The Morning Star

by Karl Ove Knausgaard

  The angel Lucifer, the Morning Star, had been banished from heaven to earth. Now the Morning Star shone once more from the sky. So what did that mean?

  Not that I believed the star to be Lucifer or Christ. The star was a star. But I had no doubt that it was a sign of something.

  I swallowed a mouthful of Pepsi. It was diluted now, the ice cubes already melted.

  You only had to look at it, I thought, and tipped my head back to gaze at it. The star was filled with meaning. It affected everyone who saw it. Something silent and intense streamed from it. It was almost as if it possessed a will, something indomitable that the soul could contain, but not change or influence.

  The feeling that someone was looking at us.

  I snapped back at a sudden noise from the shore. Viktor was standing up, focused on something on the ground in front of him. I realized he’d smashed the bottle against the rocks. I put the Bible down, stubbing out my cigarette as I got to my feet, and dashed down to where he was standing.

  “Did you smash that bottle?” I said.

  He nodded and smiled.

  “But, Viktor, you know you can’t do that! There’s broken glass everywhere now, people can injure themselves. Animals too, for that matter. That’s not what you want, is it?”

  “It’s so boring here,” he said.

  “You might think so,” I said. “But there’s lots of things to do, if you bother to think about it. Come on, how about a swim? It’s like the Mediterranean out there.”

  “I don’t want to,” he said.

  “OK,” I said. “How about something to eat, then? You must be starving by now. I bought pizzas.”

  He said nothing.

  “Are you hungry?”

  He nodded.

  “Good!” I said. “But first we’ve got to pick up all this broken glass. Come on!”

  “You can do it,” he said.

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to do. I knew I ought to insist, maybe even force him, because disrespecting nature was one of the worst things I knew, and that was something he had to learn. On the other hand, I had the distinct feeling he was only going to be obstructive and that I’d end up doing it myself anyway. If I forced him, the rest of the day and the evening too would be ruined.

  I crouched down beside him.

  “Listen, Viktor,” I said. “Somebody might injure themselves on that broken glass. An innocent animal could cut itself and perhaps be prevented from finding food because of it. And we don’t want an innocent animal to die because of something you did, do we?”

  “Who cares?” he said. “It’s only some glass. You can pick it up yourself, if it’s so important to you.”

  “OK,” I said. “But if you do it again, I’m going to be angry with you.”

  I went up to the house and came back again with a plastic bag to put the shards in. They were spread over a fairly large area, and although I probably didn’t retrieve them all, I was reasonably sure I found the biggest bits, at least.

  Now and then, I looked up at Viktor as he sat by himself on the rock, small and hostile. It was hard to believe that he belonged to me.

  I dropped the plastic bag into the recycling bin at the front of the house, and then had a look in the garage to see if there was anything there that he could play with, finding an old dartboard and a set of darts that I took out onto the veranda and put in the corner for later on, before going inside to make us something to eat.

  I never fussed about setting the table properly when I was on my own, naturally, but now I took out two of the best plates, which according to my father were from the mid-nineteenth century, and two wine glasses, even if we were only having pizza and soft drinks.

  Viktor came as soon as I called for him, grabbed a piece of pizza and stuffed it in his mouth even before he’d sat down. I hadn’t eaten frozen pizza since the time I’d been living with Torill and she’d had one of those days where she just lay in her bedroom.

  It tasted like cardboard then, and it tasted like cardboard now.

  “Have we got any ketchup?” Viktor said, without looking at me.

  The joy of him saying “we” was immediately offset by the realization that I could only disappoint him.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I forgot to buy some.”

  He grabbed another slice, his fingers digging into the topping, and devoured it.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go for a swim?” I said. “It’s just the weather for it.”

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t you like swimming?” I said. “The water’s not cold in this heat.”

  He stood up and went behind his chair, and before I’d managed to react or even knew what was happening, he’d lifted it above his head and brought it crashing down onto the table with all his might, smashing the plates and glasses in the process.

  He let go of it, turned and walked out.

  My heart was thumping in my chest.

  I remained seated for a minute to collect myself, noticing that he’d gone and sat down at the same place on the shore.

  There was something seriously wrong with the boy.

  I went into the kitchen and got a bin liner and a dustpan and brush, and started to clear the table, then I dumped everything, the pizza, the shards of china and glass, into the bin outside. Once I’d got things reasonably straightened up inside, I went out onto the veranda and lit a cigarette. I was still trembling all over.

  He’d done it for the sake of attention. Or to make me punish him.

  I wasn’t going to punish him. And I wasn’t going to give him any attention for such a wanton act of destruction.

  The best thing I could do was ignore him.

  It would give him something to think about.

  Again, I felt the strong urge to mix myself a gin and tonic. It was something to do with the taste of it in the heat, the cold glass in the palm of my hand. The liquid’s gentle rotation as the hand drew its little circles. The chinking together of the ice cubes, small and slick. The green slice of lime in the gleaming, transparent refrain of it all.

  Why was he so angry?

  It couldn’t be that bad out here, not even for a ten-year-old.

  He was more than angry. It was as if a rage were set inside him, deep in the marrow of his bones.

  What was he thinking now?

  Was he pleased at what he’d done?

  Was he even thinking about it?

  I couldn’t remember what I thought about when I was his age. I hadn’t the faintest idea.

  It was too hot for coffee.

  Or maybe an espresso? Three little mouthfuls.

  A slight wind came in from the sea. I could see it ripple the surface at the shore. The pennant at the side of the house lifted on its breath, like an animal after a long sleep.

  I’d always disliked these sea breezes intensely, even when I was little. It was something to do with the world, hitherto so polished and still, becoming unsettled. The surface of the sea became unsettled, the flowers and bushes became unsettled, the trees became unsettled, and then the flaglines would begin to rattle against their poles, the worst sound in all of my childhood.

  Why did the world become unsettled? What tormented it? What was on its mind?

  I went into the kitchen, put some water in the bottom of the espresso pot, poured some coffee into the little metal cylinder, screwed the top on and put the pot on the ring of the cooker, where it soon sizzled and spat.

  How strange that I’d tasted apple when I stepped inside the bus, I thought, at the same time picturing myself sitting down next to Viktor out there on the shore, putting my arm around him and hugging him tight.

  He would only twist away, perhaps get to his feet and stomp off.

  But perhaps it was what he wanted?

  All children, surely, wanted to be hugged?
<
br />   I decided to do so, as soon as I’d drunk my coffee. He’d just have to run off, if that was how he wanted it.

  The coffee pot hissed.

  That taste of apple had been so distinct, there was a recollection attached to it, but I couldn’t work out what it was, it was like a dream you try to pin down, only for it to keep dissolving.

  I went into the living room and looked out.

  Viktor wasn’t there anymore.

  I heard footsteps and rummaging from the veranda outside.

  When I went out, he was trying to lean the dartboard up against the window, but seemed to have realized it wasn’t such a good idea and stepped back to stand there holding it in his hands.

  I wasn’t angry with him, I sensed as I saw him there, his slight frame awkwardly askew, as if bent oblique by the wind, his face as ever resembling a grin, with its narrow eyes and prominent cheekbones. But I didn’t feel any affection for him either.

  “We can nail it up somewhere, if you like,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “To a tree, maybe?” he said.

  “No, trees are living. We shouldn’t put nails in them. How about round the front? On the side of the garage, perhaps?”

  He nodded again.

  “I just need to see to something in the kitchen first,” I said. “Are you going to wait here? Or do you want to go round on your own?”

  He shrugged.

  I wondered if I’d been too appeasing as I went inside again. The coffee pot was hissing louder now, but the water had yet to come to the boil.

  Should I wait for it, or turn it off and go back out?

  If I made him wait, the initiative he’d taken could disintegrate.

  But it would only take a few moments for the coffee to be ready. Wouldn’t it be ruined if I turned the cooker off now?

  I pressed the pot down hard against the ring, and the hissing got louder. I took a cup from the shelf above the cooker and put it out on the counter, then fished my mobile out of my shirt pocket to see if anyone had phoned.

  Johan. Three times.

  Unlike him, I thought to myself, and as I heard the coffee start to bubble up to the upper chamber of the pot I decided to call him back later on. I took the pot off the ring, turned the cooker off and glanced out of the window while I waited for the coffee to settle.

  A sailing boat was putting in next to the boathouse. It was using its outboard. A woman stood at the rudder, while a man stood aft with his arm outstretched, a gaff in his hand. Two kids sat in the bow, looking down, their heads lowered, no doubt immersed in their mobile phones.

  This was my property.

  I’d never put a sign up, not believing in private property rights in that sense, and it was OK by me if it was only for a couple of hours, but something told me they were planning on anchoring up for the night.

  I poured the coffee into the cup and went round to the front of the house with it. Viktor stood throwing darts at the garage wall, trying to make them stick.

  “This is a good place,” I said. “Hang on a minute, I’ll get the hammer and some nails.”

  I drank the coffee in one go, put the cup down on the ground next to my bike and went into the garage, to the corner where my dad’s toolbox was kept. There were plenty of loose nails in the bottom of it, and I found a small hammer too.

  “How about here?” I said, holding the dartboard against the wall about a meter and a half off the ground.

  Viktor nodded, and I drove the nail into the wood.

  “There we are,” I said. “You’re all set now.”

  I picked up my cup and was about to go back inside, already looking forward to sitting down, the light streaming in, the Bible in my lap, pausing now and then to ponder the sea, but then it struck me that here was a chance to get close to him, and I put the cup down again.

  “I thought you were going in,” he said as he took aim, moving his arm backward and forward from the elbow a couple of times, before launching the dart.

  It fell flat against the board and dropped to the ground.

  “Bad luck,” I said.

  A swarm of midges hung in the air by the wall, each tiny insect whirring this way and that, though without the shape of the swarm altering in any way.

  The apple tree in the woods. That was where the taste had come from. The wild apples I’d eaten as a child. There was something fairy tale about a tree no one owned, blossoming alone in spring, quite apart from the trees that surrounded it, to bear such copious fruit in late summer.

  “You try, then, if you think it’s so easy,” said Viktor, handing me a dart.

  I threw without thinking, and a wave of regret washed through me as the dart buried itself in the board only a hair’s breadth from the bull’s eye.

  “Beginner’s luck,” I said. “Your turn.”

  He aimed again, making the same movement of his arm before throwing his dart. The arc it described was far too short, and it struck the wall side-on below the board and dropped to the ground again.

  “OK,” I said. This time I was more aware of the situation as he handed me the dart, and my throw pierced the wall above the board where it remained.

  “You see,” I said.

  “See what?” he said.

  “That my first throw was just lucky.”

  The sunlight poured down from above and seemed to refract from even the smallest surface, radiant in every tree of the sloping woods, particularly the birch that were almost shimmering as they trembled in the breeze.

  The soil that bordered the track looked like dust that would whirl up at a glance.

  Viktor concentrated again.

  Perhaps we could go into the woods and see if there were apples on the tree?

  He lifted a foot from the ground and lunged forward as he threw. This time, the dart struck the board properly, but lacked the thrust to penetrate.

  He spun round and walked away.

  “Hey, where are you going?” I said.

  “It’s boring,” he said.

  “I can show you how to do it,” I said.

  “You’re no good at it either,” he said, and disappeared round the side of the house.

  I picked up the darts, then threw them quickly in succession. They ringed the bull’s eye like a bunch of flowers. I felt deceitful, and turned round to make sure Viktor hadn’t come back unexpectedly and seen me throw. He hadn’t, and I removed them from the board, putting them down on the ground and leaving them there. Going back inside, I got my phone out and pressed Johan’s number.

  “Well, if it isn’t my old pal!” he said in his Swedish, as if I were calling out of the blue.

  “Johan,” I said. “How’s things?”

  “Excellent, I must say. How about you? Still in that hut of yours? Ha ha ha!”

  “I’m doing fine,” I said, leaning forward with my hand on the windowsill as I looked down toward the inlet. “I can see you phoned earlier on?”

  “I did, yes. Have you seen the news today?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  They’d put a tent up down there. Only now they were nowhere to be seen. Maybe they were on the boat, below deck.

  “So you’ve not heard about Kvitekrist?”

  “Them going missing, you mean? My guess is they’ve gone into hiding.”

  “Well, you’re wrong there, I’m afraid. They’ve been done in, the lot of them, and rather brutally, so it seems, too. It’s even made the news here in Sweden today. They’re saying it looks like a ritual killing. The whole of Bergen’s buzzing about it.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “All of them?”

  “Well, three of them, anyway. All suspicion’s on number four, the drummer.”

  “Jesper? Never, I don’t believe it. But . . . where did this happen? And when?”

  “Up at Svartedike
t. You know the place, you’ve been there yourself.”

  I sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall. I felt sick.

  “What are you going to do with all the footage you’ve got? Every TV station in the world’s going to be after it now. CNN, Fox, you name it. And please don’t say you’re going to keep it to yourself!”

  “Why not?” I said. “Why would I want to sell?”

  He sighed at the other end.

  “Then finish the film, at least! I can put everything else on hold if you want.”

  “I’ll have to think,” I said. “When did you say it happened?”

  “They were found yesterday.”

  “And they were definitely murdered?”

  “Three of them, yes. Murdered and mutilated.”

  “Christ,” I said. “They were just kids.”

  “Not anymore,” he said. “Anyway, call me if you decide to go ahead. You know where to get hold of me. And listen, you need to finish that film! Please?”

  After the call, I lit a cigarette and went back out onto the veranda. Seeing Viktor sitting there, I stubbed it out again and went over to him.

  “We must find something to do, Viktor,” I said. “I agree darts is a bit boring. But we can’t just sit and do nothing.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Do you want to phone your mum?”

  He shook his head.

  “Maybe we can go to the garage and see if we can find something? There’s all sorts of stuff in there. There’s bikes, too. We could go out somewhere on them, if you want? Or go off in the boat? I’ll let you steer?”

  “Haven’t you got an iPad?” he said.

  “No. I’ve got no internet here. Not even on my phone. But hey, I know this apple tree in the woods. Do you want to come with me and see if there’s any apples on it yet?”

  “Who are they?” he said, pointing at the boat in the inlet, the four figures who were walking back along the shore toward it.

  “No idea,” I said, and got to my feet. “Tourists, that’s all.”

  “What are you going to do?” he said.

  “Nothing in particular,” I said. “Read a bit, perhaps. I quite fancy a swim now, too. There aren’t many things better than a swim in the sea on an evening like this. Have you tried it?”