My Struggle: Book 2: A Man in Love (29 page)

He met me outside the main building, told me without delay that he had never experienced anything like the time I had been at the seminar for debut writers, nothing even remotely near it. I understood what he meant, the atmosphere had been so special then, not only for me.

The lectures were boring and the discussions tedious, or else it was just that I was too happy to show any interest. A couple of older Icelandic men were the only ones with anything original to say, so they were also the ones who had to face the strongest arguments. At night we drank, Henrik Hovland was there and entertained us with stories of life under canvas, one he told us was about how after a certain number of days the smell of your shit became so strong and individual that you could smell your way to each other in the dark, like animals, which no one believed, but everyone laughed, while I described the fantastic scene from one of Arild Rein’s books where the protagonist shits such a large turd that it can’t be flushed, so he takes it, puts it into the pocket of his suit jacket and goes out wearing it.

The next day two Danes arrived, Jeppe and Lars; Jeppe’s talk was good, and they were great drinking company. They travelled back with me to Stockholm, we went on the booze, I texted Linda, she met us at Kvarnen, embraced me when she arrived, we laughed and chatted, but suddenly my spirits sank, for Jeppe was charismatic, more than usually intelligent and had a strong masculine presence, by which Linda was not unaffected, I sensed. Perhaps that was why I started a discussion with her. Of all the subjects to choose I chose abortion. It didn’t seem to bother her, but she went home afterwards, while we continued, ending up going to a nightclub where Jeppe was refused admittance, it must have been something to do with the plastic bag he was carrying, his worn appearance and the fact that he was very drunk. We went back to my place instead, Lars fell asleep, Jeppe and I sat up, the sun rose, he told me about his father, a good person in all ways, and when he said he was dead, a tear ran down his cheek. It was one of those moments that will live long in the memory, perhaps because the confidence came without warning. There was just his head resting against the wall, illuminated by the first soft light of morning, the tear running down his cheek.

The following day we had breakfast in a café, they left for Arlanda Airport, I went back to sleep, left the window open, it rained, the computer, without any form of back-up, was soaked.

I switched it on the next day and it worked fine. Nothing could go wrong any more. Geir called, it was 17 May, Norwegian Independence Day, should we go out for a meal? Him, Christina, Linda and me? I told him about our discussion, he said there were very few topics you should never discuss with women, abortion was one of them. Bloody hell, Karl Ove, almost all of them have had an abortion at some point. How can you wade out into such deep waters? Call her and ask her out, it may not mean anything. She probably hasn’t given it a thought.

‘I can’t ring her after that.’

‘What’s the worst that can happen? If she’s angry with you, she’ll just say no. If she isn’t she’ll say yes. You’ll have to suss it out. You can’t stop meeting her because you
suspect
she doesn’t want to know about you.’

I rang.

Yes, she would like to go out.

We went to Creperiet, talked mostly about the relationship between Norway and Sweden, Geir’s showpiece. Linda kept looking at me, she didn’t seem to be offended, but I couldn’t be sure until we were on our own and I could apologise. Well, there’s nothing to apologise for, she said, you have the opinions you have. No big deal. What about Jeppe then? I thought, but said nothing of course.

We went to Folkoperan. It was Linda’s favourite place. Every night when they closed they played the Russian national anthem, and she loved all things Russian, especially Chekhov.

‘Have you read Chekhov?’ she asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Haven’t you? You
must
.’

Her lips parted over her teeth when she became enthusiastic, before she was on the point of saying something, and I sat watching her talking. She had such beautiful lips. And her eyes, greyish-green and sparkly, they were so stunning it hurt to look into them.

‘My favourite film’s Russian as well.
Burned by the Sun
. Have you seen it?’

‘Afraid not, no.’

‘We’ll have to see it one day. There’s a fantastic girl in it. She’s in the Pioneers, a fantastic political movement for children.’

She laughed.

‘It’s like I’ve got a lot to show you,’ she said. ‘By the way, there’s a book reading at Kvarnen in . . . five days. I’m going to read. Do you fancy going?’

‘Of course. What are you going to read?’

‘Stig Sæterbakken.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ve translated him into Swedish.’

‘Have you now? Why didn’t you say?’

‘You didn’t ask,’ she said with a smile. ‘He’s coming too. I’m a bit nervous about that. My Norwegian’s not quite as good as I thought. But he’s read the book anyway and didn’t have any comments about the language. Do you like him?’

‘I like
Siamese
very much.’

‘That’s the one I translated. With Gilda. Do you remember her?’

I nodded.

‘But we can meet before. Are you busy tomorrow?’

‘No. It’ll be fine.’

Over the tannoys came the first notes of the Russian national anthem. Linda got up, put on her jacket and looked at me.

‘Here then? Eight?’

‘OK,’ I said.

We stopped outside. The shortest route to hers was along Hornsgatan while my place lay in the opposite direction.

‘I’ll walk you home,’ she said. ‘May I?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

We walked in silence.

‘It’s strange,’ I said as we turned into one of the diagonal streets towards Mariaberget. ‘I’m so happy to be with you, yet I’m unable to say anything. It’s as if you rob me of the power of speech.’

‘I’ve noticed that,’ she said, taking a swift glance at me. ‘It doesn’t matter. Not for me at any rate.’

Why not? I thought. What can you do with a man who says nothing?

We fell into silence again. Our footsteps on the cobbled stones were amplified by the brick houses on either side.

‘It was a nice evening,’ she said.

‘Bit strange,’ I said. ‘It’s 17 May, a date that is evidently in my blood, and I’ve felt there has been something missing all the time. Why is no one celebrating?’

She stroked my upper arm softly.

As if to tell me it didn’t matter if I came out with stupidities?

We stopped in the street beneath my flat. We looked at each other. I stepped forward and gave her a hug.

‘See you tomorrow then,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Goodnight.’

I stopped inside the door and went back out a moment later. I wanted to see her for a last time.

She was walking down the hill alone.

I was in love with her.

So what the hell was it that was so painful?

The next day I wrote as usual, ran as usual, sat outdoors reading as usual, this time at Lasse in the Park, across from Långholmen Island. But I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t stop thinking about Linda. I was looking forward to seeing her, there was nothing I wanted more, but a shadow hung over these thoughts unlike all the others I’d had that day.

Why?

Because of what had happened that time?

Of course. But I didn’t know what, it was just a feeling I had, and I couldn’t hold it to shape it into a clear thought.

The conversation this evening was as tough going as before, and now it was dragging her down too, the enthusiasm and cheeriness of the previous day was almost totally gone.

After an hour we got up and left. In the street she asked me if I wanted a cup of tea at her place.

‘Very much,’ I said.

Ascending the stairs, I suddenly remembered the incident with the Polish twins. It was a good story, but I couldn’t tell it. Too much of the complexity of my feelings for her would be revealed.

‘This is where I live,’ she said. ‘Grab a chair and I’ll make us some tea.’

It was a one-room flat: at the far end there was a bed, at the other a dining table. I removed my shoes but kept my jacket on and perched on the edge of the chair.

She was humming in the kitchen.

As she placed a cup of tea in front of me, she said, ‘I think I’m becoming fond of you, Karl Ove.’

‘Fond’? Was that all? And she said that to my face?

‘I like you a lot as well,’ I said.

‘Do you?’ she asked.

There was a pause.

‘Do you think we could become anything other than friends?’ she asked after a while.

‘I want us to be friends,’ I said.

She looked at me. Then she looked down, seemed to discover her cup and raised it to her lips.

I got up.

‘Have you got any female friends?’ she asked. ‘I mean ones who are only friends.’

I shook my head.

‘Or rather yes. When I went to
gymnas
I had some. But that’s a long time ago of course.’

She looked at me again.

‘I think I should go,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the tea.’

She got up and accompanied me to the door. I stepped into the corridor before turning, so that she would not be able to give me a hug.

‘Bye,’ I said.

‘Bye,’ she said.

The next morning I went to Lasse in the Park. Laid a pad on the table and started writing her a letter. I wrote down what she meant to me. I wrote what she had been for me when I saw her for the first time, and what she was now. I wrote about her lips sliding over her teeth when she got excited, I wrote about her eyes, when they sparkled and when they opened their darkness and seemed to absorb light. I wrote about the way she walked, the little, almost mannequin-like, waggle of her backside. I wrote about her tiny Japanese features. I wrote about her laughter, which could sometimes wash over everything, how I loved her then. I wrote about the words she used most often, how I loved the way she said ‘stars’ and the way she flung around the word ‘fantastic’. I wrote that all this was what I had seen, and that I didn’t know her at all, had no idea what ran through her mind and very little about how she saw the world and the people in it, but that what I could see was enough, I knew I loved her and always would.

‘Karl Ove?’ someone said. I looked up.

There she was.

I turned the pad over.

How was that possible?

‘Hi, Linda,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the tea yesterday.’

‘It was nice to see you. I’m here with a friend. Would you prefer to be on your own?’

‘Yes, if you don’t mind. I’m working, you see.’

‘Of course, I understand.’

We looked at each other. I nodded.

A woman of her age came out holding two cups. Linda turned to her, they went off to the other end and sat down.

I wrote that she had just sat down at the back.

If only I could bridge this distance, I wrote. I would give everything in the world for that. But I can’t. I love you, and perhaps you think you love me, but you don’t. I believe you like me, I’m fairly sure of that, but I’m not enough for you, and you know that deepest down. Perhaps you need someone now, and then along I came, and you thought, well he might do. But I don’t want to be someone who might do, that’s not good enough for me, it has to be all or nothing, you have to be ablaze, the way I am ablaze. To want the way I want. Do you understand? Oh, I know you do. I have seen how strong you can be, I have seen how weak you can be and I have seen you open up to the world. I love you, but that isn’t enough. Being friends is meaningless. I can’t even talk to you! What kind of friendship would that be? I hope you don’t take this amiss. I’m just trying to say it as it is. I love you. That is how it is. And somewhere I always will, regardless of what happens to us.

I signed my name, got up, glanced at them, only the girlfriend was in a position to see me, and she didn’t know who I was, so I escaped unnoticed, hastened home, tucked the letter into an envelope, changed into running gear and did my route round Söder.

Over the next days it was as though the speed I had within me increased. I ran, I swam, I did everything I could to keep my unease, which consisted of as much happiness as sorrow, at bay, but I failed, I was shaking with an agitation that never seemed to abate, I went on endless walks around the town, ran, swam, lay awake at night, couldn’t eat. I had said no, it was over, it would ease.

The reading was on a Saturday, and by the time it arrived I had decided not to go. I rang Geir to see if he wanted to meet me in town, he did, four o’clock at KB, we agreed, I ran to Eriksdal Baths, swam for more than an hour, to and fro in the outdoor pool, it was wonderful, the air was cold, the water warm, the sky grey with light rain, and not a soul around. Up and down I swam. When I got out I was hot with exhaustion. I changed, stood outside for a while smoking, then made a move towards the centre with my bag over my shoulder.

Geir wasn’t there when I arrived. I sat down at a window table and ordered a beer. A few minutes later he was in front of me and holding out his hand.

‘Anything new?’ he asked, sitting down.

‘Yes and no,’ I said, and told him what had happened over recent days.

‘You always have to be so dramatic,’ he said. ‘Can’t you calm down a bit? It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘In this particular case it’s exactly that.’

‘Have you sent the letter?’

‘No. Not yet.’

At that moment I received a text message. It was from Linda.

‘
Didn’t see you at the reading. Were you there?
’

I started to answer.

‘Can’t you do that afterwards?’ Geir said.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Couldn’t make it. Did it go well?
’

I sent the message and raised my glass to Geir.

‘
Skål
,’ I said.

‘
Skål
,’ he said.

Another message.

‘
Missed you. Where are you now?
’

Missed me?

My heart pounded in my chest. I started a new answer.

‘Pack it in,’ Geir said. ‘If you don’t, I’m off.’