My Struggle, Book 6

by Karl Ove Knausgaard

  I went into the bedroom to see her. The whole weekend she must have been lying there longing for death while we were in town shopping.

  There was a ring.

  I hurried to the hall, lifted the intercom receiver.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Ingrid here.”

  “I’ll open the door.”

  I waited until I heard the elevator stop, then opened the door.

  “How is she?” she said, coming out of the elevator.

  “Not so good,” I said.

  I motioned to her suitcase, which she let go of so that I could carry it in.

  “We’ve just been to the doctor’s. She said it was a deep depression. And suggested that she ought to go to the hospital. But Linda preferred to be at home. I’d prefer that too.”

  “Was she a good doctor?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Ayayayaya,” she said with a sigh.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Is she asleep now?”

  “She is.”

  “And the children? Are they worried?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They haven’t noticed much. They’re at school as usual.”

  “That’s good,” she said, leaning forward to take off her shoes. I was a few meters away from her and wanted the conversation to end. She was angry with me because of what I had written about her in the second novel, and now there was this, with her daughter. At the same time she was dependent on me – I lived here and was the father of her grandchildren – as I was on her and the help she could offer.

  She looked at me.

  “I thought you could sleep in the living room,” I said, turning to carry her suitcase there. “Is that all right?”

  “I can sleep wherever I can,” she said. “Also with the children, if Sissel wants to sleep in the living room.”

  “She can sleep in my office,” I said.

  “Ye-es,” she sighed. “But it’s good to be here anyway. It’s going to be great to see the children.”

  “They’re looking forward to seeing you,” I said.

  * * *

  As I was about to leave to pick up the children that afternoon, Ingrid joined me, she wanted to surprise them, I suppose. In the elevator we said nothing. In the street we stopped and looked at each other.

  “We can’t leave Linda on her own,” I said.

  “I was thinking the same,” Ingrid said. “You go and I’ll stay with her.”

  How was it possible, I thought, as I continued up Södra Förstadsgatan? How could I have forgotten about her? How could I have forgotten that she shouldn’t be on her own?

  It was just as bad that I had been out so much over the weekend. It was as though the gravity of the situation hadn’t hit home. As though everything was normal and what was happening inside her as she lay in the room, excluded from the rest of the family, was only in parentheses.

  “Did Grandma come?” Vanja asked. She had run over as soon as she had seen me behind the gate.

  I nodded.

  “She has, yes. She can’t wait to see you.”

  I strolled across to the nursery school staff and exchanged a few words with them. Everything had gone well, they said, the children had been happy and content. I had thought of telling them Linda was depressed, so they would keep an eye on the children, in case something out of the ordinary occurred, but both Vanja and Heidi were standing next to me and I decided to wait until the following day.

  We bought fruit, milk, and yogurt at Hemköp, they were impatient, wanting to get home now that Grandma was there. She would have presents with her, wouldn’t she?

  When she was with us she always cooked, did the shopping, and kept the kitchen clean. She stretched herself as thin as she could for us, of that there was no doubt. If I hadn’t written the book everything in my relationship with her would have been good, but it lay there like a shadow, and we couldn’t talk about it.

  Strangely enough, it was John who was shy with her when we trooped in through the door. But it didn’t last long. After they had unwrapped their presents they ran into Linda to show her. I followed, watching closely. Linda looked at them, sat up, and tried to smile. How nice, she said.

  “Come on now, you little varmints,” I said. “Mommy has to rest a little.”

  It wasn’t difficult this time. I closed the bedroom door, and then the hall door. Ingrid was in the kitchen cooking.

  “When would you like to eat?” she said.

  “Anytime,” I said. “Whatever suits you.”

  “Five?” she said.

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  I poured the coffee I’d made but forgotten into the thermos and was about to go onto the balcony when the phone rang.

  It was an Oslo number and I took it.

  It was Elisabeth from Oktober.

  “Am I disturbing you?” she said.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “You’re writing, I hope?” she said with a laugh. “But it’s good I’ve managed to get ahold of you. We need to discuss the launch. Number five will be out soon.”

  “Yes,” I said, closing the balcony door and sitting down.

  “Have you thought about how you would like to do it?”

  “Only in terms of as little as possible.”

  “In principle you can choose to do whatever you like. There is enormous interest, of course. But I have a suggestion. Aftenposten has been trying to get an interview with you for ages. What about doing that? And nothing else?”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “I think it will be.”

  “There was one other thing. The Book Fair in Oslo this autumn. It would be great if you could come.”

  “When is it?”

  “Mid-September.”

  “Should be possible,” I said.

  “Great! Now I know. We can sort out details later. Thank you, Karl Ove.”

  I put down the phone and poured myself some coffee. The last time Linda was ill it had lasted for more than a year.

  I hadn’t even thought about that.

  What if it just carried on?

  I stubbed out my cigarette and went back in. Checked that the children were fine before going into the bedroom. She wasn’t asleep, she was lying in bed with her eyes open looking at the ceiling.

  “How’s it going?” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She turned her head to me. Her eyes were as good as vacant.

  “The kids are fine,” I said. “They behaved as they usually do at school. And they’re happy Ingrid’s here. John was a bit shy at first, but he soon picked up.”

  She looked at me as though she wanted to say something.

  “Do you have the energy to get up for dinner?” I said.

  She gave a slight nod.

  “And to watch Bolibompa with them afterwards?”

  She nodded again.

  “That’s enough,” I said. “If you can do that, it’s great.”

  I stood up. I felt unable to withstand her gaze.

  “I’ll come and get you when it’s ready then,” I said. “OK?”

  She nodded, and I headed for the living room, where I sat down with two of the morning papers I hadn’t read yet.

  * * *

  The next day, when I returned home after taking the children to school, Ingrid was sitting on Linda’s bed and talking with her. There was a tray of food between them. A bowl of muesli, an egg, fruit, a slice of bread, a glass of juice, a cup of coffee. Linda looked at Ingrid as she had looked at me the past few times, from somewhere deep inside herself. It was as though everything that was said disappeared in that gaze. Everything seemed to vanish into endless space, where it was so small it made no difference, yet it was all she had and therefore clung to. She looked and saw me, then she looked and saw Ingrid.

  “They’re off at school now,” I said, stopping in the doorway.

  Ingrid got up.

  “Are you done?” she asked Linda. “If so, I’ll take the tray wit
h me.”

  I knew she didn’t want to impose, and our bedroom was a boundary she would cross only with extreme reluctance, but I hadn’t been at home and she had gone in because Linda was her daughter.

  “Would you like to go for a little walk?” I said after Ingrid had left.

  Linda nodded and slowly got to her feet.

  “Shall I find you some clothes?”

  She nodded again.

  I laid out a pair of trousers and a sweater and went into the hall to wait. Passed her a jacket, put out some shoes, took her arm when she was ready, and walked beside her to the lift. She stared at the floor as the elevator descended, probably to avoid the mirror.

  Outside, the sun was shining. The trees between the market square and the road were green, thick with leaves. People walked to and fro across the flagstone square, cars whizzed by. We ambled toward the park.

  “I love you, Linda,” I said.

  She gave a start and looked at me.

  “Things are terrible now, but they will be good. I promise you. You just have to hold on tight.”

  She continued to stare into the distance.

  “I know it’s absolutely unbearable, but you have to stick it out. Then you’ll be fine.”

  We went over the road at the crosswalk, walked along the sidewalk, past the Mexican restaurant, the hairdresser’s, the denim shop. The sky was blue, the grass in the park over the road green. People sat dotted around, some with bikes by them.

  “You’re a fantastic mother, Linda,” I said. “I know you think you’re letting the children down, but you aren’t. You can’t do anything about this. It’s just something that happens inside you. I promise you.”

  She looked at me with the same semi-absent, semi-imploring gaze. She said nothing. We crossed the road, entered the park.

  “Why don’t we sit down for a bit over there?” I said, nodding toward the stone wall beneath the trees in the middle of the park.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” I said.

  An elderly woman with a dog strolled past, behind her came a young woman on a bicycle, she had a backpack on her back and gave us a wide berth. From the playground came the voices of children. Three or four parents were with them, I saw.

  We sat down on the wall.

  Linda burst into tears. She sobbed aloud, her shoulders shook. I put my arm around her and rested my head against her neck.

  “It’s going to be fine. I love you. It’s awful now, but it’ll pass.”

  The people sitting on the lawn around us glanced over. A gust of wind blew, the leaves on the trees rustled. Linda sat bent over, crying with all her heart, something seemed to have crashed inside her.

  I stroked her back.

  What darkness are you in now, Linda?

  What darkness are you in?

  “I love you. You’re a brilliant person. You’re a wonderful mother. This is going to be fine. You have to hold on.”

  Gradually the tears subsided. I held out my arm, she slipped hers inside, and then we got up and walked down the gravel path, as slowly as an elderly couple. I was racked by restlessness.

  * * *

  Ingrid came into the hall as we took off our coats.

  “Well done, Linda,” she said. “It’s so good that you managed the walk.”

  “Do you want to rest a little?” I said.

  She nodded. I accompanied her into the bedroom.

  “Would you like a radio? Then you’ll have something to listen to while you lie here.” She shook her head.

  “I just want to sleep,” she said.

  She lay down, pulled the duvet half over her head, and closed her eyes.

  “OK,” I said. “I’ll come back in half an hour to check you’re all right.”

  I went for a smoke. I looked down as I passed the kitchen, where Ingrid was sitting with the newspaper open on the table in front of her, I didn’t want a conversation. I knew she liked me, but I presumed what I had written overshadowed that, and I knew she probably drew a straight line between what Linda was going through and what I had done. I didn’t know she was thinking that, but I had a strong suspicion she was.

  We talked about what we would have for the evening meal. We talked about Linda, how we should try to get her out of bed as often as possible. We talked about the children and who should do what for them. But we didn’t talk about her, we didn’t talk about me, and we didn’t talk about what I’d written about her.

  Looking down, I slunk past, telling myself Linda was the priority for both of us now.

  * * *

  Sitting on the balcony, I caught the sound of the phone ringing. I rushed in and answered it. It was the real estate agent. She had just done another viewing. There had been seven people, but unfortunately there had been no offers. She would be doing another viewing this weekend. She said it would probably sell. I said that was good. She said there seemed to be something wrong with the shower, one of the people at the viewing had turned it on and they weren’t able to turn it off, and then water had spurted out from the pipe. I said that was right, there was something wrong with the shower and the pipes. I would have to get someone to look at it. Good, she said, and we hung up.

  I looked in on Linda. She was asleep, I came back out, went to my study, where I could be at peace. Switched on the computer. Flipped through the book of Claude Lorrain pictures I had bought in New York when I’d been there only a few weeks earlier. It felt like several years ago. I had fainted at a venue in Manhattan after doing a reading. I hadn’t eaten all day, was so nervous, and I had drunk a beer with my American publisher, and when we were standing outside and she introduced me to an elderly Egyptian writer, who was holding court, suddenly I couldn’t stand upright but had to go to the steps and sit down. I held my head in my hands and felt the blackness gathering inside me and rising, a wave of inescapable numbing weariness and giddiness. The elderly Egyptian, who was a great poet and justifiably held everyone’s attention, came over to me, friendly all of a sudden, put his arm around my shoulders and asked if I was all right. I said I was, and he went back to his circle. Now I couldn’t even sit, so I stood up and staggered over to the publisher and said I had to go home, at once, and she said she would find a taxi. I couldn’t even wait, so I lay down on the sidewalk and closed my eyes and was gone. I came to again when she placed her hand on my shoulder and I realized I couldn’t have been out for more than one or maybe two minutes. But people were staring at me where I lay. I managed to struggle to my feet, she opened the door of the waiting taxi, gave the address to the driver, and then off we drove through this immense town.

  I had seen a picture by Claude Lorrain in New York, and I was writing about it now. Strangely enough, I wrote with ease and focus, everything else vanished until, after lifting my head and looking at the blinds covering the window in front of me, shimmering with spring light, I suddenly thought about Linda. I switched off the computer, got up, and poked my head around the door.

  She was sitting up in bed. She was scratching at the duvet and looked up at me. Leaning forward and scratching at the bedcover. Then she seemed to be brushing something away. All this frightened me, her movements were so unfamiliar.

  “I have such fears, Karl Ove,” she said. “I’m so afraid.”

  “Can’t you take one of the tablets you were given?”

  “Yes, but the effect doesn’t last very long. And then it just gets worse.”

  “I can go and get one. What were they called again?”

  She told me. I went into the kitchen, one shelf was completely taken over by her medication, I found the box she wanted, poured a glass of water, and carried them in to her.

  She took a tablet and leaned back.

  I lay beside her.

  We didn’t say anything. I held her hand. I thought about what I had written, and the feelings Lorrain’s pictures evoked in me filled me with a kind of peace, which I then immediately repressed, what sort of monster was I to think about that while she was lying beside me want
ing to die?

  “Would you like anything to eat? Fruit or something?”

  She didn’t answer. I looked at her.

  “Grapes?” I said.

  She nodded, I got up, went into the kitchen, which fortunately was unoccupied, put a small bunch into a bowl, and took it back to her.

  “Still no radio?” I said, putting the bowl down beside her.

  “I’m not up to listening to anything.”

  “Not even music?”

  “No.”

  She pulled the duvet over her and turned her head to the wall.

  * * *

  On our way home from school Vanja wanted to know if Mommy was still sleeping.

  “Yes, she is. She’s not feeling well, you know. But it’ll soon pass.”

  “It’ll never pass,” Vanja said. “She’s always sick.”

  “No, she isn’t,” I said. “But right now she is. So she needs her rest.”

  “I do too,” Vanja said. “I want to rest with her.”

  “I’m sure you could,” I said. “If you keep still and stay quiet, that would be fine.”

  “Me too,” Heidi said.

  “That’s OK,” I said. “But just one at a time. Shall we say that?”

  But this didn’t go too well. Vanja started nagging Linda to get up, and Heidi was no better.

  Vanja refused to leave the room and it ended with me having to carry her out. I tried to turn it into a joke, some fun, but she was very angry.

  I sat her down in her room. She wanted to run back and tried to dodge past me.

  “Vanja,” I said. “It’s true that Mommy’s ill. She needs some peace and quiet. It’ll soon be over. I promise you.”

  “It won’t,” she said, and looked down at the floor.

  “Come on. Let’s go and watch a film.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “What do you want to do then?”

  “I want to see Mommy.”

  “I understand. And you will be able to. But not right now.”

  She sat down and started moving all her toy figures around as though I didn’t exist. I watched her for a while, then left.

  * * *

  The next day we went back to the doctor. She asked more or less the same questions she had on the previous occasion. Linda was equally monosyllabic.