My Struggle: Book 3 by Karl Ove Knausgård Page A

sat up on the bed. I had a knot in my stomach, but there was no hint of the warmth and softness that illness brought with it, it was cold and painful and so tight that no tears in the world could undo it.
    For a while I sat crying.
    If only Yngve had been at home. Then I could have stayed with him in his room for as long as possible. But he was out swimming with Steinar and Kåre.
    A sense that I would be nearer to him if I went into his room, even though it was empty, brought me to my feet. I opened the door, tiptoed along the landing, and into his room. His bed had been painted blue, mine orange, in the same way as his cupboard doors were blue and mine were orange. The room smelled of Yngve. I went to the bed and sat down.
    The window was ajar!
    That was more than I had dared hope for. Now I could hear their voices down on the terrace without their knowing I was here. If the window had been closed I would have revealed my presence when I opened it.
    Dad’s voice rose and sank in the calm manner it did when he was in a good mood. Now and then I caught Mom’s brighter, gentler voice. From the living room came the sound of the radio. For some reason I had the impression that my grandparents were asleep, each in their separate chairs, their mouths open and their eyes closed, perhaps they often sat like that in Sørbøvåg when we visited them.
    There was a clink of cups outside.
    Were they clearing the table?
    Yes, because afterward I heard the flip-flop of Mom’s sandals as she walked around the house.
    At once I wanted to have her for myself! Then I would be able to tell her first!
    I waited until I heard the door below being opened. Then, as Mom came upstairs carrying a tray of cups, dishes, glasses, and the shiny coffee pot with the red lid atop a garland of clothespins that Yngve had made at Mom’s arts and crafts workshop I went out onto the landing.
    “Are you inside in this hot weather?” she said.
    “Yes,” I answered.
    She was about to walk past, but then she stopped.
    “Is there something the matter?” she asked.
    I looked down.
    “Is there?”
    “The TV’s busted,” I said.
    “Oh no,” she said. “That’s a pity. Are Grandma and Grandad in there?”
    I nodded.
    “I was just about to go and get them. It’s such a fantastic evening. You come out, too, come on. You can have some more juice if you want.”
    I shook my head and went back into my room. Stopped inside the door. Perhaps it would be wisest to join them outside? He wouldn’t do anything if they were there, even if he found out I had broken the TV.
    But that in itself could make him even more furious. Last time we had been to Sørbøvåg everyone had been sitting round the dinner table, and Kjartan had been saying that Yngve had had a fight with Bjørn Atle, the boy on the neighboring farm. Everyone had laughed at that, Dad too. But when Mom had taken me to the shop and the others were having a midday nap, and Yngve had gone to bed to read a comic, Dad had gone in, lifted him up, and shaken him about because he had been fighting.
    Nope, the best would be to stay here. If Grandad or Mom said the TV was broken he might lose his temper while he was sitting there with them.
    I lay back down on my bed. My chest trembled uncontrollably; another flood of tears was set in motion.
    Ohhhh. Ohhhh. Ohhhh.
    He would be coming soon.
    I knew it.
    Soon he would be here.
    I put my hands over my ears and closed my eyes and tried to pretend nothing existed. Only this darkness and this breathing.
    But a feeling of defenselessness overcame me, and I did the opposite, knelt on the bed and looked out of the window, at the flood of light falling across the landscape, the glowing roof tiles and glinting windowpanes.
    The door downstairs was opened and slammed.
    I cast around wildly. Got up, pulled the chair from under the desk, and sat down.
    Footsteps on the stairs. They were heavy; it was him.
    I couldn’t sit with my back to the door and got up again. Perched