My Struggle: Book 3 by Karl Ove Knausgård Page B

on the edge of the bed.
    He thrust open the door. Took a step inside and stopped, looked at me.
    His eyes were narrow, his lips clenched.
    “What are you doing, boy?” he said.
    “Nothing,” I said, eyes downcast.
    “Look at me when you talk to me!” he said.
    I looked at him. But I couldn’t. I looked down again.
    “Something wrong with your ears as well?” he said. “LOOK AT ME!”
    I looked at him. But his eyes, I couldn’t meet them.
    He took three quick strides across the floor, grabbed my ear, and twisted it as he dragged me to my feet.
    “What did I tell you about switching on the TV?” he said.
    I fought for breath and was unable to answer.
    “WHAT DID I SAY?” he said, twisting harder.
    “That I … that I sh … sh … shouldn’t do it,” I said.
    He let go of my ear, grabbed both of my arms, and shook me.
    “NOW LOOK AT ME!” he yelled.
    I raised my head. Tears almost blurred him out.
    His fingers squeezed harder.
    “Didn’t I tell you to keep away from the TV? Eh? Didn’t I tell you? Now we’ll have to buy a new TV and where will we get the money from? Can you answer me that, eh!”
    “No-o-o-o,” I sobbed.
    He threw me down on the bed.
    “Now you stay in your room until I tell you otherwise. Have you understood?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “You’re grounded tonight, and you’re grounded tomorrow.”
    “OK.”
    Then he was gone. I was crying so much I couldn’t hear where he went. My breathing was jerky, as though it was moving up a staircase. My chest was trembling, my hands were trembling. I lay there crying for twenty minutes perhaps. Then it started to ease. I knelt on the bed and gazed out of the window. My legs were still shaking, my hands were shaking, but it was loosening its hold on me, I could feel, it was as though I had entered a quiet room after a storm.
    From the window I could see Prestbakmo’s house and the entire front of their garden, which bordered ours, Gustavsen’s house and the front of their garden, a bit of Karlsen’s house, and a bit of Christensen’s at the top. I had a view of the road as far as the mailbox stand. The sun, which seemed to become a touch fuller in the afternoon, hung in the sky above the trees on the ridge. The air was perfectly still, not a tree or a bush stirred. People never sat in their front gardens, that would be “displaying yourself,” as Dad would say, making yourself visible to all; behind the houses was where all the garden furniture and the grills were in this neighborhood.
    Then something happened. Kent came out of the door of Karlsen’s house. I saw just his head above the parked car, the coruscating white hair gliding along like a puppet in a puppet show. He was gone for a few seconds, then he reappeared on his bike. He stood up on the pedals, jerking them backward to brake, shot out onto the road, and built up a pretty good speed before braking hard and swerving and coming to a halt in front of Gustavsen’s house. He had lost his father, who had been a sailor, two years ago. I could barely remember him; in fact, I had only one image of him, once when we were walking down the hill, it was sunny and cold, but there was no snow, I was holding my small orange skates with three blades and straps to attach them to your shoes, so we must have been on our way to Lake Tjenna. I could also remember when I found out that he had died. Leif Tore had been standing by the line of concrete barriers that separated Nordåsen Ringvei from Elgstien, just outside our house, and had said that Kent Arne’s father was dead. While he was telling me we looked up at their house. He had been trying to pull someone out of a tank that was being cleaned, it had been full of gas and they had fainted, and then he, too, had lost consciousness and died. We never talked about Kent Arne’s father when he was there, or about death. Another man had just moved in, whose name, strangely enough, was also Karlsen.
    If Dag Lothar was number one, then Kent Arne