We ate, I went onto the tiny balcony to smoke and drink coffee, Geir joined me, we discussed the relativist attitude we both had to the world, how the world changed when culture changed, yet everything was always such that you couldn’t see what was outside, and therefore it didn’t exist, whether this view came from the fact that we had gone to university precisely when post-structuralism and postmodernism were at their zenith and everyone was reading Foucault and Derrida, or whether it actually was like that, and whether in that case it was the fixed, unchanging and non-relativist point we were denying. Geir told me about an acquaintance of his who wouldn’t talk to him any more after a discussion they’d had about the real and the absolute. I thought it a strange point to invest so much in, but said nothing. For me society is everything, Geir said. Humanity. I’m not interested in anything beyond that. But I am, I said. Oh yes? Geir queried. What then? Trees, I answered. He laughed. Patterns in plants. Patterns in crystals. Patterns in stones. In rock formations. And in galaxies. Are you talking about fractals? Yes, for example. But everything that binds the living and the dead, all the dominant forms that exist. Clouds! Sand dunes! That interests me. Oh God, how boring, Geir said. No, it isn’t, I said. Yes, it is, he said. Shall we go in? I said.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and asked Geir if I could use the phone.
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘Who are you phoning?’
‘Linda. You know, the…’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. The woman whose flat you turned down.’
I keyed in the number, probably for the fifteenth time. To my surprise she picked up.
‘Linda here,’ she said.
‘Oh hi, this is Karl Ove Knausgaard speaking,’ I said.
‘Hi!’ she said. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Yes. I’m in Stockholm.’
‘Are you? On holiday?’
‘We-ell, I’m not quite sure. I was thinking of living here for a bit.’
‘Are you? Cool!’
‘Yes. I’ve already been here a few weeks. I tried to call you, but didn’t get an answer.’
‘No, I’ve been away, in Visby.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, I was writing.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Yes, it was great. I didn’t get a lot done, but…’
‘Right,’ I said.
There was a pause.
‘Linda, I was wondering… if you fancied a cup of coffee one day?’
‘Very much. I’m here for the foreseeable.’
‘Tomorrow perhaps? Have you got time?’
‘Yes, think so. In the morning anyway.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Where do you live?’
‘By Nytorget.’
‘Oh great! Could we meet there then? Do you know where the pizza place is, on the corner? There’s a café opposite. There?’
‘OK. What time suits you best? Eleven? Twelve?’
‘Twelve’s fine.’
‘Brilliant. See you then.’
‘Yes. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
I rang off and went in to Geir, who was sitting on the sofa with a cup in his hand and looking at me.
‘So?’ he said. ‘Finally got a bite?’
‘Yes. I’m meeting her tomorrow.’
‘Good! I’ll drop by in the evening and you can tell me all about it.’
I went there an hour before I was supposed to meet her, carrying a manuscript I was doing a report on, the new novel by Kristine Næss, and sat working. Tiny quivers of anticipation ran through me whenever I thought about her. Not that I had any intentions, I had written them off once and for all, it was more the unknown, how things would turn out.
I spotted her as she jumped off her bike outside. She guided the front wheel into the stand and locked her bike, peered through the window, perhaps looking at herself, opened the door and came in. It was pretty full, but she saw me straight away and came over.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘I’ll just go and order,’ she said. ‘Anything you want?’
‘No, thanks,’ I answered.
She was rounder than she had been, that was the first thing I noticed. The boyish leanness was gone.
She placed a hand on the counter, craned her head in the direction of the waiter standing behind the hissing coffee machine. There was a hollow in the pit of my stomach.
I lit a cigarette.
She returned, put a cup of tea on the table and sat down.
‘Hi,’ she repeated.
‘Hi,’ I said.
Her eyes were greyish-green and could widen all of a sudden, I recalled, for no apparent reason.
She removed the tea strainer, lifted the cup to her lips and blew on the surface.
‘It’s been a long time,’ I said. ‘Is everything going well?’
She took a small sip of the tea and set the cup down on the table.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. I’ve just been to Brazil with a girlfriend. And then I went to Visby straight afterwards. I’m still not really here yet.’
‘But you’re writing?’
She grimaced, looked down.
‘I’m trying. And you?’
‘Same here. I’m trying.’
She smiled.
‘Were you serious when you said you’re going to live in Stockholm?’
I shrugged.
‘For a while at any rate.’
‘Nice,’ she said. ‘We can meet then. I mean do something together.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know anyone else here?’
‘Just one person. His name’s Geir. Norwegian. Otherwise no one.’
‘You know Mirja a little, don’t you? From Biskops-Arnö, I mean.’
‘Oh, very little. How is she, by the way?’
‘Fine, I think.’
We didn’t say anything for a few moments.
There was so much we could not talk about. There were so many subjects we could not touch on. But now we were here we had to talk about something.
‘It was very good, the short story you had in Vagant,’ I said. ‘It was very good, really.’
She smiled, eyes downcast.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘The language was so unbelievably explosive. Well, just very beautiful. Like a… ah, it’s difficult to talk about, but… it was hypnotic I think I was trying to say.’
She was still looking down.
‘Do you write short stories now?’
‘Yes, I suppose I do. Prose anyway.’
‘Hm, that’s good.’
‘And you?’
‘Well, nothing. I’ve been trying to write a novel for four years, but just before I left I binned the lot.’
Another silence. I lit another cigarette.
‘It’s nice to see you again,’ I said.
‘And you too,’ she said.
‘I was reading a manuscript before you came,’ I said, nodding towards the pile beside me on the sofa. ‘Kristine Næss. Do you know her?’
‘Yes, in fact, I do. I haven’t read anything by her, but she was at Biskops-Arnö with two male writers when I went there.’
‘Is that right?’ I said. ‘That’s odd. You see she writes about Biskops-Arnö. About a Norwegian girl who goes there.’
What the hell was I doing? What was I blathering about?
Linda smiled.
‘I don’t read much,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know if I’m a real writer.’
‘Of course you are!’
‘But I can remember the writers from Norway. I thought they were so incredibly ambitious, especially the two men. And they knew so much about literature.’
‘What were their names?’
She took a deep breath.
‘One was called Tore, I’m sure of that. They were from Vagant.’
‘Oh, that’s who they were,’ I said. ‘Tore Renberg and Espen Stueland. I can remember they went there.’