The Morning Star

by Karl Ove Knausgaard

  “Nothing interesting,” he said. “I’m just trying to explore the Nazism and anti-Semitism, how it comes through in the notebooks and how it relates to his more regular philosophy from the same period.”

  “That sounds very interesting,” I said.

  “No, not at all,” he said. “Everyone’s doing it now. But I’m doing it mainly for my own sake. I’ve always been fond of Heidegger.”

  “You want to rescue him?”

  “No! That’s the last thing I want! I’m just trying to look at it with an open mind.”

  “Peering into the abyss?”

  “Looking the Devil in the eye.”

  “I’m with you,” I said. “I’ve been peering into an abyss of my own today, as it happens. Tove’s had to go into the hospital with a psychosis. I’m on my way back from there now.”

  “Oh dear,” he said. “That’s bad news. Poor Tove. And poor you and the kids. How are they coping?”

  “They’re doing fine,” I said. “I’m trying to shield them as best I can. It’s not the first time she’s been ill, though.”

  “So she’s going to be staying in the hospital down there?”

  “I think so, yes,” I said. “Hopefully, she’ll be well enough to come home soon. A psychosis like that often clears up rather quickly, apparently.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear about this, Arne,” he said. “Let me know if you need any help with anything when you get back.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’ll be fine, though. Anyway, good to speak to you.”

  “Same here. Have a safe journey home!”

  I hung up and put my phone in my pocket. I always thought it was poor manners to leave it on the table while eating, even if you were on your own, and I could see the food was arriving now.

  The steak wasn’t completely tender, but more than satisfactory. There were chips to go with it, in a kind of a basket thing. They were crisp and delicious.

  The table behind me was occupied by Germans, the one on my right by some Brits, while everyone else within earshot was from Eastern Europe. The beach was teeming with people, the sounds they made came like arrows through the air, laughter, conversation, shrieks and cries.

  I should have brought the kids. Now we’d have to wait until next year.

  I drank the rest of my beer and patted the pockets of my shorts in search of my cigarettes, realizing immediately that I’d left them in the car.

  “Here Comes the Flood” came to me again, and I sang silently to myself.

  For some reason, I couldn’t quite believe in the climate crisis, not really, not in the way it was going to play out in my lifetime. I knew it was happening, so rationally I did believe in it, but not emotionally. I wasn’t frightened by it, basically because it didn’t feel like it was anything to be frightened of.

  Could people be varyingly empathetic toward nature too?

  Get a grip, man. Anguish won’t get you anywhere.

  Besides, even if my powers of empathy were poorly developed, who was to know? I wasn’t exactly going around showing it off to people.

  I turned toward the waitress again. She was on her toes, even if she couldn’t speak the language, and came over immediately.

  “Could I have the bill, please?” I said in Norwegian.

  She understood, and nodded.

  Lothar had run bang into a midlife crisis, turning up one morning in the department in full Lycra, mud splattered up his back, helmet in one hand, backpack with his books and papers in the other. He even asked if I wanted to see his bike in the lunch break, and when I googled it afterward I could see he’d lashed out thirty grand on it.

  Thirty thousand kroner!

  For a bike!

  I smiled and got my card out of my back pocket, putting it down on the little plate with the bill she’d left on the table.

  When I first got to know him, he was all beard and hair, his body little more than an appendix to his mind. Now he’d had a haircut and tidied himself up, was slim and tanned, and looked more like a financial analyst than a professor.

  Why couldn’t they bring the card reader out with the bill? The way they did it was such a bind, first they brought the bill and then they went off somewhere so you had to wait for them to come back before you could give them your card and pay.

  What was the idea? Was it to allow the customer time to study the bill first? But surely the customer could do that while they waited with the card reader?

  No, Heidegger wasn’t my man. I’d tried reading his analyses of Hölderlin and couldn’t help thinking he was committing the beginner’s error of inserting his own agenda into the poem, instead of drawing elements out of the poem and then cautiously blowing on them until they started to flame. The poem had to be read in its own light, it was the only sure method. What he wrote was no doubt good enough on its own terms, but it had little to do with Hölderlin.

  At last, the waitress returned to my table with the card reader in her hand. I added ten percent, for the service had been good and the food not bad at all.

  Five minutes later I was on my way toward the freeway again. No reason not to get a move on now, I thought. Besides, something inside me longed for speed.

  Mum’s car was barely more than a sewing machine, but I got it up to 130 before it started to rattle and shake.

  I listened to the War on Drugs for the rest of the way. The melancholy was a perfect match for the mood I was in, and for the landscape through which I drove, the dark wall of weather slowly approaching through the bright sunshine.

  White boats in the strait, the supermarket car park filled with cars, two cyclists wobbling their way up the approach to the bridge, bikes heavy with luggage, laden like mules.

  What if she was right? I thought all of a sudden. What if we were dead, and this was the land of the dead?

  I smiled and pushed the lever to squirt some washer fluid onto the windscreen, whose true, filthy state was revealed in its encounter with the sunlight.

  The notion that the division between the realms of the dead and the living was not as sharply drawn up in the classical age as it was now was a subject I was going to talk about next week. But that this world could be the realm of the dead was not something I’d considered before. Maybe it would be a good place to start? Or would that be confusing things too much? They’d probably have no idea what I was talking about. Their brains were so unbelievably conformist, I could hardly depart an inch from the world they knew without them bombarding me with criticism and skepticism.

  Perhaps I could invite a priest to give a guest lecture. Or was that a bad idea?

  The Church of Norway’s line on life after death?

  No, it would be interesting, of course it would. There were so many mutterings going on there now, so much sidestepping that it was impossible to know what they actually believed. Everything dissolved in a fog of good intent.

  I crossed the bridge and followed the sweep of the road to the left, past the bay with its pontoons and into the woods, the occasional clearing opening out into meadow, then turned left at the crossroads, carrying on a few kilometers before the gravel track appeared on the right and the white-painted house and annex at last came into view, at right angles to each other, the grass in between.

  Mum was reading at the table outside, I noticed as I pulled up. Next to her, Ingvild lay on a bath towel, soaking up the sun.

  “Hi,” I said as I went toward them. “Everything all right here?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Mum said, taking off her sunglasses.

  Ingvild sat up.

  “How long’s Mum going to be in the hospital?” she said.

  “They’re not sure,” I said. “Hopefully not too long.”

  “Is she going to be transferred to the hospital at home?”

  “Not just yet, I don’t think. Perhaps in a few days, o
nce she starts feeling a bit better.”

  “Did you ask them?”

  “There was so much else to think about,” I said. “But I’ll be in touch with them every day. I’ll ask when it’s appropriate.”

  She said nothing, but snatched up her towel and went inside.

  “What are the twins doing?” I said.

  “They went in,” Mum said. “Complaining about the heat.”

  “They’ve got a point,” I said, and sat down.

  There was a jug of water on the table, beside it three drinking glasses in a little stack. I took one and filled it up.

  “It may be none of my business,” she said, looking at me. “But there’s beer on your breath.”

  I stared at her.

  “Yes, you’re right,” I said. “It’s none of your business.”

  “All right,” she said, picking up her book again and starting to read.

  “I stopped off at the hotel where we used to have Sunday dinner,” I said. “I had something to eat and a beer to go with it. I’m forty-three years old, you know, and in charge of my own life. I hadn’t had a thing to eat all day. And I’d just put my wife in the psychiatric ward.”

  She looked up at me and nodded.

  “So that’s why you can smell beer on my breath,” I said.

  She put the book down.

  “Ingvild and I had a talk,” she said.

  “Oh yes?” I said calmly, though bracing for the worst.

  “She told me what happened here yesterday.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said you got drunk and crashed the car while they were on their own with Tove. Tove, who’s going through a psychosis.”

  “Firstly,” I said, “I wasn’t drunk. I’d had two beers, that was all. Secondly, I only popped out to get some cigarettes. Yes, I know it’s stupid, but I’ve started smoking again. Thirdly, Tove was asleep at the time. And fourthly, the reason I crashed was because the road was crawling with crabs all of a sudden, which I swerved to avoid.”

  Mum stared into space for a moment, as if she needed time to process what I’d said.

  “The point is that you weren’t here for them when they needed you,” she said in a measured voice. “Ingvild was very afraid. She still is afraid. They need stability, especially with Tove being as unstable as she is. And the only person who can give it to them is you.”

  “I know,” I said. “It was a combination of unfortunate circumstances, that’s all.”

  I stood up.

  “I’ll go and see what the twins are up to,” I said. “When were you thinking of going back?”

  “That depends on how long you need me here,” she said.

  “Well, I need to get things ready for driving home tomorrow,” I said. “I’m sure it would be good for the kids if you stayed until then. Until we get going, I mean.”

  “Then I will,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  The rain came stealing in as I packed and tidied up, an inky curtain of cloud that darkened further as twilight descended, gradually blocking out the world. By the time the first drops fell, it was as if only the house and the garden existed. Beyond them, everything was black.

  The last thing I did was carry the suitcases and bags to the car and put them in the back. The advantage of the car was that you didn’t have to think too much about what to take, the way you did if you were flying somewhere, so I filled every space that was left with carrier bags full of stuff, and various items that either wouldn’t fit in the suitcases or I’d forgotten to pack and discovered only when going through the rooms to check that we’d got everything.

  It wasn’t the best way of doing things, but if I could get hold of a cleaning firm to come during the week, the house would be spick-and-span for when we came back next summer.

  I hadn’t asked Egil yet if he’d be able to come and let them in, or to check on the house now and then, and put some heating on once autumn came round, but that was just a formality. He hadn’t got much else to do out here in the winter season, and he was helpful by nature.

  I closed the trunk and went and inspected the damage again. One headlight wasn’t working, the indicator on the same side likewise, but I’d just have to chance it. If we were unlucky enough to get stopped, the worst that could happen would be that they removed the number plates, which would be bad enough, but most likely I’d only be handed a small fine.

  And in all the years I’d been driving, I’d never been stopped once.

  A raindrop splashed against my forehead, another on the back of my hand, and as I looked up into the darkness, the rain began to drum against the bodywork, a slow patter at first, then faster and faster.

  I went into the kitchen and phoned Egil as I looked out at the garden, strips of which were illuminated by the light from inside.

  He didn’t answer, and I hung up.

  Mum was sitting in the living room, watching a film with the twins. Ingvild was in her room. We’d had dinner, so there was nothing more to do for the evening.

  I had to tell them about the cat. I didn’t think it could wait until we left and they realized she wasn’t with us.

  Should I tell them she’d probably been run over?

  But probably would only give them hope, so that was no good.

  And if I said she had been run over, they’d want to know the details, how I knew, and where I’d buried her.

  I phoned Egil again, turning back to face the kitchen, looking at the empty work surface and my own blurred reflection in the window above it. Three flies scuttled across its surface in different directions. What does a fly think when it sees another fly? I wondered. Do they know they are many?

  He still wasn’t answering. It wasn’t unusual for him. Often, he left his phone behind when he went out in the boat. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

  I could pop over.

  A smoke and a drink on the veranda would be all right.

  Providing it cleared up, of course. It wouldn’t be much fun in this weather.

  I looked in on the boys, who were sitting on either side of their grandmother, immersed in the film. She was knitting and made do with glancing at it now and again.

  “Is that Howl’s Moving Castle you’re watching?” I said.

  They nodded.

  “It’s really good,” I said. “I think it’s my favorite of those Japanese films.”

  “Mm,” said Asle.

  “Can we have some sweets?” said Heming.

  “Of course you can,” I said. “We’re leaving in the morning. So you can have what you want.”

  “An ice cream?”

  “You’ll have to see if there’s any left in the freezer,” I said.

  Asle pressed pause, and they both shot off into the kitchen.

  Mum carried on knitting.

  A flash of lightning lit up the darkness faintly for a second. I counted without thinking, making it seven seconds before the thunder came.

  “Perhaps you could visit Tove in the hospital, if they’re going to keep her for a while?” I said. “I’ll see if I can get her transferred, but it might take time.”

  “I will,” she said. “Though I’m not sure it’ll suit her.”

  “Of course it will,” I said.

  “There’s no of course about it.”

  I sighed and turned toward the door as the boys came back in.

  “Can you two come with me a second?” I said.

  “Where to?”

  “Upstairs. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Stepping into the bedroom, I closed the door behind us and crouched down.

  “The kitten’s under the bed,” I said. “We’ll take him with us in the morning.”

  They knelt and bent forward to see, their ice creams still in their h
ands.

  “He’s got a name now,” I said. “Mephisto.”

  “Is he scared?” said Asle.

  “Where’s Sophi?” said Heming. “Isn’t she meant to look after him?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I’m afraid something not very nice has happened. Sophi’s dead. She was killed by a badger. Luckily, we’ve still got Mephisto, though. He’ll be our cat now.”

  “A badger?” said Asle.

  “Is Sophi dead?” said Heming.

  I stood up and tousled their hair in turn.

  “Yes,” I said. “These things happen in the animal world. But she had a good life with us. And Mephisto’s her baby. So we’ll take good care of him, won’t we?”

  “But . . .” said Heming. “Where . . . ?”

  “In the woods,” I said.

  “Did you find her?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you find her?”

  “Last night, while you were asleep,” I said. “And I buried her in the garden and gave her a fine funeral.”

  Some tears trickled down Asle’s cheek.

  “No need to cry,” I said. “She had a good life.”

  “I didn’t say good-bye to her,” he said.

  “You were always very good to her, both of you,” I said. “Anyway, come on. Tomorrow you can help me get Mephisto in the travel box. Perhaps we can give him something extra nice to eat. He’ll probably cry a bit, but only because he won’t understand what’s happening. He’s never been in a car before.”

  They followed me downstairs and sat on the sofa again.

  Relieved that they’d taken it so well, I went over to Tove’s studio for a smoke. I didn’t know what things of hers to take. Clothes weren’t a problem, but what about her work? I had no idea what she’d be needing once she was home, and just left everything as it was.

  With a cigarette smoldering in my hand, I looked through the canvases that were leaned up against the wall facing inwards, the way she always stored them.

  For some time, I stood gazing at a flat landscape she’d painted with some girls in it, their small figures among some pine trees, out of place in a way, in their jeans and T-shirts as they bent forward to pick berries, half hidden by the stems. She’d used oil paints, the colors were bright and vivid, the feeling of forest quite overwhelming. There was something vaguely unsettling about it too.