My Struggle: Book 2: A Man in Love (68 page)

After I had paid for the books I went down to the lower section of Sergels torg, to the music and film shop, where I bought three DVDs and five CDs, next up to Akademi bookshop, where I found a dissertation on Swedenborg published by Atlantis, which I bought along with a couple of journals. I wouldn’t get round to reading much of this, which did not prevent me from feeling good, however. I went home, unloaded my purchases, had a couple of sandwiches standing by the kitchen worktop and went out again, this time across Östermalm to the shop in Banérgatan, where I arrived at twelve on the dot.

No one was there. I lit a cigarette and waited. Searched the faces of passers-by, but no one stopped or came over. After fifteen minutes I went into the shop and asked the female assistant if anyone had handed in a mobile phone today. Yes, indeed, it was here. Could I describe it?

I did, and she took it from a drawer beside the till and passed it to me.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Who handed it in? Do you know?’

‘Yes, well, I mean I don’t know his name. But he’s a young guy. He works at the Israeli Embassy just over there.’

‘At the
Israeli
Embassy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, right. Thank you again. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

I sauntered down the street grinning to myself. The Israeli Embassy! No damn wonder he had been suspicious! The phone must have been examined outside and in. All the text messages, all the phone numbers . . . heh heh heh!’

I switched it on and rang Geir.

‘Hello?’ he said.

‘Someone rang about my mobile yesterday,’ I said. ‘He was very suspicious, but in the end agreed to give it back to me. So now I’ve just picked it up. He left it at a shop till. I asked the girl working there if she knew who he was. Do you know what she said?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He worked in the Israeli Embassy.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘I’m not. When I dropped my phone it didn’t land on the platform, it landed in a bag. And when I dropped it into a bag it wasn’t just anyone’s bag but one belonging to the girlfriend of someone working at the Israeli Embassy. Bizarre, eh?’

‘I think you can forget the girlfriend idea. It’s more likely she works at the Israeli Embassy and contacted them when she found your mobile. So they sat there looking at this phone wondering who the hell could have planted it. And what was it? A bomb? A microphone?’

‘And what on earth did the Norwegian connection signify? Something to do with heavy water? Revenge for the Lillehammer Affair?’

‘It’s unbelievable how you manage to get caught up in things. Russian prostitutes and Israeli agents. That writer you invited to dinner, who weighed all the food before she ate it, what was her name?’

‘Maria. She has a Russian connection too, by the way.’

‘And who had to ring someone and tell them exactly what she had eaten after the meal. Ha ha ha!’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘I don’t know. That weird things happen when you’re around perhaps? Linda’s other friend who’s in love with a drug addict whose sister lives in your building? The flat you got in the block where Linda lived? Your computer being exposed to all sorts, getting drenched in the rain, being dropped from a train onto the rails and it isn’t damaged. You losing your phone and it turning up in an Israeli Embassy worker’s bag slots neatly into the frame.’

‘That all sounds very intense and jolly,’ I said. ‘But the truth about my life is quite different, as you know.’

‘Oh, come on, can’t we pretend for once?’

‘No. What are you doing?’ I asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘Sounds very much like you’re messing around backstage. So I suppose you’re writing.’

‘I suppose I am. And you?’

‘I’m on my way to Filmhus. Going to have lunch with Linda. Catch you later.’

‘OK.’

I rang off, put the phone in my pocket and picked up the pace. Walked past the drained fountain in Karlaplan, through Feltöversten, into Valhallavägen to Filmhus, which was on the edge of the semi-snow-covered Gärdet district and glittered in the sun.

After lunch I caught the Metro to Odenplan and walked from there to my office, mostly to have somewhere to sit in peace. Ingrid had a key for the flat and would probably be there with Vanja. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind for cafés either, with all the unfamiliar faces and restless eyes. So I sat behind the desk and tried for a while to write my talk, but I just became depressed. Instead I lay down on the sofa and fell asleep. When I awoke the street outside was dark and it was ten minutes past four. The
Aftenposten
journalist was coming at six, so I had no choice but to put my coat on and go home if I wanted to see anything of Vanja and Linda that day.

‘Anyone at home?’ I called as I opened the door. Vanja crawled through the hall towards me at full speed, laughing, and I threw her up in the air a few times before carrying her into the kitchen, where Linda was stirring a saucepan.

‘Chickpea stew,’ she said. ‘Best I could manage.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said. ‘How’s it been with Vanja today?’

‘Fine, I think. They spent the whole morning in the children’s museum. Mummy’s just left. Did you bump into her?’

‘No,’ I said, and took Vanja to our bed, tossed her around until I was tired, sat her down, flushed and sweaty from laughing, on the chair by the kitchen worktop and went into the living room to check my emails. After reading them I switched off the computer and gazed down at the flat across the street on the floor beneath ours, where another computer was lit. Once I had seen a man masturbating in front of the screen there. He thought he couldn’t be seen, hadn’t realised he was visible from here. He was alone in the room, but not in the flat; on the other side of the wall was a kitchen, where a man and a woman were sitting. It was strange to see how close private and open areas were to one another.

Now the room was empty. Just pixels jumping about on the screen, the light of a lamp in the corner falling across a chair, and a little table with a book face up.

‘Food’s ready!’ Linda shouted from the kitchen. I got to my feet and joined them. It was already a quarter past five.

‘When are they supposed to be coming?’ Linda asked. She must have noticed me glance at the clock.

‘At six. But we’ll go out straight away. You won’t need to show your face. Well, you can say hello to them if you like, but you don’t have to.’

‘I think I’ll stay here. Out of sight. Are you nervous?’

‘No, but I’m not in the mood. You know what it’s like.’

‘Don’t give it a thought. Just chat with them, say what you want and don’t be hard on yourself. Relax.’

‘I spoke to that Majgull Axelsson, you know, the writer? She was at the lectures in Tvedestrand and Gothenburg. During the tour she took me under her maternal wing a bit. She said she made it a rule never to read what was written about her, never to watch herself on TV and never to listen to herself on the radio. Treat them as one-offs. Just concentrate on the moment it’s happening, she said. They were meetings with people then, that was all, easy, no complications. That made sense to me. But there was all the vanity business, wasn’t there? Am I being presented as a complete idiot now, or just an idiot? And is it the presentation or is it me?’

‘I wish you would drop all this,’ Linda said. ‘It’s so unnecessary! It takes so much out of you. It occupies you all the time.’

‘Yes, I know. But I will stop doing it. I’ll refuse everything.’

‘You’re such a wonderful person. If only you could see that.’

‘My basic feeling is the opposite. In fact, it pervades everything. And don’t say I should have therapy.’

‘I didn’t say a word!’

‘You feel the same,’ I said. ‘The only difference is that you also have periods when your self-esteem is intact, not to put too fine a point on it.’

‘Just hope Vanja will be spared this,’ Linda said, looking at her. She smiled at us. The whole table was covered with rice, and the floor under the chair. Her lips were red with sauce, and white grains were stuck around her mouth.

‘But she won’t be,’ I said. ‘It’s impossible. Either she has it from the start or she picks it up on the way. It’s impossible to hide. But it might not mark her. It doesn’t have to, does it?’

‘I hope not,’ Linda said.

Her eyes were moist.

‘That was delicious anyway,’ I said, getting up. ‘I’ll do the washing-up. Should manage it before they come.’

I turned to Vanja.

‘How big is Vanja?’ I asked.

She stretched her arms above her head proudly.

‘So big!’ I said. ‘Come on, and I’ll give you a little wash.’

I lifted her off the chair and carried her into the bathroom, where I rinsed her face and hands. Held her up in front of the mirror and rested my cheek against hers. She laughed.

Then I changed her nappy in the bedroom, set her down on the floor and went in to clear the table. After it was done and the dishwasher was humming beneath the worktop I opened the cupboard to check in the unlikely event that something had happened to the bottles.

It had. Someone had drunk from the grappa bottle since yesterday, and I was absolutely certain because the contents had been level with the edge of the label. The cognac was standing in a different position and although I wasn’t quite so sure of this, it appeared some had been drunk.

What the hell was going on?

I refused to believe that Linda was behind this. Especially after we had been chatting about it the night before.

But there was no one else here.

It wasn’t as if we had a home help or anything.

Oh shit, no.

Ingrid.

She had been here today. And yesterday. It had to be her, it was obvious.

But was she drinking while she was looking after Vanja? Was she sitting here with her grandchild around her legs and knocking back the juice?

If so, she would have to be an alcoholic. Vanja was everything to her. She wouldn’t risk anything, for Vanja’s sake. But if she was still drinking, the urge had to be stronger in her, it had to be, she was willing to risk everything for it.

Oh, Lord above, please be merciful.

From the bedroom floor I could hear Linda’s footsteps approaching, so I closed the cupboard door, went to the worktop, took a cloth and began to wipe down the surface. It was ten minutes to six.

‘I’ll go down for a smoke before they come. Is that OK?’ I said. ‘There’s a bit left to do, but . . .’

‘Of course. Off you go,’ Linda said. ‘Take the rubbish down on the way, will you?’

At that precise moment the doorbell rang. I went to open up. A young man with a beard and a shoulder bag stood there smiling. Behind him was another man, older, dark-skinned, with a large camera bag over his shoulder and a camera in one hand.

‘Hi,’ the young man said, proffering his hand. ‘Kjetil Østli.’

‘Karl Ove Knausgaard,’ I said.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said.

I shook the photographer’s hand and asked them in.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘That would be nice. Thank you.’

I went into the kitchen, fetched the Thermos of coffee and three cups. When I returned they were looking around the living room.

‘Getting snowed in wouldn’t be a problem here,’ the journalist said. ‘You’ve got the odd book or two!’

‘Most of which I haven’t read,’ I said. ‘And the ones I have I don’t remember a thing about.’

He was younger than I had thought, probably no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven, despite the beard. His teeth were large, his eyes jovial and his personality was easy-going and cheery. This type was not unfamiliar to me, I had met several people who reminded me of him, but only in recent years, never when I was growing up. It might have had something to do with class, geography or generation, probably all of them at once. South-east Norway, middle class, I guessed, possibly academic parents. Well brought up, self-confident manner, sharp-witted, good social skills. Someone who had not been buffeted by adversity yet, that was the impression he gave in the first few minutes. The photographer was Swedish, thereby evading any chance I had of detecting nuances in the way he presented himself.

‘In fact, I had decided to turn down all interviews from now on,’ I said. ‘But they said at the publisher’s you were so good that I absolutely mustn’t let the opportunity slip through my fingers. Hope they’re right.’

Bit of flattery never hurts.

‘I hope so too,’ the journalist said.

I poured them a cup of coffee.

‘Could I take a few shots here?’ the photographer asked.

As I hesitated he assured me they would only be of me and nothing else.

At first the journalist had wanted to do the interview at home, and I had said no, but when he rang to arrange where to meet I said they should come up after all. Then we could take it from there. I could hear he was pleased.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Here?’

I stood in front of the bookshelves with a cup of coffee in my hand, he walked round taking photos.

What a load of shite this was.

‘Could you raise your hand a bit?’

‘Doesn’t that look a bit artificial?’

‘OK then. We’ll let that one go.’

From the hallway I heard Vanja crawling in. She sat up in the doorway and looked at us.

‘Hi, Vanja!’ I said. ‘Are there lots of scary men here? But you know me, don’t you . . .’

I lifted her up. At that moment Linda came in. She gave a perfunctory greeting, took Vanja and went back into the kitchen.

Everything I didn’t want to be seen was seen. Everything that was me and mine became stiff and stilted. I didn’t want it to be like this. No bloody way. But there I went again, grinning like an imbecile.

‘Can I have a couple more?’ the photographer asked.

I posed again.

‘A photographer once told me that taking pictures of me was like taking pictures of a lump of wood,’ I said.

‘Must have been a rotten photographer,’ said the photographer.

‘But you know what he meant?’

He stopped, took the camera away from his face, smiled, put it back and continued.

‘I think we should go to Pelikanen,’ I said to the journalist. ‘That’s my local. And there’s no music. Should do the trick.’