense everything. He tackled me a few times, it was like running into a tree. He was good. Their striker was good, a tall thin guy who was surprisingly fast, and their goalie, Hugo, was also decent. The rest were like me, perhaps a bit worse, with the exception of Nils Erik, who could hardly have played before and warmed up by doing the kind of knee-bends that had probably last been witnessed in the 1950s.

After the game we went to the changing rooms by the swimming pool, showered and sat in the sauna. Everyone apart from Nils Erik and me was as white as snow. Many had freckles on their shoulders and backs, many were very hairy and when they walked around, strutting naked and teasing one another, I had the impression they almost belonged to a different race. I still had a tan after the summer, with a white patch where my trunks had been, I didn’t have a single hair on my arms or chest or shoulders, just some barely visible down, and my back was as straight as a pillar, not broad and bulging like theirs. Not to mention my biceps, which were as thin as twigs while their arms were the width of tree trunks. And as for my chest, it was as flat as could be, like a board, and looked nothing like the kegs they walked around with. Not that their bodies were magnificent specimens, they weren’t, many had spare tyres and flab, no one had a chest arched into two well-defined halves from muscle training, no one had six-pack abs, that was another world for them. What they respected, I could see, was strength. So it made no difference to them if a belly hung over a belt or the odd double chin rolled over a collar.

We sat on the three benches in the sauna, someone had opened some beer; Hugo, the goalie, passed me one and asked if I wanted it.

‘Actually I have to work this evening,’ I said, ‘but one can’t hurt.’

‘Good,’ he said and gave it to me.

Froth streamed out of the bottle. The glass was green and cold.

‘It was fun last night!’ he said.

‘Yes, it was,’ I said.

‘That was Irene you were all over, wasn’t it?’

I smiled and paused.

‘We saw you! Bloody hell, one week in Northern Norway and Karl Ove’s got himself a girlfriend!’

‘Coming up here and taking our women! You stay down south, you southern bastard!’ someone else said.

They laughed. I laughed too.

‘But old Pinocchio here just wanted to dance,’ Hugo said, looking at Nils Erik.

Pinocchio! That was who he looked like!

‘Yes,’ Nils Erik said. ‘I really like dancing. I used to dance a lot at Horten’s Dancing Academy!’

They looked at him and smiled uncertainly. I had to laugh. At that moment Sture came in, he flicked his towel at one of the players to budge up for him. He was slim and not as well built as the others, but slight he was not, there were muscles on him too. In addition, he had a beard and was bald and confident. I had been a bit nervous that, as a teacher, he wouldn’t be able to cope with them, but within seconds I saw that this was not the case.

He turned and looked up at me.

‘We’ve got a match on Tuesday evening. You’re in, aren’t you?’

I nodded.

‘You’ll be the centre back.’

‘Centre back?’ I echoed.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what I said.’

He winked and turned away. I finished the beer and belched, got up and went into the shower. Nils Erik followed and stood beside me.

He had a big dick, it hung down and smacked against his thighs.

Why would someone with such red cheeks who liked to go on long walks in the forest have such a big cock? I wondered. What would he do with it?

‘Have you ever done outdoor gymnastic drills or what?’ I said.

‘Drills? No.’

‘Looked like it with your warm-up exercises,’ I said.

He laughed and did a few knee-bends in the shower.

‘Was that what you meant?’ he said.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Don’t teach my class that in the gym lessons, just so that you know. It would totally destroy their self-confidence.’

Two or three more came in and turned on the showers. In seconds the air was full of steam again.

‘Are you coming up to mine afterwards?’ Hugo said. ‘There’s a gang of us having a drink.’

‘Would love to,’ I said. ‘But I can’t.’

‘Nor me,’ Nils Erik said. ‘Two nights in a row is too much.’

‘What wimps!’ Hugo said.

That stung, I didn’t want to be a wimp and I could drink him under the table any day of the week, but I couldn’t go, I had to write.

I said bye to Nils Erik at the crossroads and walked down to my flat. Slung the bag down on the floor in the hall, stopped by the mirror and ran my fingers through my hair to make it stand up, sniffed the air a couple of times: what was that smell? Perfume? Had someone been here?

There was a folded piece of paper on the sitting-room table I was sure I hadn’t left there.

I opened it. It was from Irene.

Hi Karl Ove,

Well, Hilde and I’ve been here on a big surprise visit. While you were at football training we sat here making ourselves comfy. We’ve had a look at all your records. Crikey, what a collection, eh! We can see you’ve got a few more now than when we were here last. Good for you.

You seem like an all-right guy and I hope to get to know you better. I’ve missed you. I’ve just been waiting to see you again. But it’ll have to be another time because we’ve gotta go now.

Hug and kisses from Irene

Had they just come in and sat down?

Yes, they must have done.

And then left again?

I opened the door and stepped out to look for them, in case we had just crossed paths.

No, nothing.

Just the sound of the sea, the vast grey sky, a couple of tiny figures walking along the road at the bottom of the hill.

I went back in and boiled a whole packet of spaghetti, fried all the old potatoes I had in the fridge, and soon I was in the sitting room with a steaming mountain of spaghetti and browned potatoes on a plate in front of me, I applied ketchup liberally and wolfed it down. Wonderful. Then I made some coffee, put Led Zeppelin’s first LP on the record player, turned the volume up almost full and walked up and down clenching my fists and nodding my head. Now I’ll bloody show them. And then, pumped up with adrenaline and anger, I sat down and started to bang away on the typewriter.

The short story I wrote was based on a dream I’d had that summer. I had been doing exercises in some kind of net which stretched endlessly into the darkness on all sides, it was slippery but thick and strong, like an enormous sinew. This net turned out to be in my own brain. In other words I had swapped the relationship round: my thoughts didn’t exist in me, I existed in my thoughts. The dream had been a sensation, but when I wrote it down it dissipated into nothing, so I scrunched up the paper and threw it away, turned the record over and started afresh. This too was based on a dream, and in this too what I was standing on stretched into the darkness on all sides, however unlike in the first dream this darkness was broken by bonfires. Bonfire after bonfire burned around me as I walked. To my right there was a mountain, ahead of me the sea, that was all, nothing happened, there were just these elements, and I wrote it all down.

Oh shit, this was no good either!

All the fires in the darkness, the tall mountain and the immense plain, it had been so fantastic!

On paper it was nothing.

I moved to the sofa and started writing my diary instead. ‘Have to work on transferring the moods from inside to outside,’ I wrote. ‘But how? Easier to describe people’s actions, but that’s not enough, I don’t think. On the other hand, Hemingway did it.’ I raised my head and looked out at the mountains above the fjord. ‘But I’m happy here anyway. Who would have thought it? And I’ve met someone. Very pretty. Think I’m in with a chance. Rock ’n’ roll!’

Early that evening the upstairs front door opened. The footsteps that followed across the floor were heavier and more solid than Torill’s, and I remembered she had said her husband was coming home today. Life in the rooms above me now was completely different. They were laughing, music was blaring, and when I went to bed they were shagging above my head.

Oh, it went on for ages.

She screamed, he groaned, something was thumping to a regular, rhythmic beat, perhaps the bed knocking against the wall.

I thrust the pillow over my head and tried to think about something else.

But it didn’t work, how could it, I knew who she was and what she looked like.

All went quiet. I dozed off.

Then bugger me if they didn’t start up again.

I went to the sofa and lay down there. It was as though a shadow had fallen over me. The anticipation I had felt when I had thought that something might happen with Irene collapsed like an old mineshaft and tumbled in on me.

I could not do it.

I was eighteen years old, I was a teacher, I had my own place and an enormous record collection for my age with almost exclusively good music. I was good-looking, I could occasionally pass for someone in a band with my coat, black jeans, white basketball trainers and black beret. But what good was that if I couldn’t do the only thing I really wanted to do?

At last they finished, for the second time, and like a child I fell asleep on the sofa, lost to the world.

I wrote all next day, started work listening with clenched fists to Led Zeppelin, then sat tapping away for four hours without a break. I returned to the style of the first short story, and this time I had the two boys smashing a shed window on the estate where they lived and stealing the porn mags. The writing went well, except that I couldn’t find an ending. One boy couldn’t go home to his enraged father, something else had to happen, but what?

In the evening I walked up to the school. I still suffered pangs of conscience at being there alone, it felt as if I was snooping, but I wasn’t, I thought, and dropped the big bunch of keys on the staffroom table with a clatter, opened the door to the small telephone cubicle and dialled mum’s number.

She answered at once.

‘How’s it going?’ I said.

‘Quite well,’ she said. ‘In fact I’d been thinking of writing to you this evening.’

‘Did you get the short story?’

‘Yes. Thanks for that.’

‘What do you reckon then?’

‘I think it’s very good. I was surprised. Goodness me, I thought, this is literature!’

‘Is that true?’

‘Yes. You tell a story, there are two wonderful characters and the writing is so alive. It’s as though I’m there when I’m reading it.’

‘Was there anything you particularly liked?’

‘Erm, no, not really, no. I think everything’s very good.’

‘The ending?’

‘You mean the bit with the father?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s what the story is about, isn’t it?’

‘It is, yes. As well.’

There was a silence.

‘What about Kjartan? Have you heard anything from him? Actually, I sent it to him too.’

‘No, I usually ring him on Sundays. I’ll talk to him afterwards.’

‘Say hello from me.’

‘I’ll do that. How are you?’

‘Fine. Yesterday I went to football training. Tomorrow I’m back in harness.’

‘Is it hard work?’

I blew out my cheeks.

‘No, in fact it’s quite easy. I honestly don’t understand why teachers have to go to college for three years. It might be different with big classes though. There are only five or six pupils in each class here.’

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘About what?’

‘That it’s so easy,’ she said.

I smiled. ‘Typical of you to be sceptical,’ I said. ‘But, no, of course there are problems too.’

‘Have you got to know anyone?’

‘Yes, some of the teachers. Especially one, Nils Erik. People up here are unbelievably open. They drop by and ring your doorbell all the time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, all sorts of people. Even my pupils!’

‘Sounds as if you’re having a good time.’

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

We chatted for another half an hour, then I rang off and sat on the sofa to watch Sportsrevyen on TV. IK Start had lost again, things were beginning to look grim for them. If they didn’t get their act together they would be relegated.

Two days later Richard came into my lesson and beckoned to me.

‘There’s a call for you,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your class in the meantime.’

A call?

I hurried into the staffroom and grabbed the receiver, which was lying next to the phone.

‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Hi, this is Irene.’

‘Hi!’

‘Are you working?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you get my note?’

‘Yes. Bit of a surprise, I can tell you!’

‘That was the idea! Listen, Karl Ove, would you like to see me? There’s someone going to Håfjord on Friday and I can get a lift.’

‘Yes, that would be great.’

‘I’ll be over then. Bye.’

‘OK, bye,’ I said and rang off.

Richard hadn’t only kept an eye on the class, I could see, he was drawing something on the board and explaining it. He smiled at me, but there was a cold expression in his eyes, wasn’t there?

In the break he took me aside.

‘Just a moment, Karl Ove. No personal calls when we’re teaching.’

‘It wasn’t my fault she rang,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t you have taken a message? Then I could have called her back in the break.’

He eyed me. ‘She said it was important. Was it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He winked and went into his office.

Bloody hell.

When I opened my box at the post office after school there were three letters in it. One from a debt collection agency threatening legal action if I didn’t pay. That was the dinner suit I had rented on New Year’s Eve, it had been damaged, and as I didn’t have the money to replace it, I had binned it hoping that, in time, they would forget the whole business. I still didn’t have the money, so the case would have to run its course. What could they do if I didn’t pay? Put me in prison? I didn’t have any money!

The other letters were from Hilde and mum. I didn’t open them until I got home, letters were a party, everything had to be perfect when I read them.

Steaming coffee in a cup, music on the stereo, a roll-up in my hand and one ready on the table.

I started with the one from mum.

Dear Karl Ove,

You’re probably waiting for more feedback, so here’s Kjartan’s: he was enthusiastic about your epos — ‘it’s literature and he has talent’ was one of the comments I remember. He considers you his peer and sends you (via me) his latest piece of work, he’s having a crack at prose now. And he urged you to push ahead with your writing but thought you probably lacked someone to discuss matters with and wondered if there were any writing courses/seminars in the area you could attend. Which is what he does. He also suggested getting in touch with a reader (publishing house). (I’m less certain about that — think it’s too early in your personal development — but I’m passing on his thoughts.)

It sounds to me as if you’ve made the transition from ‘the warm nest of home’ to the ‘great wide world’ without any problems as you can see the positive sides of life. The transition isn’t always painless. But then again maybe home wasn’t that warm a nest either. Maybe you are less exposed where you are now; your music must help.

Other news from my end? My mind is mainly on the psychiatric nursing school. Recently, though, I have been out and about and I found an old house, an abandoned school with large attractive worthy rooms complete with acquired wisdom and knowledge. I could imagine teaching my psychiatric nurses there!

In Sørbøvåg the patients are as fragile as ever — helpless, destitute, with an indomitable will to live, an inextinguishable determination to cope, to manage at all costs. It’s good to be there in the sense that it’s good to have people close to me. But the conditions there eat away at your own will and zest for life. I don’t know how they keep going. Their lives are full of difficulty just managing their daily existences — like getting up, putting their clothes on, cooking, etc. — and yet they have this energy and determination.

Grandad thinks he’s going to live to be a hundred. That makes him happy! Grandma, even with her physical and mental problems, follows what’s going on, or perhaps more what went on, she mixes up the past and the present. The distinction is not always that clear for grandad either. It’s depressing to witness their frailties, but without them life would be very empty. Talking to Auntie Borghild is often a solace and a comfort though, she is clever and wise, has experienced a lot in life and is secure — on top of that, she’s a good talker. I’ve been thinking about going to see her one evening this week for a chat.

I can see writing is an earnest business for you. It must be good to have found something you want to invest time and effort in. The possibilities are endless if you have the courage. That’s what I believe.

As for the jumper, I’ve bought a pattern that can be adapted to suit you. But at the moment I have no desire to either knit or crochet. I might buy one here or send you the money. Have to see. Good luck with everything!

Love, mum.

Could it be true that Kjartan had said I had talent? And that I should send my short story to a publisher?

She would never have written it if it wasn’t.

But what did she mean by my personal development? Either the texts were good or they weren’t?

I opened the letter from Hilde. As expected, I was showered with superlatives. She was looking forward to reading more, she wrote in that open-hearted passionate way only she had.

I put it aside and sat down in front of the typewriter. As soon as I had plugged it in I knew what should happen in the bonfire stories.

They were burning dead bodies! All the fires across the whole of the unending plain were funeral pyres! At first he didn’t understand, but then he went closer and that was when he saw. They were pushing a kind of flat wooden spade under each body and lifting it into the flames.

I finished the story in an hour, tore the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and hurried up to the school to copy it.

Three days later Irene stood at my door.

I invited her in.

The mood was tense, she tried to handle it as well as she could, we drank tea and chatted, nothing happened.

When she was about to go, she put her arms around me and as she looked up at me I bent down and kissed her.

She was warm and soft and full of life.

‘When will we see each other again?’ she said.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘When would suit you?’

‘Tomorrow?’ she said. ‘Are you at home then? I can get someone to drive me here.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Come tomorrow.’

I stood in the doorway and watched her walk towards the car. My member ached with desire. She turned and waved, then she got into the car and I closed the door, went in and sat on the sofa. I was full of feelings for her, but they were not unambivalent, I liked her and wanted her, but did I like her enough? She had been wearing blue jeans and a blue denim jacket, surely everyone knew that didn’t go? At least girls knew? And her note, all the dialect, I hadn’t really liked that.

We should get drunk together, then all the ambivalence would be gone. And if I was drunk enough would I be able to see her naked without. . well, without that happening?

I was asleep when she rang the next evening. I dashed into the hall and opened the door. She had her thumbs in her pockets and was smiling at me. Behind her a car was waiting with the engine idling.

‘Fancy a trip to Finnsnes?’ she said.

‘Definitely,’ I said.

The same friend who had been with her the first time, and whose name I had forgotten, was sitting next to the driver, a young man of my age, perhaps her boyfriend, perhaps not. I got in beside Irene, and then we were off. Like everyone here, he drove fast. The music was loud, Creedence Clearwater Revival, obviously a local favourite, and by the bottom of the hill I had a bottle of beer pressed into my hand. All the way there I wanted her, she was so close to me, especially when she laid her arms on the seat in front and leaned forward to chat with the others. They asked me some questions, I answered and asked them some questions, and Irene filled the subsequent silence by chatting with the two at the front. Occasionally she turned to me and explained the background to what they were talking about, her face constantly alternating between a smile and a great tremulous earnestness the times our eyes met.

After around an hour the driver parked in front of the discotheque in Finnsnes, we went in, found a table and ordered some wine, which we shared. We danced, she pressed against me, I wanted her so much I didn’t know where to start. Bloody small talk, what good was that? I knocked back the wine to fill the abyss in me, my pulse accelerated, soon we were dancing all the time. On the way home, at a hundred and twenty over the long flats, we sat in the back smooching. When ‘Stand by Your Man’ came on, I leaned back and laughed, I would write about this in my letters, that’s how redneck this place was, this was what my life was like now. She asked me what had made me laugh, nothing, I said, I’m just happy.

At the turn-off to Håfjord the car stopped.

‘You’ll have to walk from here,’ the driver said. ‘We’re going on to Hellevika.’

‘Isn’t that a hell of a distance?’ I said.

‘No, it’ll take you an hour max,’ he said. ‘If you walk quickly you’ll make it in three-quarters of an hour.’

I kissed Irene one last time, opened the door and stepped out.

In the car they were laughing, I turned, she stuck her head out of the window.

‘We were just kidding. Jump in. Of course we’ll drive you all the way home.’

Through the tunnel, along the fjord. The sea and the mountains lay quite still, wrapped in the grey, equally still, night air.

‘Would you like to sleep here?’ I whispered to Irene as we approached.

‘Love to,’ she whispered back. ‘But I can’t. I have to go home. But I can next weekend. Are you here then?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Then I’ll come,’ she said.

On Mondays I had got into the habit of walking up to the school an hour before lessons started, I ran my eye over what had to be done that day, and when the bell rang I was more often than not sitting at my desk waiting for the pupils to come in. I would talk to them about what they had done since I last saw them.

On this Monday something was brewing, I could sense it as soon as they entered the room. They sat down on their seats in their usual clumsy way. Andrea looked at Vivian, who put her hand up.

‘Is it true you’re going out with Irene from Hellevika?’ she said.

The other girls giggled. Kai Roald rolled his eyes, but he was grinning too.

‘What I do when I’m not at school is none of your business,’ I said.

‘But you normally ask us what we did at the weekend,’ Andrea said.

‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘And you may ask me what I did. I’ll tell you.’

‘What did you do?’ Kai Roald said.

‘On Saturday I was at home all day. In the evening I was in Finnsnes. On Sunday I was at home.’

‘Ooh!’ said Vivian. ‘And who were you with in Finnsnes then?’

‘That’s got nothing to do with you,’ I said. ‘Shall we make a start?’

‘No!’

I raised my arms in mock frustration.

‘Have you got any more to tell me then?’

‘Are you going out with Irene?’ Andrea said.

I smiled, didn’t answer, put the box I had brought in on the desk and handed out the books. We had Norwegian now, the novel they were going to read was Poison by Alexander Kielland, one of the few class sets we had. I had started on it the previous Monday, their reading was so bad, I had told the mentor about this in the session I had with her, she advised me to read a book with the class, and that was what we were doing.

‘Oh no,’ they said when they saw the green 1970s cover. ‘Not that one! We don’t understand a word!’

‘It’s in Norwegian,’ I said. ‘Don’t you understand Norwegian?’

‘But it’s so old-fashioned! We really don’t understand it.’

‘Kai Roald, you set the ball rolling.’

Oh, how painful it was to listen to. First of all, he was a bad reader anyway, but Kielland’s style and the dated language destroyed any flow there was and reduced everything to single syllables, hesitation, coughing and stammering. None of them had any idea about the plot. I regretted having chosen this book, but it wouldn’t look good if I just gave up, so I continued to torment them right the way through the lesson, and would do the same the following Monday.

I was on playground duty in the break, so I went to the vestibule in the staffroom to fetch my coat while the pupils ran into the yard behind me.

‘Your father phoned, Karl Ove,’ Hege said, coming towards me with a note in her hand. ‘He said to ring him back. Here’s the number.’

She passed me the note, I hesitated for a moment. The pupils shouldn’t be outside unsupervised. On the other hand, dad was a teacher himself, and if he rang during working hours it was bound to be important.

Oh, of course. The baby must have been born.

I went in and dialled the number.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Hi, Dad, this is Karl Ove. I was told you’d rung.’

‘Yes, you’re a big brother now,’ he said.

‘Oh great!’ I said. ‘Boy or girl?’

‘A little girl,’ he said.

Was he drunk or just very happy?

‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Yes, it’s wonderful. We’ve just come home. I’d better look after them now.’

‘Everything OK with Unni?’

‘Oh yes. Talk later. Bye.’

‘Bye. And congratulations once again!’

I put down the phone and went out, smiled at Hege, who sent me a look, buttoned up my coat and hurried through the vestibule into the playground. I had hardly emerged before Reidar slunk up to me. He could be unbearably clingy and exploited every situation to make sure he was the centre of attention. In the classroom he would answer everything, comment on everything, always know better, always want to be the best. With me and the other teachers he was always ingratiating. He was a particularly detestable boy. He reminded me of myself when I was younger. I took every opportunity to try to eradicate this behaviour as it would make his life difficult later, but there was scant reward for my efforts, after every harsh word there he was, back like a bouncing ball.

When I found out that he was the brother of Andrea in my class I felt slightly better disposed towards him, she was my favourite student, and their being siblings touched me in a way, although I didn’t really understand why it should.

‘Karl Ove, Karl Ove,’ he said, tugging at my coat.

‘Yes, what is it?’ I said. ‘And don’t pull at my coat!’

‘Can I go back into the classroom?’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I forgot my flubber. I just want to get it. Please, please, please!’

‘No,’ I said, walking towards the football pitch.

He followed me.

‘If Torill had been on playground duty she would have let me,’ he said.

‘Do I look like Torill?’ I said.

He laughed. ‘No!’

‘Run along now,’ I said. ‘Scram!’

He ran off, slowed to a walk and stopped by five other children in his class, who were skipping just beyond the school wall.

A gust of wind blew across the pitch, whirled up sand and dust from the road, I blinked a few times to clear my eyes.

It was strange to think that dad had become a father again.

I turned and looked towards the school building. Two ninth-year girls came out of the door and set off down the hill. Both wearing tight blue jeans, white trainers and big jackets. One with dark hair pinned up at the back, the other with light brown permed hair and big curls that kept falling in front of her eyes and making her toss her head. She had such an elegant neck, long and white and slender. And such a fantastic bum.

No, I couldn’t walk around with such thoughts in my mind, I would end up going crazy or in prison.

I smiled, turned back and looked towards the usual gang playing football, across at the kids skipping, who seemed to be fine.

Oh no, Fatty was making a beeline for me.

‘Hi!’ he said, fixing me with his sad and happy eyes.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Have you been skipping?’

‘Yes, but I was out straight away.’

‘Life’s like that,’ I said.

‘Can I come to your flat today?’ he said.

‘My flat? Why?’

‘A little visit would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ he said.

I smiled. ‘Yes, that’s true. But today isn’t so good. I have to work, you see. But bring a friend along and drop by another day.’

‘OK,’ he said.

I took the watch from my pocket and checked the time.

‘Two minutes to the bell,’ I said. ‘If we walk slowly we’ll be at the door by the time it rings.’

He held my hand and we walked to the entrance together.

Andrea and Hildegunn were standing with their hands in their back pockets under Richard’s window and watched us as we approached.

‘Poison’s so boring,’ Andrea said. ‘Can we do something else?’

‘It’s a Norwegian literary classic,’ I said.

‘We don’t give a shit what it is,’ Hildegunn said.

I raised an admonitory finger to them.

They laughed and the bell rang.

On Saturday I played my first home game. Our strip was green with thin white stripes, white shorts and green socks. I played centre back while Nils Erik, wearing tights under his shorts, shuffled up and down the touchline.

There were quite a lot of people watching, most of them on the touchlines, a few on the slope facing. Vivian and Andrea were there, I waved to them before the match started, and when someone shouted, ‘Come on, Karl Ove,’ a few minutes later I looked across and smiled. It was Vivian, while Andrea was yanking at her jacket to make her stop.

We won 1–0, the mood in the dressing room afterwards was buoyant, everyone was going out for a drink, the majority to Finnsnes, as far as I could glean, and there was no shortage of invitations, but I couldn’t go, Irene was coming.

On the way down to my place I popped into the staffroom and rang Yngve.

‘How’s it going?’ I said.

‘It’s going fine,’ he said.

‘Where’s the letter you promised?’

‘Oh that,’ he said. ‘I’ve had so much to think about recently.’

‘Like what for example?’

‘Like finishing with Kristin.’

‘Is it over?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

There was a silence.

‘Karl Ove, I’m actually on my way out,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the film club tonight. We can talk later, can’t we?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

We rang off, I donned my jacket, locked the door and left. The sky was grey and a strong wind was blowing off the sea. The tips of the waves in the middle of the fjord were white. I put a ready-made lasagne in the microwave when I returned home, ate it straight from the white plastic packaging and drank a beer with it. I had just opened a second when a car pulled up outside.

That’s probably for me, I thought and got a hard-on. When the bell rang a second later, I stuffed one hand in my pocket to hide it and opened the door.

‘Hi,’ said Irene.

The car hooted its horn and set off down the hill.

‘Hi,’ I said.

She took a step forward and hugged me. I took my hand out of my pocket to reciprocate the hug and held back my groin so that she wouldn’t notice.

‘Nice to see you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been looking forward so much to coming here. I’ve almost been counting the hours!’

‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Come in!’

‘I have to go back tonight after all,’ she said. ‘But that’s ages away. Someone’s going to pick me up at half past eleven. Is that OK?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

I put the beer on the worktop, opened a bottle of white wine and filled two glasses. If this was going to work I would have to drink, and drink something stronger than beer, that much was clear.

‘Skål,’ I said, looking into her eyes.

‘Skål,’ she said, smiling.

I put on a Chris Isaak record, I had worked all this out in advance, the muted, melancholic yet slightly wild mood fitted perfectly.

She sat down on the sofa. I sat beside her, but not so close. She was wearing the same blouse she’d had on the first time she had been here. I couldn’t see her full breasts underneath, but I sensed their presence as indeed I sensed her thighs under the tight blue jeans.

Oh.

‘That was fun in Finnsnes,’ she said.

‘Yes, it was,’ I said. ‘Are they an item, the two others who were with us?’

‘Eilif and Hilde?’

‘Yes.’

She laughed. ‘No, they’re brother and sister. They’ve always been good pals. This close,’ she said, holding two fingers entwined.

‘Have you got any brothers or sisters?’ I said.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Have you?’

‘Yes, a brother.’

‘Older or younger? No, let me guess. Older?’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘You’re not the big brother type.’

I smiled and refilled my glass. Knocked it back in one gulp.

‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a sister too. A half-sister.’

‘Had you forgotten?’

‘She’s just a few days old!’

‘Is she?’

‘Yes, she is. A newborn baby. I haven’t seen her yet. My father remarried.’

Conversation flagged.

We looked at each other and smiled.

The silence continued.

It had to happen now. We had no time to lose. It had to happen now even though I couldn’t feel the wine at all.

‘What do your parents do?’ I said, and cursed myself. A bigger turn-off was hard to imagine.

But she answered politely. ‘Dad’s a fisherman. Mum’s a housewife. And yours?’

‘My dad’s a gymnas teacher, my mum’s a teacher at a nursing college.’

‘And you’re a teacher here!’ she said. ‘Chip off the old block!’

‘I’m not a teacher,’ I said. ‘And I’m not going to be one either.’

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Yes, I do. But I don’t want to spend my life teaching. I’m doing it for a year to earn money.’

‘How do you want to spend your life then?’

‘I’m going to write. I’m going to be a writer.’

‘Are you? How exciting!’

‘Yes, it is. But I’m not sure I’ll make it.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I mean, of course you will.’ She looked me in the eye.

‘Do you want a bit more wine?’ I said.

She nodded. I filled her glass. She took a sip. Then she got up and walked around the room. Stopped by the desk.

‘So this is where you write,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

She gazed out of the window.

I emptied my glass in one draught and got up. Went over to her. Smelled the fragrance of her perfume, it was fresh, light, like a meadow.

‘Nice view you’ve got from here,’ she said.

I swallowed and gently wrapped my arms around her. It was as though she had been waiting because she immediately leaned back, I rested my cheek against hers and stroked her stomach, she turned to me, I kissed her.

‘Oh,’ she said, turning round and wrapping her arms around me. We kissed, long and lingering. I pressed against her. I kissed her neck, I kissed her cheek, I kissed her naked arm. My ears were rushing, my chest was pounding.

‘Come on. Let’s go to my bedroom,’ I said, took her hand and led her in. She got onto the bed and lay back, I clambered on top of her. With trembling hands I unbuttoned her blouse, underneath she was wearing a bra, I fumbled around trying to get it off, she laughed, sat up, reached behind her back and undid the hook, let the bra fall, and her breasts were freed. Oh God, how big and beautiful they were. I kissed them, my mind was running wild, first one, then the other, the nipples stiffened in my mouth and she said oh oh and I began to fumble with her trouser buttons, eventually managed to undo them, pulled them off, tore off my own, wrestled my jumper over my head and got on top of her again, felt her skin against mine, she was so wonderfully soft, I pressed against her, as hard as I had ever done before, I rubbed against her, and then, oh no, for Christ’s sake, it can’t be true, not now! Not now!

But it was. A jerk, a spasm and it was all over.

I lay quite still.

‘What’s up?’ she said, looking at me. ‘Something happened?’

She half rose, supporting herself on her forearms.

‘Nothing,’ I said, turning away. ‘I was just thirsty. Think I’ll get something to drink. Do you want anything?’

If I could leave the bedroom without her seeing, I could ‘spill something’ in the kitchen so that she wouldn’t realise that the big wet patch on my underpants was sperm, she would think it was juice. And it worked. Standing in front of the fridge, I opened a carton of apple juice, poured some into a glass, some onto my underpants and my stomach.

‘SHIT!’ I shouted.

‘What happened?’ she said from the bedroom.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’ve just spilled some juice. What did you say again? Did you want some?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said.

When I went back in to her she covered her top half with the duvet, she clung to it. I sat on the edge of the bed with the glass in my hand. The moment was gone, the chance had slipped through my fingers, now I had to repair the situation.

‘Ah, that’s good,’ I said. ‘Shall we have a smoke? I haven’t smoked since you arrived. You obviously exert a magnetic influence on me.’

I smiled and got up, casually pulled on my trousers and jumper, went into the sitting room and put on a record, played the Housemartins this time. There was no need for Chris Isaak and his hypnotic moods any more. Then I sat down on the sofa, filled my wine glass and rolled a cigarette. After a while Irene appeared, also dressed.

How the hell could I get out of this?

Was it possible to raise this situation from zero to the heights we had previously scaled?

All the excitement was gone. Irene sat down at the other end of the sofa, straightened her rumpled hair with her hand, then reached out for her glass.

When she looked at me a smile was playing around her lips and there was a glint in her eye.

A pain shot through my chest.

Was she mocking me because I wasn’t good enough?

‘I think I’m seriously falling in love with you, Karl Ove Knausgaard,’ she said.

What?

Was she making fun of me?

But there was nothing of that detectable in her eyes, they were warm and happy and passionate.

What was she thinking? Did she imagine that I had refrained from taking her and all she had to offer out of chivalry? Could she not see that I couldn’t do it? That I would never be able to do it? That a kind of freak, a monster, was lurking behind what she saw?

‘Do you like me a little bit too?’ she said.

‘Of course!’ I said. But the smile I sent her couldn’t have been very convincing. ‘Irene,’ I said. ‘Shall we go for a walk? It’s still nice out.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Good idea. Let’s do that.’

I regretted my suggestion the moment we were outside. Here there was only one walk, which was along the road between the houses and back again. We wouldn’t be on our own for a metre of it, we would be seen everywhere.

Irene held my hand and smiled up at me. Perhaps it didn’t matter, I thought, and smiled back.

We set off downhill. Neither of us said a word. The light pressure from her hand, which I felt now and then, and her presence only a few centimetres from me, were enough for my lust to return. Around us the countryside was at peace. The sea was perfectly calm. Some clouds hung motionless on the horizon and above the mountains on the other side, which in the gathering dusk were completely black. All I wanted to do was throw her to the ground and take her. But I couldn’t. Not here, not anywhere, not at home, I had just tried that, I hadn’t succeeded, it hadn’t worked. I could have yelled, I could have screamed. I wanted her, I could have her, but I wasn’t able to do it.

Darkness hovered above the sea, between the mountains, beneath the sky: floor, walls and roof. The first stars had begun to burst through. There wasn’t a soul around.

‘Are you going to go back to Kristiansand after you’ve finished here?’ Irene said.

I shook my head. ‘Definitely not,’ I said. ‘That’s the last place on earth I want to live.’

‘Is it so awful?’

‘Yes, you have no idea.’

‘I’ve been there. Dad’s got some family there.’

‘Oh? Where?’

‘I think it’s called Vågsbygd,’ she said. ‘But I don’t remember exactly.’

‘Yes, that’s what it’s called,’ I said.

We had reached the bend at the end of the village, by the chapel. She stopped and put her arms around me.

‘We’re going out now,’ she said. ‘Aren’t we?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

We kissed.

‘My writer,’ she said with a smile.

This time it was obvious she was teasing me. But also that she liked the idea.

Oh Christ, when was this going to end? I could barely walk I was so excited by having her this close to me.

We went on, she told me a bit about what she was doing in Finnsnes, I told her a bit about what I had done in Kristiansand.

As we approached my flat and I saw the school standing there like a social-democratic fortress it struck me that we could walk up there, I could unlock the pool and we could have a swim. Have a shower together, have a sauna together, swim together. But as I imagined it the certainty that I wouldn’t be able to perform and that it would be impossible to conceal it sank its claws into my breast.

I unlocked the door, we chatted and drank some more wine. The silences became longer and more uncomfortable until it was half past eleven and I could finally accompany her to the door and kiss her goodbye.

She looked back once on her way to the car. Her eyes were gleaming. Then she got in, the door closed and she was gone.

The next day I tried to write. It didn’t go very well, and the evening’s defeat cast a shadow over everything. Not only over my individual lessons and what I did in them but the whole of my accursed life. There was a reason for this, and I knew the reason, but it was somehow ill defined, surrounded by a fog-like vagueness, something deep, deep in the mists of my mind.

The fact was I had never masturbated. Had never wanked. Had never played with myself. I was eighteen years old now and it had never happened. Not once. I hadn’t even tried. My lack of experience of this meant that I both knew and didn’t know how to do it. And once I hadn’t done it as a twelve-or thirteen-year-old, time passed and it slowly became unthinkable, not in the sense of unheard of, more in the sense of beyond my horizons. The direct result of this was that I had heavy nocturnal emissions. I dreamed about women, and in my sleep not even touching was required, it was enough just to lay my eyes on them, standing there, with their beautiful bodies, and I came. If I was close to them in my dreams, again I came. My whole body jerked and convulsed through the night, and my underpants were soaked with semen in the morning.

I had read porn magazines like everyone else when I was growing up, but it had always been with others around me, in the forest with Geir or Dag Lothar or some of the other boys, never alone, not once had I taken a magazine home, I wouldn’t have dared. There were few things I found more stimulating and exciting than looking at a porn magazine, but the desire it aroused in me never led to masturbation as there were always others around. At most I would lie on my stomach and rub my groin against the ground while I read. When I was alone at home I sometimes flicked through the mail order catalogues that existed then, staring at the lingerie or bikini models, and my throat constricted as I studied the cloth pressing against the soft arch between their thighs, or the nipples occasionally visible under their bras or bikini tops. But that was where it stopped, at the constricted throat, the throbbing heart. I didn’t masturbate. This was never a conscious decision, it wasn’t that I told myself, no, I’m not doing that. Everything was vague and unclear, unconscious and tenebrous. By the time I was in my teens it was too late. Reading porn magazines in the forest was over and not replaced by anything else. In my teens I didn’t see a single pornographic film and didn’t read a single pornographic magazine. Desire was never focused on one point, it broadened out, it was large and nebulous and hard to handle. Somewhere I knew that my situation with regard to girls, or Irene, as she was the one in question now, would improve dramatically if I just started masturbating. Nevertheless, I didn’t. Even though I knew this, at the same time I didn’t, wanking belonged to the unthinkable, and that was where I was on this day, with the aroma of Irene still clinging to the sheets, I should have, I had to, I wanted to, but I didn’t.

No, I played Led Zeppelin at full volume, summoned all the concentration I had and tried to race ahead with a new short story. When darkness fell I let it enter the flat too, apart from on the desk, where a small lamp shone like an island in the night. There was me and my writing, an island of light in the darkness, that was how I imagined it. And then I went to bed and slept until the alarm clock woke me and another Monday at Håfjord School began.

The first thing the pupils did when I entered the classroom was to tease me about Irene.

I let them run on, then fixed them with a stare, said, now that’s enough of that nonsense, we have to start work if anything is to become of you. They took out their books and started work, I walked around and helped them, I liked the way they went from being a small chatty giggly class to falling into step and just being themselves.

Sitting like this, without speaking, without looking at each other, fully occupied with their own work, it was as though their ages melted away. Not that I no longer saw them as children, it wasn’t being children that defined them but their personalities, who they were in themselves and probably always would be.

I didn’t think about Irene much at school, these thoughts came afterwards, alone in my flat, like an adrenaline rush through my body. And then the despair. Never one without the other. She saw a purpose in us, she wanted something from me, and although I liked her I wasn’t in love, to start with we had nothing to talk about. I wanted to have her, but that was all I wanted.

Was she in love with me?

I doubted it. It was probably more that I was different, not one of her classmates but a teacher, not a thirty-or a forty-year-old but still her age, not from here but from the south.

In a year I would be gone, and she would still be here in her last year at gymnas. That wasn’t the best basis for a relationship, was it? Besides, I was going to write and I couldn’t tie up all my weekends, which I would have to do if this became serious.

In my head the arguments raged to and fro. On Tuesday we had a football match, it took us an hour to get to the pitch, which was made of shale and became so dusty that the players looked like Bedouin shadows. We lost narrowly, but I scored a goal in the melee after a corner. On Wednesday I received my first copy of Vinduet, the new journal I had subscribed to, in the post. The theme was literature’s relationship with other art forms, I couldn’t grasp any of it, but the mere fact that I had a literary journal on my desk was good enough. In the evening Hege came by, she had gone up to the school to do some work and on her way back she had decided on an impulse to see how I was. On Thursday I went to Finnsnes with Nils Erik, we went to the Vinmonopol and the library, I bought a bottle of vodka and took out two novels by Thomas Mann, The Confessions of Felix Krull and Doctor Faustus. On Friday I went to school to ring Irene. There was no one in the staffroom and I took my time, brewed up a jug of coffee, watched some TV, paced to and fro a good deal. In the end I went into the cubicle, put the note on which I had written her number on the machine, dialled the number and put the receiver to my ear.

Her mother answered. I introduced myself, she called, ‘Irene, it’s Karl Ove,’ I heard footsteps and some thumping.

‘Hi!’ she said.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘How are you? Has something happened? You sound so serious.’

Her slightly husky voice was more obvious on the phone, where there was nothing to distract your attention. It made her sound incredibly sexy.

‘I don’t know. .’ I said.

There was so much that created doubt as far as she was concerned. Wasn’t I just the first best person to come along? We had seen each other on the bus, for God’s sake. And she hadn’t offered me any resistance at all, she had just got into bed, ready for anything.

‘Tell me now,’ she said.

What was I doing? Should I finish it over the phone? That was cowardly, it had to be done face to face.

‘No, there’s nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s just. . well, I’m not in the best frame of mind right now. But it’s nothing serious. Bit silly, that’s all.’

‘Why? Has something happened? Are you homesick?’

‘Maybe a bit,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. It’ll be fine. Tomorrow it’ll be gone.’

‘Oh, I wish I could be there to comfort you,’ she said. ‘I miss you!’

‘I miss you too,’ I said.

‘Can we meet tomorrow?’

If she was being picked up at twelve, as on the previous occasion, it would be nigh on impossible to finish the relationship. Because it would have to be done straight away, you couldn’t stay together with someone for four hours, as before, perhaps end up in bed together again and then go your separate ways. If I did it at once, what would she do in the meantime, before her lift arrived?

‘That’s no good,’ I said. ‘I’m busy then. What about Sunday?’

‘I have to go to Finnsnes again.’

‘Come here first! You can catch the bus from Håfjord. That would work.’

‘Maybe. Yes, I can do that.’

‘Good!’ I said. ‘See you then.’

‘See you then. Take care!’

‘Take care, Irene.’

The next morning I was stopped by a group of boys standing outside the shop, they asked how I was getting on, fine, I said, did I want to go to a party later that day, they asked, where, I said, it’s no big deal, they said, we’ll just be sitting around drinking up at Edvald’s, come up if you fancy it, no need to bring any booze, we’ve got enough.

Leaving them and walking up to my flat, I thought about how open people were here, inviting me to all sorts of events although I was not one of them, and I pondered why. What did they want from a Kristiansander with a black coat, a beret and progressive musical tastes, why take him in tow in the evening? At home going out demanded planning, lots of obstacles had to be overcome, you didn’t just turn up at someone’s house or sit down at a table in a bar with someone you vaguely knew. Everyone had their own circle, and if you didn’t, you were on the margins. Here there may have been similar circles, but if so they were open. In the few weeks I had lived here the most striking discovery was that everyone was accepted. Not necessarily liked, but always accepted. They didn’t have to wave to me and invite me out, but they did, and not just a few people but everyone.

Perhaps the answer was they had to, it was as simple as that. There were so few of them that they couldn’t afford to leave anyone out. Or else it was their attitude to life that was different, rawer, more casual. If you lived your life on a boat deck, if you did hard physical work every day and drank as soon as you were on shore, there was no reason to bother with petty clockwork-like social etiquette and distinctions. A more natural course of action was to proffer the hand of friendship, say join us, have a drink, have you heard about the time. .?

Vivian, Live and Andrea came racing down the hill on their bikes. They waved and shouted to me as they passed, their hair flapping and their eyes scrunched up to meet the oncoming wind. I was smiling to myself long after they had passed. They were so funny, the way the immense seriousness they possessed was shattered internally by their equally immense childish glee.

I worked for a few hours on a short story about some boys who nailed a cat to a tree, then I heated a ready meal in the microwave for dinner, lay down on the sofa and read Doctor Faustus until it began to grow dark outside and I had to get ready to go out.

I hadn’t read Thomas Mann before. I liked the elaborate old-fashioned formal style, and the scenes at the beginning when the protagonists are children and the father of one of them, Adrian, shows them experiments with dead material which he brings to life, were fantastic, there was something eerie about them that at first forced itself to the front of your consciousness and then seemed to sink to the bottom. I was reminded of the open heart I had once seen on TV as a child, how it had throbbed in all that blood, like a small blind animal. It was alive and belonged to a different category from Adrian’s father’s experiments, but the blindness was the same and also the way it was subject to laws, moving according to them, not independently.

I was unable to grasp the bit about music and musical theory, but I was used to that in this kind of novel, there were always great expanses I just skimmed without understanding, more or less like the French dialogue that could suddenly crop up in some books.

I showered, changed, put a bottle of vodka in a bag and walked up to Edvald’s house, he was a fisherman, older than the others, around thirty-five, single, glad of a drop, and I stayed there until five in the morning, when I strolled back through the village with a head as empty and desolate as an unfrequented tunnel. On waking up at two the next day I remembered nothing apart from standing on the quay watching the sea birds bobbing on the water, wondering if they were asleep, and pissing against the shop wall. Everything else was gone. All the details and individual moments were lost. I had drunk a whole bottle of spirits, that was what you did here, and I was still drunk when I woke up. Writing was out of the question. Instead I lay on my bed reading, but that didn’t go very well either, my brain seemed to be soaking in a kind of yellow liquid, which I watched. If I stopped reading the feeling went away, it was as though it was me in the liquid.

At a few minutes to five there was a ring at the door. I had been asleep and jumped off the bed, it was Irene.

I opened the door.

‘Hi!’ she said with a smile. There was a bag on the ground beside her. I took two big steps back so that she couldn’t hug me.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come in?’

Her eyes questioned me.

‘What is it, Karl Ove? Is there something up?’

‘Yes, actually there is,’ I said. ‘We have to talk.’

She stared at me.

‘I haven’t told you,’ I said. ‘But I was in a relationship before I came here. I received a letter from her after a few days. She finished it with me. I haven’t really got over that yet, you see. And now it’s begun to get serious with us. . But I don’t have the mental space, it’s too early, do you understand? I like you so much, but. .’

‘Are you finishing this?’ she said. ‘Before it’s even begun?’

I nodded. ‘I think so.’

‘What a shame,’ she said. ‘Just when I was starting to like you so much.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry. But it’s no good. It doesn’t feel right.’

‘Then perhaps it’s better we drop it,’ she said. ‘I wish you all the best for your life.’

She came over and hugged me. Then she grabbed her bag, turned and went to go.

‘Are you going?’ I said.

She turned her head.

‘Yes, we can’t sit here, can we. What’s the point of that?’

‘But the bus won’t be here for ages yet, will it?’

‘I’ll walk,’ she said. ‘I can get on the bus whenever it turns up.’

Watching her walk down the hill, with the bag in her hand, towards the road that ran alongside the fjord, I was full of regret. An enormous opportunity had gone begging. At the same time I was relieved that it had been so painless. Now it was over. Now there was nothing to think about.