A Moth to a Flame

by Stig Dagerman

  Grinning, the father blows out the candle.

  A Letter in February from Himself to Himself

  Dear Bengt!

  It’s been a while since I last wrote to you. Last time, I wrote that Mama was dead. Now she’s dead and cremated. Her urn is on a shelf in some building at the cemetery. We were there on Sunday – Papa, Berit, and I. You know what it’s like there. Just a big gray storeroom for the ashes of the dead. Berit cried the whole time. I, for one, felt nothing. As we walked out, Papa said the urn was ugly. So I said it was beautiful. When we got home Berit made coffee, and the phone rang while we were drinking it. When Papa came back, he said it was a coworker who called. He didn’t need to say that.

  Berit left early. She had a headache. After she left, Papa said that Berit was ugly. So I said she was nice. Then he asked me if I missed Mama. I said that I knew she was dead. Then Papa said he thought that was good and that I was sensible, but I didn’t understand then what he meant. That evening we drank some more coffee and ate the rest of the gingerbread from Christmas. I reminded Papa that Mama had baked it, and he replied that she had always baked well. Then he went out to buy the paper. It was snowing, and he doesn’t like going out in the snow.

  He came back at two in the morning. He arrived in a taxi and wasn’t sober. He didn’t have the paper with him, and he didn’t like that I asked him about it. Nor did he appreciate that I was still up studying. Otherwise, he usually likes it when I stay up late to study. He wants me to be something, the sooner the better.

  As he got undressed, I asked him about it. You know what about. About whom. Are you spying on me? he asked. I replied that I wasn’t spying, but that I still knew everything. Then he shouted that he didn’t have to answer to me. I wasn’t scared. No, I answered, but to Mama. He grabbed me hard by the shoulders, but I didn’t break free. You know Alma is dead, he said. He always calls her Alma when he’s drunk. Yes, I answered, but she hasn’t always been. Then he asked me if I thought she knew about it. Yes, I said, she knew about it for a while. It was a lie, but he let me go and shut up. She was sick, I added, and you still did it. Then he repeated that he didn’t have to answer to me. I asked him why. You’re young, he said. I asked him if there was anything wrong with being young. He responded that sons can’t hold their fathers accountable. I asked him why not. Because sons are young and fathers are old, he answered. Then I asked whether sons couldn’t be better than their fathers. It’s not a matter of being better, he said. Then what is it a matter of? I asked. It’s a matter of having experience, was his answer. You get that over time. Then I don’t want that kind of experience, I yelled, not even if it’s thrown at me! Then that’s too bad for you, Son, he answered and tried to touch me. I didn’t let him.

  But after I had gone to bed, he came in through the darkness and sat on my bed. After sitting silently for a while, he asked, Do you think she took it hard? Yes, I said after a while, she always cried when you were gone at night. Really? he replied and said nothing more. But as he was leaving, I yelled at him. I don’t want to see her, I shouted, ever! Then he replied, She is going to be your mother, so you have to! I didn’t sleep that night. Instead, I took her handkerchief from my dark suit and tried tearing it to pieces. But it was too strong. Stronger than I was. So I went back to bed. But I just lay there, hating the scent all night.

  And now, dear Bengt, I have a lot to ask you. First, Can anyone hate his own father like I do? I could probably answer you that, yes, you can. You can if your father acts like mine. Then you ask what he’s done wrong. My answer is that he has deceived my mother because she was sick and because he thought she was ugly. I never thought she was ugly. Then you ask why it’s any of my business. After all, she didn’t know about it. To that I say that it doesn’t matter whether she knew or not. The fact remains: she was betrayed. And is there anything worse than to be unfaithful to the person who loves you? And is there anything more horrible than to be betrayed? Someone looks into your eyes, Bengt, and you believe that the other person’s eyes are your mirrors. Yours alone. But now they reflect someone else. There has to be a bottom, Bengt, but a mirror is bottomless. Papa is a mirror. And that’s why I hate him. All that is beautiful can be reflected in him, all that is repulsive and beautiful. And I don’t respect fidelity because it’s beautiful; I respect it because it’s necessary. He who betrays another kills her slowly. Because infidelity makes her sink. Makes her sink down into her shame, which is a deep swamp, and into her hatred, which is even deeper. If Berit cheated on me, I’d never want to see her again. But I would hit her first.

  Can anyone hit his own father? Can you answer me that, Bengt? You can need to hate him, you say, but you may not strike him. Maybe we can’t hit anyone? Well, whoever is innocent can hit. Whoever is innocent can do anything to the one who is immoral. Because the one who is innocent is right. He’s the only one in the world who is right. Purity has such terrible power, Bengt. That’s why I want to be pure. If I didn’t want to, I’d punch myself in the face.

  I never want to see her. I have seen my mother sleeping. I have walked by her in the dark and heard her sleep. So I don’t want to see the other woman. I have seen my mother dead. She had a wound on her forehead. So I don’t want to see that other woman’s forehead. I never want to see her. But if I ever do happen to see her, I’d strike her across the forehead. Don’t forget that, Bengt!

  It’s February now. You know what it’s like in February. It snows and it’s warm. The days are getting a little longer. So the nights are getting shorter. I haven’t seen Berit for a few days. The last time I saw her, I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I hurt her all the same. We were at the cinema, and afterward when we were sitting at a café she started crying over the film. So I thought I’d really give her something to cry about. I told her about Papa and she stopped crying. She didn’t believe it was true, but I wanted her to know it was true. So I said that she was stupid, that she was stupid and immature. Then she started to cry again, but she still didn’t believe it. She never believes anything bad you say about others, yet she believes everything you say about her. She started to get cold. She always gets cold when she cries a lot. Then she gets a headache. So she put her hand on the table so that I could warm it, but I was annoyed and pretended not to see it. But then as we were about to leave, I said to her, Don’t forget your hand, there on the table. I regretted it afterward, but afterward it was too late. I haven’t called her in three days. I know she’s just sitting around and waiting, crying and waiting. But she wouldn’t dare call. And I do love her. But I always get melancholic when I think of her. Eventually, I want to warm her, too. I would never be able to betray her. Besides, she loves me too much.

  My studies aren’t going so badly. Not so great either. It’s a little hard for me to concentrate right now. A young girl with glasses sits next to me in class, and just the other day she noticed I was wearing a black armband. She leaned over and looked at it. You’re grieving, she said. Yes, I answered, my mother has passed away. Then she moved away from me as though I had a contagious disease. Later, I got a question that I didn’t really understand. The professor grew impatient and gave it to the near-sighted girl. She can answer everyone else’s questions, and one day she’ll be able to answer her own. She looked at me when she answered, and I noticed that she felt sorry for me. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. There’s nothing to feel sorry for, because I know that Mama is dead. Had I gone out that day and gone shopping for her, she’d still be dead. Maybe she wouldn’t have had that cut on her forehead, but that’s all.

  I didn’t make it to the exam today. When it was time to go, the telephone rang. I answered but nobody was there. It’s incredibly annoying when the phone rings and no one’s there when you pick up. I stood with the receiver in my hand and felt how terribly cold it was. Just as I was about to hang up, I thought I heard a voice. I listened again, but no one was there. Then something compelled me to go into the other room. I opened the door and froze. You see, I thought Ma
ma was sitting in the armchair behind the table. Then I realized it was just her dress. Her best dress, the one she never got to wear. Papa had taken it out of the closet and spread it over the armchair. I don’t know why. But then when I was about to leave, I couldn’t dare turn my back to it, so I opened all the windows in the apartment and turned on the radio. A steamroller rumbled down the street, and a boat sounded from the Hammarby channel but then went silent. I lay in bed instead of going out. It was about two o’clock. When I woke up the radio was hot, and I closed all the windows. Soon after, Papa came home from work and I was glad when he arrived. It’s easier to lie when you’re happy. I told him that the exam went well, and then he gave me twenty kronor. He had a packet of pea soup and pork with him. I put it in some water and boiled it; it made two plates per person. We didn’t say anything to each other. We’re always silent when we eat, nowadays.

  Afterward, I went to my room to catch up on my studying. But then I couldn’t study. I just sat around listening to see whether he’d go out. He walked back and forth in the other room for a while. Finally, he went out and by then it was dark and sleeting. I locked both of my doors, both to the hallway and to his room, but I still couldn’t concentrate. I just waited for him to come back. He never came. Then I opened my window all the way. It was very cold outside. It was windy and snowing. The neon light on the corner was broken and flickered like fire through the snow. I stood for a long time watching it. I thought about the exams. They would be unbearable if everyone sat around feeling sorry for me. Yet I’d still take them, if I wanted to.

  There’s no reason to feel sorry for me. But, Bengt! Does a person have to be afraid of the one he once loved? Because I loved her. I really loved her. I did. But I’m not afraid at all. I just miss her. I didn’t at first, since you can’t miss what isn’t there. But now I know she is here. I found that out right before I was to go to class today. It was like a revelation. She is inside me. Because she loved me she is inside me, and that’s where I’ll let her stay. She’s inside Papa, too. Once he realizes it, he will leave that other woman and come back to me. And that’s when I will stop hating him.

  He just came home, so I’ll close now and study for a bit. He won’t go out again tonight.

  Sincerely

  Yours,

  Bengt

  Prelude to a Dream

  When someone is dead, there is, on the one hand, a big empty hole. But on the other hand, there is a lot left over. You go up to these things and look at them, twisting and turning them. But you don’t really know what to do with them. You start by gently touching them. But after a while, your fingers grow tired. That is why you end up hating them. Dresses are the worst. After that, shoes.

  On certain nights, when the father thinks the son is sleeping and when the son thinks the father is sleeping, the father pulls the shades down as far as they can go over the two windows in the room. Then he locks the door to the hallway. But over the keyhole to the son’s room, he hangs Alma’s black hat. Not because he plans on doing something he shouldn’t. He simply wants to be more alone. And when he is more alone, he turns on as many lights as possible: all five lights on the ceiling as well as the lamp on top of the radio. He doesn’t do this because he’s afraid of the dark. He only does this so that he won’t be entirely alone.

  When all of this is done, he opens the closet door. It creaked on the first night, so he greased the hinges. Now it no longer makes a sound. The deceased’s shoes are on the floor of the closet. He takes them out, pair after pair. There are four pairs, and he puts them all on the table because it has the most light. Eventually, the green tablecloth becomes dirty because he doesn’t spread newspaper over it. He used to spread newspaper on the chair where he stood to wind up the clock. Now the chair is also dirty. But the clock has stopped.

  Next, he leans over the shoes. Brushes his hands over them. Holds one shoe at a time up to the light. If he ever finds a smudge on an upper, he rubs and rubs the spot against his sleeve until it’s dirty and until the leather shines immaculately in the harsh light. If there is ever a little dried mud under a sole, he scrapes it onto the floor with a used match. Then he flicks the match onto the linoleum, since it’s no longer good, of course.

  There are eight shoes to look at, and he studies each one of them at length. One pair has holes in the soles and cracks on the upper. It’s a wide, heavy pair with low heels, and the label inside has been worn away by Alma’s feet. She was wearing these shoes when she died. Some sawdust is stuck between the cracks, and there is a streetcar ticket hanging from the broken heel. He takes it off on the first night. And when he scrapes off the sawdust four nights later, the ticket is still on the floor. He doesn’t pick it up. With his fingers he feels the smooth interior of the shoes. He thinks it’s beautiful. He finds it very beautiful that a woman’s foot can polish the inside of a shoe. Otherwise, he thinks the shoes are ugly. Even so, on the first night he spent nearly the longest time on these shoes. He held them underneath the ceiling light and was glad that it was so bright. But even though it was bright, he couldn’t help feeling that a dead person had once worn these shoes. He felt this less on the following night. On the third night, he found them exceptionally ugly. On the fifth night, he doesn’t even hold them up to the light. He places them by the door. Now they can be thrown away. After all, what use is a pair of worn-out shoes?

  Now he studies a different pair for a long time. A pair of bulky walking shoes. Stiff and black, but not ugly. She hardly wore them, had said that they were tight and that they pinched. On the first night, he quickly puts them aside. They aren’t particularly beautiful and she wasn’t wearing them when she died. But on the second night, he looks at them for a long time. On the fifth night, he looks at them almost the longest. He likes that she barely wore them. He sticks a couple of fingers inside the shoe and feels under the toe. There is a nail there, so he bends it down with his pocketknife. It’s hardly noticeable after that.

  Then there is a third pair. She had worn them to parties, the few parties she had been to, since she never really enjoyed going out. There was a funeral and a wedding now and then and that time he celebrated his fiftieth birthday party last October. It was the biggest party of all – sixty people and damn expensive. He had to take out a loan, so there were no new shoes for that party. Instead, she had old ones half-soled. Good soles but a little rough. She hadn’t worn them down much. The last time she wore them was the day after Christmas. They were invited to Mälarhöjden. The heels are also very nice. But she thought they were too high. On the fifth night a thought occurs to him as he holds the heels up to the light. Alma was a good woman, all right. And she didn’t go through shoes. The thought makes him happy. So happy that he pulls out a handkerchief. Then he gazes a little longer at the beautiful high heels. A beautiful woman can walk in these, a beautiful woman with beautiful feet.

  But on the first night, as well as all the other nights, it’s the fourth pair that he looks at the longest. It’s a strange pair of shoes. Perhaps not so strange in themselves, but strange because they had belonged to her. Well, belonged and not belonged. The fact is that she had never worn them. He came home with them one Saturday evening at the beginning of December after winning a Soccer League pool. He put the box in the middle of the table and smiled contentedly. She untied the knot, since she never used scissors for knots, and after lifting the lid, she said, Do you think I’m seventeen?

  These words were difficult for him to forget. She never wore them the day after Christmas. And they are so beautiful now that he’s glad they were never worn, never even tried on. They are black and the heels are high and they have a bold curve. The straps are thin. And meant to be fastened around slender insteps – slender, beautiful insteps. A beautiful woman should fasten them in the evening, and a man should unfasten them at night. Such are these black shoes, shoes for a party. He looks at these shoes the longest. On the fifth evening, he opens up the bookcase and hides them behind an unread Bible.

  After
hiding them, he is sweaty. So he quietly rolls up the shades and opens the window slightly. But when he looks out, a car turns onto the street and its lights reflect in the windows of the butcher shop. He instantly closes the window and is no longer sweating. He puts the remaining shoes back inside the closet. But he grabs the ones he set by the front door and takes them with him to the kitchen. He plans on throwing them in the garbage, but it’s full. So he puts them next to it on the floor. Then he opens the pantry and looks for a beer. But no one remembers to buy beer anymore. So he takes a swig instead, a big swig straight from the bottle of aquavit. He isn’t cold anymore.

  He locks the door to his room again. Then he stands by the son’s door for a while and listens. He doesn’t hear a sound, but he lets the hat stay where it is. It’s an ugly hat. Alma didn’t like hats. So whenever she did buy one, she always bought an ugly one. Alma didn’t like anything that was beautiful.

  But it’s probably worse with dresses. It isn’t so painful with jewelry. Because the jewelry poor women get from their husbands is nothing to flaunt. And their husbands know it. And they never dare flaunt the jewelry they get from other men. But their husbands don’t know anything about that. This is why jewelry isn’t so bad. Dresses are much worse.

  There are three dresses. A black one hangs at the very front. He takes it out, along with the hanger, and lays it on the table underneath the lamp. Carefully, he takes it off the hanger. Then he drops the hanger on the floor. He stands in silence for a while and waits, but he doesn’t hear anything from the son’s room. He is not alarmed, because he is confident that the son is fast asleep. It’s a simple black dress. It’s quite worn, but it can be turned. The belt that goes with it is missing. It was lost in the ambulance. A button is missing near the neck, but a new one can be sewn on. There is also a little blood. But it isn’t Alma’s blood. When she was lying on the floor, the butcher assistant cut her coat open. Then he cut the top button off her dress. He had taken a first-aid course and thought that she needed air. In reality, however, she didn’t need a thing. But it isn’t a lot of blood, and if it can’t be cleaned, then a collar can cover it up. A resourceful woman could manage it. It isn’t a particularly beautiful dress. But it is in one piece.