I smacked my forehead.
‘You’re right! I haven’t given you any books!’
They chuckled, they were children, they thought things like this were funny. I dashed to the staffroom, grabbed a pile of exercise books, handed them out and soon they were all writing while I stood by the window gazing at the mountain peaks across the fjord where they seemed to writhe their way upwards, so cold and black against the light airy sky.
When the bell rang at the end of the lesson I gathered my papers with an exuberant, almost jubilant, feeling in my body. It had gone well, there was nothing to be afraid of. And after twelve years of continuous education, the next moment — opening the door and going into the staffroom — was a particular pleasure: I had crossed the line, I was on the other side, an adult and responsible for a class of my own.
I put down my books and papers in front of my place at the table, poured coffee into a cup, sat down on the sofa and observed the other teachers. I was backstage, I mused, but what at first was a wonderful thought was immediately replaced by its antithesis, for this was not what I wanted, for Christ’s sake, I was a teacher, was there anything sadder than that? Backstage, that was bands, women, drinking, tours, fame.
But that was not what I wanted either. This was just a step on the way.
I took a mouthful of coffee and glanced at the door as it opened. It was Nils Erik.
‘How did it go?’ he said.
‘It went well,’ I said. ‘Certainly nothing to be afraid of.’
Behind him appeared the woman called Hege.
‘They’re so lovely,’ she said. ‘Little sweeties!’
‘Karl Ove?’ came a voice from the kitchenette. I looked across; Sture was standing with a cup in his hand, looking at me.
‘You play football, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ I said. ‘But I’m not much good. I played in the fifth division two seasons ago.’
‘We’ve got a team here,’ he said. ‘I’m the coach. We’re in the seventh division, so you shouldn’t have any difficulty hanging in there, I reckon. Fancy a game?’
‘Certainly do,’ I said.
‘Tor Einar’s always up for it. Isn’t that right, Tor Einar?’ he said, sticking his head into the room with the workstations.
‘Are you talking rubbish about me again?’ we heard from inside. A second later a man poked his head round the corner.
‘Tor Einar used to play in the fourth division as a junior,’ Sture said. ‘Sadly though he has no other talents.’
‘At least I haven’t lost my hair,’ Tor Einar said, coming closer. ‘So I don’t have to grow a beard to retain my masculine dignity, like some other people I know.’
Tor Einar came from Finnsnes, had pale skin and freckles, bristly reddish hair and a constant grin playing on his lips. His movements were slow and laborious, in an almost demonstrative way, as if thereby he were trying to say here comes someone who does everything at his own pace and is not concerned about anyone else.
‘Where do you play then?’ he said.
‘Midfield,’ I said. ‘And you?’
‘Midfielder/ball winner,’ he said with a wink.
‘Ah, a terrier,’ I said. ‘I was called the elk myself when I used to play. That tells you everything. .’
He laughed.
‘Why the elk?’ Hege said.
‘My loping gait,’ I said. ‘Long unsteady stride and no change of pace.’
‘Are there any other animal metaphors on the football field?’ she said.
‘There are, aren’t there?’ I said, looking at Tor Einar.
‘Yes, you’ve got the striker who’s as strong as an ox and rams the ball into the net.’
‘And then you’ve got the cat,’ I said. ‘Lots of goalkeepers called the cat. And incidentally there’s a midfield general too.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Someone who always knows where the others are and can deliver pinpoint passes at precisely the right moment.’
‘How unbelievably childish!’ Hege said.
‘And a sweeper,’ Tor Einar said.
‘And there’s often a dynamic duo up front. And then there’s the lone wolf, of course.’
‘You’ve forgotten the referee,’ Nils Erik said. ‘The ref’s a wanker.’
‘And you do this of your own free will,’ Hege said.
‘Not me,’ Nils Erik said.
‘But you two do,’ she said, looking at me.
The bell rang. I got up to collect my books for the next lesson. Sture placed a hand on my shoulder.
‘You’ve got my class now, haven’t you?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘For English.’
‘Watch out for a boy called Stian. He might try to nettle you. But don’t rise to it and you’ll be fine. OK?’
I shrugged.
‘Hope so,’ I said.
‘Make sure you always leave him a way out and he’s no problem.’
‘OK,’ I said.
~ ~ ~
English was my worst subject, and I was only two years older than the oldest pupils, so while I was walking over to the other building, where the eighth and ninth forms had their classroom, my stomach was churning again.
I put my pile of books down on the raised table. The pupils were scattered across their desks as if they had just been hurled out of a spin dryer. No one paid any attention to me.
‘Hello, class!’ I said. ‘My name is Karl Ove Knausgaard, and I’m going to be your English teacher this year. How do you do?’
No one said anything. The class consisted of four boys and five girls. A couple of them watched me, the others sat scribbling something, one was knitting. I recognised the boy from the snack bar stand: he was wearing a baseball cap and rocking back and forth on his chair while eyeing me with a smirk on his face. He had to be Stian.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Now I would like you to introduce yourselves in English.’
‘Snakk norsk!’ Stian said in Norwegian. The boy behind him, a conspicuously tall, thin figure, taller than me, and I was one metre ninety-four, guffawed. Some of the girls tittered.
‘If you are going to learn a language, then you have to talk it,’ I said.
One of the girls, dark-haired and white-skinned, with regular, slightly chubby facial features and blue eyes, put up her hand.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Isn’t your English a bit too bad? I mean, for teaching?’
I could feel my cheeks burning, I stepped forward with a smile to hide my embarrassment.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I have to admit that my English isn’t exactly perfect. But that isn’t the most important thing. The most important is to be understood. And you do understand me?’
‘Sort of,’ she said.
‘So,’ I said. ‘What’s your name then?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Camilla.’
‘Full sentences, please.’
‘Oh, my name is Camilla. Happy?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You do mean yes?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ I said, blushing again.
‘So, what’s your name?’ I said to the girl sitting behind Camilla. She raised her head and looked at me.
Ay-yay-yay.
What a beauty!
Gentle blue eyes that narrowed when she smiled. Large mouth. High cheekbones.
‘My name is Liv,’ she said with a chuckle.
‘Camilla, Liv. And you?’ I said, motioning with my head to Stian.
‘Æ heitte Stian,’ he said.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘What will that be in English?’
‘Stian!’ he said.
Everyone laughed.
When the bell rang and I left the room I was absolutely exhausted. So much had to be parried, so much had to be tolerated, so much had to be ignored, so much had to be repressed. The girl called Camilla had yawned and stretched her arms above her head while staring straight at me. She was wearing only a T-shirt, and her breasts, which were large and round, were delineated in unmistakable clarity against the white material. I had an erection, it was impossible to avoid, no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on other matters. How glad I was that I was sitting behind the teacher’s desk! And as if that weren’t enough, the girl called Liv was as winsome as she was beautiful, somehow shy and outgoing at the same time, apart from the vague wildness there was about her — which above all was embodied in her big dark blonde hair and wide selection of jangling bracelets, but also in the contrast between her reserved body language and the sparkle in her eyes — which made it impossible for me not to think about her when she was in the room. Then there was Stian, who kept fidgeting with a penknife while taking every opportunity to taunt me and who refused to do anything I told the class to do, and his friend Ivar, who laughed at everything Stian said, a hollow, slightly inane laugh that was always followed by sweeping glances around the room. But his gaze was ingenuous, sometimes even towards me, I could win him over, he had even grinned once or twice at something I had said.