Read Online My Struggle: Book One by Karl Knausgaard - Free Book Online Page B

the round dining table. It was old, I assumed it had belonged to his grandmother.
    Dad put two chops, three potatoes, and a small pile of fried onions on my plate. Sat down and heaped his plate.
    â€œWell?” he said. “Anything new at school?”
    I shook my head.
    â€œYou didn’t learn anything today?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo, of course not.”
    We ate in silence.
    I didn’t want to hurt him, I didn’t want him to think this was a failure, that he had a failed relationship with his son, so I sat wondering what I could say. But I couldn’t come up with anything.
    He wasn’t in a bad mood. He wasn’t angry. Just preoccupied.
    â€œHave you been up to see Grandma and Grandad recently?” I asked.
    He looked at me.
    â€œYes, I have,” he said. “Dropped in yesterday afternoon. Why do you ask?”
    â€œNo special reason,” I said, feeling my cheeks flushing. “Just wondered.”
    I had cut off all the meat I could with the knife. Now I put the bone in my mouth and began to gnaw. Dad did the same. I put down the bone and drank the water.
    â€œThanks for making me a meal,” I said, and got up.
    â€œWas the parents’ evening at six, did you say?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” I answered.
    â€œAre you staying here?”
    â€œThink so.”
    â€œThen I’ll come and get you afterward and we can drive up to Sannes. Is that alright?”
    â€œYeah, course.”
    I was writing an essay about an advertisement for a sports drink when he came back. The door opening, the surge of sounds from the town, the thudding of footsteps on the hall floor. His voice.
    â€œKarl Ove? Are you ready? Let’s get going.”
    I had packed everything I would need in my bag and satchel, they were at bursting point because I was staying for a month and didn’t quite know what I might need.
    He watched me as I came downstairs. He shook his head. But he wasn’t angry. There was something else.
    â€œHow did it go?” I asked without meeting his eyes, even though that was one of his bugbears.
    â€œHow did it go? Well, I’ll tell you how it went. I was given an earful by your math teacher. That’s how it went. Vestby, isn’t it?’
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell me? I had no idea. I was caught completely off-guard.”
    â€œSo what did he say?” I asked and started to get dressed, infinitely relieved that Dad had kept his temper.
    â€œHe said you sat with your feet on the table in lessons, and that you were obstreperous and smart-alecky, and talked in class and you didn’t do class-work or your homework. If this continues he will fail you. That’s what he said. Is it true?”
    â€œYes, I suppose it is in a way,” I said, straightening up, dressed and ready to go.
    â€œHe blamed me, you know. He went on at me for having such a lout as a son.”
    I cringed.
    â€œWhat did you say to him?”
    â€œI gave him an earful. Your behavior at school is his responsibility. Not mine. But it wasn’t exactly pleasant. As I’m sure you understand.”
    â€œI do,” I said. “Sorry.”
    â€œFat lot of good that is. That’s the last parents’ evening I’ll ever go to, that’s for sure. Well then. Shall we go?”
    We went out to the street, to the car. Dad got in, leaned over, and unlocked my side.
    â€œCan you open up at the back as well?” I asked.
    He didn’t answer, just did it. I put the bag and the satchel in the trunk, closed the lid carefully so as not to rouse his ire, took a seat at the front, pulled the belt across my chest, and clicked the buckle into the locking mechanism.
    â€œThat was excruciatingly embarrassing, no two ways about it,” Dad said, starting the engine. The dashboard lit up. The car in front of us and a section of the slope down to the river as well. “But what’s he like as a teacher, this