The Morning Star

by Karl Ove Knausgaard

“I understand,” I said.

  “What, that I’m sorry?”

  “No, that you suspected me. I haven’t been quite myself for a while. It’s better now though.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Tonight, perhaps? I could buy some wine and something nice to eat?”

  “How about a barbecue?” he said. “The weather’s glorious.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Perhaps we could have some people round too?”

  “I thought the two of us were going to talk?”

  “We can talk afterward. Shall I ask Sigrid and Martin?”

  * * *

  —

  After we’d spoken, I sent Sigrid a text asking if they’d like to come over for dinner. I’d known her since school and we’d always kept in touch even when we’d been living in different places, though not always that frequently. When she moved back to town a few years earlier, we began seeing each other again. She was the idealistic type, her first job had typically enough been with the Klassekampen newspaper, and since then she’d worked for an aid organization in Mozambique for five years and for a charitable foundation in London after that, before they had children, Helene and Theo, and she decided to come back home and began writing for the regional newspaper. She was cynical too, and I liked that combination, the idea of her working with illusions without illusion. Sometimes, I could see myself doing the same thing, but that was definitely an illusion, my own job being concerned with emotions and relations, and about being near to something none of us really knew anything about, though all, or at least many of us, perceived. Theology was not the study of God but of how we could talk about God, to open ourselves to the Divine, so the Divine might flow. Sigrid understood this, her cynicism was aimed at the ways in which God was talked about, by the clergy especially, whom she called small-minded. “It’s all the wrong people talking about God,” she said once. “So it’s hardly surprising no one believes anymore. There’s something wrong from the outset with a man who wants to be a priest, and it is still mainly men.” “Who else should talk about God?” I asked. “The best minds, I suppose,” she said. “The exceptional talents of any generation.” And then she laughed and looked at me, and said that her criticism didn’t count in my case.

  I liked Martin, her husband, too, even if I wasn’t always sure how good he was for her. They’d got together when they were students, and Martin was still a student. He’d done a PhD in philosophy, then changed direction, becoming a radiologist and working at the hospital for a time before going back to university and doing some kind of computer course, only then to start another PhD, this time in biology, which was where he was at now. We’d stopped joking about it; it was as if an eccentricity had now become more of a fate.

  Sigrid answered immediately, they’d love to come, and I drank up the last of my Coke and took the escalator down again. It was too hot to eat meat, I thought as I emerged onto the street and was struck by the heat. Prawns, and perhaps some crab if they had any, that would be better. A chilled white wine to go with it.

  I walked down to the fish market and stood in line among the crowds. The light under the awning had a reddish tinge, like when you look at the sun with your eyes closed, at the same time as it appeared to scintillate from every surface. I stared for a while at one of the tanks in which some rather large fish were swimming. The cool green hue of its water was soothing on the eye. And the movements of the fish, their appearance, seemed so alien there on land, among shorts-clad tourists, buildings and cars.

  “Can you give me three and a half kilos?” I said when it was my turn, indicating the prawns with a nod of my head.

  The man serving me, a big fellow with a heavy, bald head and a white apron on over his red T-shirt, began scooping the prawns into a bag.

  “Perhaps you could give me a discount if they’re not fresh?” I said.

  It was obvious from the antennae, many of which were broken, that they’d been frozen. I could tell because a girl I knew used to work there when we were still teenagers, she told me they often ran over to the supermarket and bought frozen prawns when they started running out.

  “These are fresh,” he said without looking at me as he put what had now come to two bags on the scales. “So that’ll be six hundred kroner exactly.”

  “If you say so,” I said. “I don’t suppose there’s much of a difference anyway.”

  He threw me a glance as he dropped the paper bags into a plastic carrier and tied the grips together. Some beads of sweat ran down the skin of his throat.

  “I need some crab as well,” I said. “Four, I think.”

  He nodded and leaned forward, gathering up four of the crabs that lay on their bed of crushed ice.

  “Are they Norwegian?” I said.

  “The prawns are fresh and the crabs are Norwegian,” he said. “That’ll be nine hundred altogether.”

  I took out my card and he handed me the reader. Just then, my phone rang. I hurried to key in my PIN, my other hand dipping into my bag to find the phone.

  It was Mum.

  “Hi, Kathrine,” she said. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said, clamping the phone between cheek and shoulder as I retrieved my card with one hand and picked up the carrier bag with the prawns and crabs in it with the other. “Talking to you yesterday helped.”

  She laughed dryly.

  “I’m sure it didn’t. But you sound like you’re feeling better. Have you spoken to Gaute?”

  I put the card back in my wallet, my wallet in my bag, and began walking.

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I’m not going to say anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s nothing to say.”

  “Well, it’s the right thing,” she said. “Every relationship has its ups and downs. One must learn to let things ride in the down periods.”

  “And grit one’s teeth?”

  “No. It’s not torture we’re talking about. But patience.”

  There was a pause. She was in the habit of ending our conversations rather abruptly, but not this time.

  “How are things with you, anyway?” I said. “Are you at work?”

  “Yes. But I’m going out to the summer house as soon as I get off.”

  “That sounds nice,” I said.

  “It’s not because I want to,” she said. “Only I can’t get hold of Mikael. He’s not answering his phone. Which means I have to drive out there and make sure he hasn’t had a heart attack in the heat.”

  “Are you worried, seriously?” I said. “Does he always answer when you phone him?”

  “Mikael? No. He’s notorious. Can’t be trusted when it comes to keeping in touch. I can’t help wondering if something might have happened to him though.”

  “I’m sure nothing has,” I said, coming to a halt at the crossing, where the light was on red.

  “No, likely not,” she said. “He’s probably just lost his phone while out fishing. It’ll be ringing somewhere at the bottom of the sea.”

  “What a fine image,” I said.

  “Of what?” she said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Anyway, I must go. Give me a buzz when you get there, will you?”

  “Will do,” she said. “Bye for now.”

  * * *

  —

  A small, dirty, somewhat dented car was blocking the entrance to the supermarket car park. An elderly woman with thin white hair was sitting inside, and she glanced nervously at me several times as a man the same age approached the vehicle on foot from the other side. They weren’t just old, I thought, they were also rather shabby, the way alcoholics or drug addicts become shabby. I could have reversed and driven around them, but I was in no hurry and imagined they’d soon pull
out of the way. However, I couldn’t help feeling it was what I should have done, for the woman quickly appeared to be so consumed with guilt, she gestured aggressively to the man to make him hurry, before her frightened eyes darted back to me.

  She leaned across and opened the door for him. He was tall, with a narrow, stubby head and a mane of gray-white hair that was pressed flat on one side, his skin brown and rough-looking and etched with furrows. He put something inside the car before trying to get in himself. But he was too stiff, and could hardly squeeze himself into the confined space and onto the seat; it looked almost like he was stuck and unable to move at all. The woman shouted at him, or so it appeared from the way her mouth was moving.

  She glanced at me again, then grabbed him by the T-shirt and pulled. The car behind me beeped its horn as she leaned across the now seated man and yanked the door shut.

  Strange that she could be so sensitive to the needs of others and yet live the kind of life she apparently had, I thought to myself as they pulled away, leaving me to find a space in the row closest to the supermarket entrance.

  I didn’t need to buy much. Some wine, a few bottles of beer, lemons, mayonnaise, some good bread, soft drinks for the children. And ice cream, of course.

  And butter. I musn’t forget butter.

  I picked up a red basket from the stack inside the entrance and crossed through the cool, gleaming food hall that didn’t look the slightest bit like a hall, the shelves drawing one’s gaze down toward them. All the different colors, all the different logos, the sheer variation in all the packaging, a storm of signs all meaning different things, everything compellingly commanding attention.

  I never thought about it apart from at times like these, coming directly from a funeral.

  The great beyond.

  I’d talked about it in some of my sermons, about lifting one’s gaze, about seeing the bigger picture, though talking about it wasn’t enough, it had to be perceived. It had to come from inside.

  But at the graveside everyone saw the great beyond, I thought, pausing in the fruit section, my eyes passing over the shiny apple varieties, oranges, mandarins, bananas, searching for the lemons, finding them at the end of the row, bright yellow against the green felt.

  I tore off a bag and put six of them inside, then moved on to the bakery where I took two white loaves and two baguettes.

  Did anyone still call it French bread?

  There weren’t many customers. It was probably still too early for the influx of people on their way home from work. And of course there was the fine weather. The very last days of summer, before rain and wind and darkness.

  I stood for a moment in front of the shelves of beer, at first to decide what kind, then how many we would actually need. Three each? That made twelve. But three wasn’t many if they stayed late, especially not in this weather. Four made sixteen. In which case I could just as well get a crate. We’d have some in hand then.

  It wouldn’t look good, though, the priest lugging a crate of beer through the supermarket.

  Or the priestess, as Mum sometimes called me.

  Still, would anyone be bothered?

  I put the basket down on top of a crate, bent forward, picked up the crate and carried it to the checkout.

  After I’d paid and stood bagging my items, I somehow got the feeling of being watched. I turned round and looked straight at the man from the airport. He was standing over by the kiosk, staring at me.

  Without thinking, I started to go toward him.

  He turned on his heels and hurried for the exit.

  “Hey, you!” I shouted. “I need to talk to you.”

  He darted through the door. I left my shopping and ran after him.

  By the time I emerged into the car park he was perhaps twenty meters away. The bashed-up car from before pulled up alongside him. He turned to face me and lifted his hand in a wave. It looked like he was smiling. Then he opened the car door, got inside, and the vehicle, accelerating with a jolt, pulled out onto the road and was gone.

  * * *

  —

  Half an hour later, I parked on the gravel outside the house, opened the trunk and took out the bags of shopping. I left the crate of beer where it was, thinking Gaute could bring it in.

  The kitchen windows were open and music was coming from inside. Even in the shade of the tall birch tree the air was sweltering hot.

  Gaute opened the door before I’d come up the outside stairs.

  “Hi!” he said, and put his arms around me. “Glad you’re home!”

  He kissed me on the mouth; it felt almost like an assault as I stood there with a carrier bag in each hand.

  “I’m glad, too,” I said, stepping into the kitchen with the shopping. “Did you have a good day at work?”

  The music was coming from the radio, a pop station for a younger audience. At least it would have been in 1995, I corrected myself, recognizing The Wonder Stuff from my student days.

  “Same as usual,” he said. “Apart from the kids being a bit manic. It’s the weather that does it.”

  “Yes,” I said as I put the crabs and prawns in the fridge. “People die more too when the hot weather comes. And after that the cold.”

  I took a bowl out of the cupboard and put the lemons in it. Gaute came up and embraced me from behind. I straightened up and turned my head toward him. He kissed me on the cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  I could feel that he was hard.

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry about,” I said, pulling away to take the bread from the bag and put it out on the side. “I thought we’d have prawns instead. I didn’t really fancy a barbecue in this heat.”

  “Is something the matter?” he said, his arms at his sides now as he stood looking at me.

  The fine networks of lines that radiated from the corners of his eyes were clearly visible in the bright light of the kitchen, and suddenly I saw what he looked like, now. The corners of his mouth had begun to droop and the deep cleft in his brow had become permanent. His curly, faintly red hair had always been so thick and made him look younger, and his natural vigor and enthusiasm had given him such a lively face. But not anymore.

  My poor husband, I thought, and smiled at him.

  “No, nothing,” I said. “Just a hard day at work, that’s all. I held a funeral for a man in an empty church. It got to me. I don’t know why.”

  “Of course it got to you,” he said. “It’s hard to understand how you cope with so much grief every day.”

  “It’s not my grief,” I said.

  “No, but you see it. You talk to those who grieve.”

  “Listen,” I said, “there’s a crate of beer in the trunk, would you bring it in?”

  “Well, I say,” he said. “You bought a whole crate?”

  “I thought it’d be good to have some in the house,” I said. “Especially in this heat.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, and went outside to fetch it.

  I turned the radio off and went into the living room, opened the window at the far end and sat down in the chair next to it, only to get up again a moment later, to lean my elbows on the sill and look out. I was still unsettled by what had happened at the supermarket. Obviously, it couldn’t have been Kristian Hadeland I’d seen there, even if for a few minutes I’d thought so. He was dead and buried. But all the same, the experience was unpleasant, for why had that man appeared in my vicinity again? And what did he have to do with that shabby old couple?

  She’d looked so frightened the way she stared at me.

  The reason wasn’t necessarily that she’d been uncomfortable blocking my way, as I’d thought. It could quite easily have been something else, something to do with the man from the airport.

  She’d stared at me with a frightened look in her eyes, and not long after that he’d stared at me
too, and then he’d taken off with them. Almost as if he’d been making a getaway.

  Why did he run when he realized he’d been seen?

  Gaute came in and I turned round.

  “The basement’s the best place for that, don’t you think?” I said as he stood there with the crate in both hands.

  “Yes,” he said. “We’ll want some in the fridge first though.”

  “What time will Peter and Marie be back?” I said.

  He paused in the middle of the room.

  “Sevenish. I was thinking maybe they could stay the night there. Have Martin and Sigrid round without the kids to worry about.”

  “But they’ll be bringing their own,” I said.

  “OK,” he said, and went into the kitchen.

  It had all been a series of coincidences, I told myself. Nothing on which to expend time and energy. I’d run into a man who happened to look like someone I’d since buried, and then I’d run into him again shortly afterward, quite by chance. There was nothing more to it than that.

  * * *

  —

  At seven thirty on the dot, Sigrid and Martin’s red Passat pulled up in the drive. She was wearing a short white blouse that was knotted at the waist and a long, splashy cotton skirt, her hair in a ponytail, and she had sunglasses on. I noticed too how tanned she was, her confident, self-assured bearing as she got out of the car.

  She’d always looked good, that girl.

  “Hello there,” I said as she looked up.

  “Hi!” she said. “Lovely to see you!”

  Martin opened the back door so the children could get out. He had on a pair of olive-green shorts and a black T-shirt that was rather too tight, revealing a slight paunch on his otherwise slender frame. His skin was as white as chalk, and along with his dark hair and somewhat awkward demeanor it made him seem like his partner’s direct opposite.

  “Do we go round the back or should we come up first?” Sigrid said, the car key still in her hand.

  “Just go round the back,” I said. “Gaute and the children are there already.”