A green one is hanging farther in. It is quite stunning. She had worn it to his fiftieth birthday party. She wore it to her own party, too. Which, come April, will have been two years ago. Around the bodice is a thin red belt that passes through the dress’s green velvet loops. And the bodice is pleated. It has a torn seam, but it can be easily mended. It goes far up the neck and down the back a little. But she usually wore a boa over her shoulders – a boa that he bought for her. It was very cheap, since he was the frugal type, after all. He eventually sold it when he had needed money, but he told her about it afterward. She didn’t get upset. And she didn’t ask what he needed the money for.
Alma was kind, he thinks to himself. Thinks it completely willingly as he stands under the light and pokes through the loops with his nail. A little below the neckband are two shiny spots with a good handbreadth, the widower’s handbreadth, between them. He is a little irritated when he sees them. He starts rubbing and rubbing them. But then he suddenly stops. It feels as if he has burnt himself. The area he was rubbing had been stretched out by Alma’s breasts. She had large, heavy breasts, and they stretched out all of her dresses. When she was young, they were also large, but in those days they were firm. He used to sink into them headfirst. But later he always felt with his hand first. He thinks breasts should be big and firm enough to provide just the right resistance to a man’s hands. That was nice. And beautiful, too. Nevertheless, he burnt himself as he rubbed against the memory of Alma’s breasts.
Then he hangs the green dress in the closet again.
Finally, he takes out the red dress. He always takes it out last. Because he looks at it the longest and because it hangs the farthest in. But also because it’s the worst dress. Because it’s the most beautiful dress. Even though he appreciates anything beautiful, he’s afraid of the beautiful red dress. When he holds it, he holds it like a man holds a woman, a dainty and beautiful woman. And before he lays it on the table, he blows away as much dust as he can from the tablecloth.
He shouldn’t actually feel what he feels when he leans over the red dress and watches the light reflecting on its soft surface. No stretched-out breasts have ever left any marks on it. Nor have any bony hips or a protruding backside touched it. The dress is utterly pristine because Alma has never worn it. He bought it for a Christmas present. He didn’t have the money for it, but he still bought it. Alma wasn’t with him when he did. If she had tried it on, it would have been too tight. And he knew it would be too tight. But he bought the dress anyway.
You couldn’t have known, she said on Christmas morning, as she stood barelegged in her thick slip in front of the mirror, trying to put it on. In that moment he wanted to say, Yes, of course, I could have known. I knew, all right. But I still bought it. But instead of saying it, he started laughing. Not a prolonged laugh by any means, but afterward he wished that he hadn’t because she asked what he was laughing at. At a story I happened to think of, he answered. She didn’t ask which story. She only laid the dress on the table. Don’t worry, she said; you’ll see, I can let it out. Since I can’t wear it as it is now. Then a thought sank deep into his mind like a hot stone. Then it dropped to his tongue, where it stayed and burnt impatiently. But he was able to put it out with saliva this time. The burning thought: you weren’t meant to wear it anyway.
Now he remembers the thought. He can never forget it because it’s such a dangerous thought. On Christmas, he had filled his mouth with spit and put it out. But it came back the day after Christmas. They were invited to Mälarhöjden at five that evening, so Alma got up at five that morning. When he asked why she was up so early, she answered, I’m going to try to let out the dress so I can wear it tonight. Then he pulled her back into bed. Don’t do that, he said. Why not? she asked. Then he told her he wanted to exchange it the next day for a larger size. The next day was Sunday. He knew that. But she had forgotten. Nevertheless, she went back to bed. Suddenly, she took his hand and placed it on her left breast. Then, as soon as she let his hand go, he pulled it away. He put it over his mouth instead, as if to suppress a yawn. But it wasn’t a yawn. It was a glowing stone that wanted out of his mouth. Something wanted him to spit it out. Something tried to force him to say, I didn’t mean for you to have the dress. But I bought it anyway.
But ever since that first night when he took out the red dress and laid it on the table, he has known that the most horrible thing about the thought was not the words he already knew. The most horrible thing is that the words continued. Nobody had forced him to think the words that followed. Or to say them. Yet he knows them like one knows what is said behind a closed door without being able to make out a single word. The knowledge of these lingering words was what had made him so certain that day when the blaring ambulance came closer, block by block – so sure of himself that before it stopped he had already wiped the shaving cream from his face with a towel and put on his jacket. And when they came running up the stairs to get him, it was this knowledge that had made certain he was already ready to go.
Before the fifth night, nobody had forced him to reveal what the rest of the words were. But on the fifth night he is forced. As he fondles the delicate shoulders of the red dress, he hears a faint yet terrifying sound behind him, the sound of something light falling by the son’s door. When he turns around, Alma’s hat is lying on the floor. It was hanging on the doorknob before it fell. Someone must have turned the knob for it to have been able to fall. Dreadful is the eye now watching him through the naked keyhole. And it’s an ugly eye because it’s so naked, because it’s so merciless, because it’s so terrifyingly young. There is nothing more terrifying to a hardened conscience than a young, naked eye. It knows nothing. And therefore understands everything.
But he isn’t afraid of his son because he understands everything. He’s afraid of him because of what the son’s eye forces him to do. For it is terrible. It makes him grab the red dress, which suddenly doesn’t have a loop that isn’t burning, makes him pick it up from the table, and makes him take it to the armchair. It makes him slowly spread it out into a woman and then makes him bend over the woman who has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. As he hunches over her, it forces him to think so loudly that it drowns out everything inside him as well as everything outside of him: you were never meant to wear this dress, Alma. I didn’t buy it for you. I bought it because I knew you were going to die.
Afterward, he is no longer afraid of the son. But he is so terribly afraid of what he has been forced to think that he can’t even be in the same room with such a thought. So he leaves the room with all its bright lights. From the kitchen, he rushes out to the entrance. He carries the worn-out shoes downstairs with him. But he forgets to turn on the light before he ventures across the yard to the garbage container. He’s afraid that the stairwell light will go out before he can get back. So he flings the shoes into the snow-covered yard and runs through the front door and out to the street. From the street, he looks up at the windows. The son is looking out the father’s window. So he walks farther down the street. When he looks back at the window, the son is gone. Then the light goes out in the father’s room. And when he reaches the corner, the light goes out in the son’s room, too. By the time he comes back, it has snowed a lot. The entire building is draped in darkness. He turns on the yard light and starts looking for the shoes. They are covered in snow, and he can’t find them. Then a shift worker arrives on his bicycle. He asks the widower what he’s looking for. The widower tells him that he’s looking for his key. Then, on the way to the bicycle storage shed the worker rides over the shoes. He picks them up, and brushing off the snow, he says:
There’s a pair of shoes here. I’ll be damned if they aren’t nice. I think I’ll take them up to my old lady and get off easy this time.
Then the widower finds his key, and they walk up the stairs together. The worker goes first. He has his tool bag in one hand and Alma’s shoes under his arm. When they are four flights up, the widower invites him in for a drink. The shift
worker is exhausted. Soon he will be very drunk. And when he leaves, he forgets the shoes. Then the widower empties the garbage on the floor. He puts Alma’s shoes at the bottom and buries them underneath the trash. After that, he rinses his hands and has another drink.
He isn’t afraid when he goes into the room. He only turns on one of the ceiling lights, and under the light he hangs the red dress back in the closet. He also picks up the hat.
When someone is dead, there is someone left behind to mourn. When a wife is dead, the widower stays behind to mourn. When a mother is dead, a son is left behind to mourn. If they don’t mourn, one pretends that they do. This is called decency. To be decent is to leave people alone. And to pretend they are doing what others want them to do.
They are left alone for the first few weeks. And unless they contact a friend, they are completely alone. The son doesn’t contact anyone. So he is alone. Sometimes he calls his fiancée, but anytime she mentions that she has a headache, he hangs up. Still, it is true. If the father is lonely, then there really isn’t anyone who notices. Sometimes his sisters call. But if the line is busy, they wonder who is calling. Then they tell everyone what they suspect. And everyone believes them because they never liked Alma. Because of this and because he is mourning, no one else calls him.
Sometimes the sisters do get through. This happens more often than not, but they never tell anyone this. Whenever the son answers, they never ask to speak with the father. They only ask what he is doing. Whenever he tells them that the father has gone out to get the paper, they ask whether he left a long time ago. Five minutes ago, he always says. They don’t like this answer. They like to be right. They like being right more than they like knowing the truth. Besides, they know the son is lying. They can always tell when people are lying, but never when people are telling the truth.
They live together in a single-room apartment with a kitchen on Hantverkar Street. The ugly one works at the consul’s. The beautiful one is a waitress. The beautiful one has been married twice. The ugly one has never been married. This is why they don’t like each other. But whenever they call their brother, they always call together. Then they only have one thought and only one ear. Sometimes they put the phone down and start whispering. When they speak to the son, that is. One evening, after they stopped whispering, the beautiful one says:
Do you have anyone to clean for you?
No, he answers, we don’t have anyone to clean for us.
Then the ugly one must have yanked the phone away. In any case, she is the one who shouts:
She should probably come and clean. That’s the least she could do!
He doesn’t ask who. If he asks who, they would whisper for a bit. Then they would lie. So he tells them that they will try to clean for themselves. As best they can. They don’t like his response. The ugly sister, whom he considers nice because she had cried, doesn’t like the answer because she thinks it’s inappropriate. She can tolerate almost anything, but nothing inappropriate. Because such is not tolerated at the consul’s. And when she had cried, she did it because it was inappropriate not to cry, not because she was compassionate. Sometimes being appropriate is the same thing as being compassionate. But it can just as often be the same thing as being mean. And now she is being mean. He holds the receiver firmly against his ear as her meanness spits through it. But it doesn’t come out the other end. It’s lodged inside him and aches.
I feel so bad for you, my boy, she says. Your mother is dead and you have no father. I feel so sorry for you, my boy.
Malice has a tender voice, a silky, flattering voice. Nothing else in the world has such a silky voice. And how it hurts! With pain, he nearly screams into the receiver.
Don’t feel bad for us. And we do clean. Papa cleans out the closet every other night.
Now it’s silent on the other end. Then the beautiful one speaks. She is not mean. Concerned is what she is.
What’s he doing in the closet? she quickly asks.
Then he starts to describe everything that has been going on late at night. He explains about the shoes. Then it’s quiet for a while. After that, he explains about the dresses. Then it’s quiet for a lot longer. The beautiful sister comes back on the line. She is very concerned now. She has been concerned the entire time. She is beautiful and knows what men do for beautiful women.
We’ll come and help you clean, she says. But don’t tell Knut. It’s to be a surprise.
And it certainly will be a surprise. But not much will be cleaned. The sisters arrive at seven the following evening. The father and son are both home at the time. They had just eaten pea soup. Then they had some coffee. They told each other how good they thought it was. But neither of them really thought that. Which is why they repeated it.
Before the aunts come in, they look behind the door as if they were expecting someone to be there. The father notices and is annoyed. He gets upset with the ugly sister, even though they are both looking.
What are you staring at? he asks and turns on the light for them in the entrance.
Nothing at all, the ugly one answers.
And in a way, it was nothing. In a way, it’s also nothing they are staring at when they scan the room with their coats still on. They aren’t staring at anything, yet almost immediately they notice that the flowers are wilted and that Alma’s portrait is gone. The closet doors are not ajar. But had they been even remotely open, they could have peeked inside. But now they can’t peek inside without staring. So they don’t look at all. But as they take off their coats in the entrance, the young and beautiful one starts whistling. The other one doesn’t whistle. She has never learned how. Nor is it appropriate. The widower is annoyed and asks them why they are whistling. The beautiful one replies that she is simply whistling. Which is precisely what she is doing.
There’s a lot of whistling. But there’s not a lot of cleaning. Yes, they throw the wilted flowers away, and, yes, the ugly one sweeps the used matches, dried mud, and a white streetcar ticket from the floor, and of course, she dusts here and a little there over the cabinets and the picture frames. But as soon as she’s in the room by herself, she puts the rag down and looks at other things for a while. She looks, for instance, at the photographs on the bookcase. One picture is missing. It was one of Alma. But the ones in which she was not alone are still there. Then she tries looking through the dusty glass of the bookcase. When Knut comes into the room, she tells him that the books ought to be dusted. Then the brother says that he has lost the key. He lost it somewhere in the snow in the yard. Then she asks why the key was even in the yard. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns on the radio. But no one listens to it.
In any event, they spread a fresh tablecloth on the table. Coffee will be made after the ugly one cleans the kettle. The beautiful sister rinses a cup for herself. The ugly one washes three more. Then the beautiful sister waters the flowers in the room. Not all of them, but the five that the water is able to reach. Then she stands on a chair and adjusts the pendulum clock. He would rather do it himself, but because it is she, he doesn’t say anything to her – but also because he had forgotten to do it himself. When she stretches out her body to pull the hour hand down to eight, he tells her that she has beautiful legs. The sister laughs and says that her shoes aren’t worth much.
Afterward, when they are sitting at the table in the kitchen, the beautiful one suddenly stretches out one of her arms. Then she stretches out the other one and yawns. The sleeve on the first arm has a torn seam in the armpit. Then she mentions that she doesn’t have a single decent dress to wear. The widower takes her arm and squeezes it above the elbow. Then he asks her to go in the other room with him.
When they come back, the son is suddenly terrified. She had come in swiftly and silently through the doorway. His mind knows that it’s his aunt, but his fear is quicker than his thoughts. His fear can only see his mother coming. And he imagines this because the beautiful aunt is wearing his mother’s green dress. She says that she has to take it in. And wh
en she takes it off, her slip comes off with it. She is standing with glistening teeth between the table and the stove. She is blushing, but her body is as shiny as salmon. The father takes her gently by the hips. Then the ugly one tells him to leave her alone. The beautiful one grows solemn and folds up Alma’s green dress. He has kissed her before. She was sixteen then, and she was braiding her hair. Then he kissed her when she was eighteen, but then she immediately burst into tears. Now she is thirty-six. For eighteen years she hasn’t cried whenever someone has kissed her. But he has never done it again.
After she folds up the dress, she takes off her shoes. The ugly sister takes off hers, too. Then the brother goes to get the two pairs of shoes from the closet. And the black dress, too. As the sisters try on the shoes, the beautiful one saunters back and forth in the high heels. But the other one sticks her feet under the darkness of the table to see how the shoes fit. She doesn’t try on the dress at all. Nor does she thank him for it. But just as they are about to leave, looking at the widower, she says that Alma would have wanted her sisters-in-law to have them. She stressed the word sisters-in-law. The question is whether he noticed it.
Then the beautiful sister asks for a bag to carry the clothes in.
There has to be one in the closet, she says. I can go and get it myself.
A Moth to a Flame Page 5