The Morning Star

by Karl Ove Knausgaard

  “I don’t think it’s anywhere here,” I said when we reached the wall at the other end. “Let’s go back and have another look, and if we don’t find it the only thing we can do is hope it comes back on its own.”

  “It’s here, Daddy, I know it is,” said Asle. “They’re good at hiding.”

  “Yes, they are,” I said.

  * * *

  —

  Egil couldn’t be persuaded to stay for another drink after we’d finished looking. He had things to do, he said, got on his bike and pedaled off home.

  I poured myself one more and sat down in the chair he’d just vacated. Luckily, I’d had the presence of mind to ask him to leave me a few cigarettes.

  I lit up, crossed one leg over the other, leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling.

  The boys were playing football again, Ingvild was in her room talking to someone on the phone, and Tove had shut herself away in the annex, so I could sit where I was with a clean conscience.

  One drink. Then I’d go and gut those fish.

  I stood up and went over to the stereo cabinet, opened it and switched on the amplifier, flicking through the small collection of records that bore the mark of my parents’ uninformed tastes which I’d been so scornful about in my teenage years. Diana Ross alongside Steve Harley alongside Pink Floyd alongside Lillebjørn Nilsen.

  I’d been ashamed of them. My electrician dad and my primary school teacher mum. Hadn’t I deserved better?

  At least I’d got a bit wiser with age.

  The Wall!

  What did that sound like now?

  I lowered the stylus onto the rotating record and stepped back into the middle of the room as the first gentle concertina tones welled from the speakers.

  Then suddenly: DA! DA DA! DA DA DA DA DA!

  I started to sing along, finding that every note had remained with me since childhood, when my parents had sat in the same room, playing the same record, while I’d lain awake, listening, in my own room.

  La la la la lalalala.

  La la la la lalalala.

  I went over and picked up my drink, knocked it back and poured myself another. My hands beat the air with imaginary drumsticks that pounded out the rhythm, and when the song went into the crescendo, a plane engine rising and rising in intensity, I closed my eyes, holding my hands out in front of me and making them tremble as if in delirium, faster and faster, until the engine noise abruptly came to a halt and the sound of a wailing baby kicked in, and then I stood quite still, for the sound of the baby crying touched me so profoundly, and my eyes filled with tears.

  I sat down and lit another cigarette, happier than I’d felt in years. The urge for that feeling to continue was powerful. But there were things in the way. I had to make the dinner, for a start, but faffing about with such minutiae didn’t appeal in the slightest; what pulled on me now were the sweeping swathes of much greater things. I didn’t even feel like sitting down to eat with the kids. Not that I wouldn’t be able to—as long as I got myself together a bit they wouldn’t notice anything—but the effort required to return to such a piddling domain seemed almost insurmountable. Couldn’t I just give it a miss for once?

  I could drive over to Egil’s.

  Or Trond Ole’s!

  It was just what he’d suggested.

  No questions there.

  Only there was something else I needed to do first.

  Something important.

  I got up and went over to the record player, picked up the arm and switched off the amplifier.

  What was it now, that had been so important?

  Outside, the door of the annex opened and Tove emerged. She’d put on her raincoat even though the sun was out; it reached to her knees, where it met the top of her rain boots.

  Where was she going now?

  I went out. As I opened the front door, she was already on her way over the lawn.

  “Tove!” I called out.

  She spun round.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “For a walk,” she said.

  “Can you make dinner?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ll have to,” she said.

  She turned round again and carried on walking toward the path that went down to the sea.

  I went back inside. The elation had left me, but it wasn’t far away yet, I could still feel it.

  Only there was something I needed to do.

  What was it?

  Gut the fish. That was it.

  The deflation came instantly as I realized what it was.

  It had to be done, yes. No two ways about it.

  But it would require some ammunition.

  Supplies. Not ammunition. Supplies was the word.

  I filled the glass to the brim and went out with it in my hand, pausing for a slurp on the doorstep while staring at the sea.

  The sun was descending in the sky, its rays, invisible in the air, ricocheting into little shards of light on the smooth surface of the water.

  A small, rasping noise came from somewhere on my left. I turned round to see what it was. A squirrel was scaling the wall of the house, defying gravity it seemed, for the wall was quite perpendicular and the little animal was scurrying about on it with ease.

  It stopped. Twitched its tail a few times. Downwards, to the side, upward. Downwards, to the side, upward.

  Was it looking at me?

  “Hello, little squirrel,” I said. “What are you looking at?”

  It made a chirping, chattering kind of sound, then darted diagonally toward the roof, clambered over the gutter and ran along the ridge, its paws pattering on the roofing felt before it disappeared from view on the other side.

  I took another slurp.

  Maybe I should just bring the bottle? It would save me going back and forth.

  I went inside again. Ingvild’s door opened down the corridor and I slipped into the bathroom just before she emerged, locked the door and sat down on the edge of the bath.

  How idiotic was this? Hiding from your own kids.

  “Dad?” she said.

  “I’m on the toilet,” I said.

  “I was just wondering what time dinner’s going to be ready.”

  “Soon,” I said.

  “What are we having?”

  “I’m on the damn toilet, for God’s sake!”

  “OK, OK, sorry for asking,” she said.

  I heard her door close again. I pulled some paper from the roll, dropped it in the toilet bowl, flushed and then rinsed my hands under the tap, went back out and got the bottle, took it with me to the cellar, put it down on the workbench and stood staring at the crate of fish for a minute before bending down and gripping the first between my fingers and thumb. With the knife that lay ready on the bench I cut off its head, not without pleasure, for the blade slipped so easily through the dry skin, the moist flesh and the hard backbone. Then I made an incision down the length of the belly, spread out the two sides and scraped out the intestines and organs, rinsed the now gutted fish, put it to one side, took a slurp from the glass, to which fish scales immediately affixed themselves, and gripped the next one.

  I did five before taking a break and sitting down on the rickety old stool under the little window.

  I only had one cigarette left now, as I discovered when I opened the packet.

  I lit up, leaned my head back against the wall and closed my eyes.

  * * *

  —

  I woke up coughing, without fully realizing where I was at first. I was sitting in almost complete darkness. And then the smell kicked in, the smell of muggy cellar and fish, and it all came back to me. It was like being in a hot-air balloon, I thought, as if while I’d been asleep I’d slowly lost altitude, descending toward the ground and life down there
. I needed to ascend again before it was too late.

  I’d run out of cigarettes, but still had whisky, and I downed what was left in the glass.

  “Brrr!” A shudder went through me and I shook my head before pouring another.

  I couldn’t stay here.

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket and found Trond Ole’s number.

  If I texted him, he might say he was busy. I’d be better off just going over there.

  I poured myself another drink with one hand while swiping to my messages and scrolling for Ingvild’s name with the other.

  I need to pop out, I typed. There’s pizzas in the freezer. Can you heat them up for you and the boys? Won’t be long.

  I stood up and went outside clutching the bottle in my hand, closed the door behind me and started to walk toward the car when I realized the key was in my jacket pocket on the peg in the hall.

  “Shit,” I said, and went back along the side of the house, opening the door as quietly as possible and stepping inside. The TV was on in the living room, so the boys were most likely in there watching it. And Ingvild would still be in her room unwinding after coming home from her grandmother’s.

  I found the car key and crept out again. As I pressed the button on the fob and the lights flashed briefly in the gloom, my mobile pinged.

  I got in and turned the ignition before checking to see who it was.

  It was Ingvild.

  OK, she wrote.

  Great! I typed back, with three heart emojis, threw the car into gear and pulled out onto the road. The kiosk at the marina would still be open, I reckoned. I drove slowly to be on the safe side, having only a vague sense of how drunk I was. Probably not very, if I was making sure to drive safely.

  The thought was a good one and I kept it in mind all the way down to the jetty. After the bend, when the road straightened out, I twisted the top off the bottle and took a swig. The next bend came before I had time to replace it, forcing me to steer with one hand while holding the bottle in the other.

  The car park in front of the kiosk was empty. But the window was lit up, and I could see the outline of a figure inside. I pulled in and opened the door to get out. Still gripping the bottle, I staggered and had to steady myself.

  It occurred to me it might be best to leave the bottle behind, and so I put the top back on and put it down in the footwell in front of the passenger seat, while glancing toward the kiosk to see if whoever was in there had noticed.

  Nope. He or she was sitting with their head lowered, looking down, and as I got closer I saw a face, faintly illuminated from below.

  I tapped a knuckle against the pane.

  He—I could see now that it was a he, a fat-looking lad of about seventeen—gave a start.

  I gestured, index and middle finger dabbed against my lips, the universal sign for smoking.

  He opened the hatch.

  Forty Marlboro, I said.

  Right you are, he said.

  I stuck my card in the machine he held out to me and entered my PIN, picked up the two packets and went back to the car.

  I got in and removed the wrapper from one of the packets, found a lighter in the glove compartment, lit up and took a couple of drags while staring out at the marina. If it hadn’t been for the bottle being nearly empty I could have forgotten all about Trond Ole and just sat there.

  On the seat beside me my phone lit up.

  I picked it up. It was Ingvild, a text.

  Where’s Mum? she wanted to know.

  Christ. Couldn’t I get a moment’s peace?

  How should I know? I wrote back.

  I turned the ignition, swung the car round and drove back onto the road, the cigarette still in my hand. There were no other cars about, and the police weren’t going to be out here checking at this time, so I had nothing to worry about, I told myself, and put my foot down.

  The phone lit up again. With my eyes on the road I reached for it, felt its hard surface against the palm of my hand and held the screen up in front of me.

  She’s not here, it said.

  OK, I typed, and put it down. The road led on through an area of forest, the trees standing darkly on either side. In the daytime you could sometimes glimpse the sea between their trunks, and it was always hard to tell if the rushing sound you could hear came from the trees or the waves running against the shore farther down.

  I lowered the window and tossed my cigarette out, lit another, and took a swig of whisky. I put the bottle in the drink holder and couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. It was secure there even without the top on.

  A new text message appeared. This time I left it.

  There was a bend in the road, after which I emerged onto the outstretched plain that made you think you were somewhere up in the high fells.

  Suddenly there was a crunching noise from under the wheels; it sounded like a series of small explosions.

  I slammed on the brakes.

  Was it a flat tire?

  No.

  There was something on the road.

  All over the road.

  They looked like pebbles. But they were moving.

  I opened the door and got out cautiously.

  And then I saw that they were crabs. Crabs, in their hundreds.

  They made a ticking sound.

  Fucking hell.

  What was going on?

  I went back to the car and got in, and shut the door.

  They kept coming, crawling out onto the road from the grass.

  I gulped some more of the whisky and lit another cigarette.

  It was like they were answering the call of some other power. As if they were drawn by a light.

  But on land?

  Ugh. They were steered by instinct, and why shouldn’t instinct break down like everything else?

  I sat for a while, hesitating to turn on the ignition, for there was no way I could carry on without running them over. Then, just when I’d got myself together and put the car into gear to slowly make my way, the sky flared over the ridge at the end of the plain.

  It looked like the forest was on fire.

  But it was a heavenly body, I realized, for the light ascended into the sky, separating itself from the ridge in moments.

  It was a star.

  And what a star.

  I killed the engine and got out, leaned back against the car and gazed up at it. Behind me, on the passenger seat, the phone lit up again.

  KATHRINE

  I, who am always early, never late for anything—and I mean never—found myself scurrying along the platform toward the elevator up to the departure hall at Gardermoen only half an hour before my flight on a Sunday evening in August, pulling my trolley case behind me, my bag dangling awkwardly from my shoulder and my heart thumping in my chest. It would be no disaster if I missed it—I could always check into the airport hotel, catch the first flight the next morning and be at the office by nine o’clock—but I simply couldn’t bear the thought. There was a darkness in it that was already seeping out, and there was badness in it too. This was irrational, of course, but it didn’t help at all to know this. The only thing that helped was to make it in time.

  The elevator was already going up when I reached the door.

  Typical.

  Why hadn’t I taken the escalator instead?

  I pressed the button, leaned forward and saw through the glass doors the bottom of the elevator, halted above me. I checked my phone for any messages. There was one from Gaute asking when my flight got in, one from Camilla to say thank you for a lovely weekend, and one from SAS, unopened since the day before.

  Where was that elevator?

  I pressed the button again.

  “It doesn’t matter how many times you press, it won’t come any quicker,” a voice behind me said.

>   It made me jump and I turned to see who it was. A man in his sixties with a singularly soft, round face was standing there.

  How had I not been aware of his presence?

  “I know,” I said. “I still do it, though.”

  “It won’t do any harm, at least,” he said with a smile.

  He clearly belonged to the category of jovial men, the sort who need to be cheery all the time, and who exploit others to that end.

  The elevator came gliding down.

  “There, you see,” I said. “It did help.”

  I pulled my case inside and stood by the door at the other end.

  “Off to Bergen, are we?” the man said.

  How on earth did he know?

  “No,” I said. “What makes you think so?”

  “Doesn’t look like you’re going far,” he said. “And the Bergen flight’s one of the last domestic departures.”

  “Ah,” I said, hoping he wasn’t going to press the matter.

  I hurried through the enormous departure hall which was rather empty at that hour, checked in and passed through security without having to queue. In fact, I may have been the only passenger there. The departure board told me the flight was already boarding, and as I set off along the wide, endless corridor I broke into a trot. I didn’t care for it at all, it made me feel irresponsible with my flapping coat and dangling shoulder bag, my arms flailing back and forth like that, but the chances of anyone I knew witnessing such a loss of dignity were almost non-existent, and to anyone else I was just a woman who was late for her flight.

  Apart from two airline staff behind the counter, the gate was empty.

  “You’re just in time,” one of them said, a young man with a dark, trimmed beard. Breathless, I handed him my boarding card. He scanned it, and as I went toward the plane I heard him give the boarding completed announcement over his walkie-talkie.

  I was still gasping, and paused for a second to get my breathing under control. I felt slightly unwell too.

  Was I really in such poor shape?

  Entering the aircraft a moment later, I saw the man from the elevator in one of the business-class seats. Immediately, I looked the other way, but too late.