So the father finds it somewhat strange when he suddenly passes by. But in a way he doesn’t. Because he was actually sitting there and waiting for him. Though the first few times he isn’t himself aware that he is waiting. But one evening, right after the son passes by, the dog starts whimpering at his feet. Then he realizes that he’s sitting with his foot pressed hard against the floor and that the dog’s leash is pressed between his sole and the floor. That’s why the dog is whimpering. It can’t lift its head off the ground. But it’s not supposed to, because if its head were raised, then the dog could be seen from the street.
Since then, the father knows why he is waiting. And since then, he is never at ease until he has seen the son walk by. If, one evening, he doesn’t happen to walk by, then the father waits until it’s very dark out. Then he sneaks onto the street like a thief sneaks into a house. Then he runs the whole way. The dog runs, too, but it’s faster. And when they arrive, they are both panting.
But one evening in March, when it is unusually warm and has just lightly rained, the father gives a start when the son walked by. Yes, walked by, because he realized – after he has let the dog sit up between the table and the window – that he didn’t have to sit and wait that night. They had just walked together to the streetcar stop, where the son got on the nine to go to a lecture. This is why he gives a start. After that, he hits the dog on the nose with the palm of his hand, relieving some of his pain. Because even when you have expected it, it hurts to be deceived. To be the one deceiving doesn’t hurt nearly as much. But failing to notice that you have been deceived, when you have been expecting it all along, can keep you happy.
This is why the son is happy when the father comes home early that evening. And to make the father happy, too, he makes some coffee. As they drink it, he tells him about a funny thing that happened at the lecture. The father laughs loudly at the son’s story. But he isn’t happy, nor does he pull out his wallet. Then the son calls the dog because the father likes it when he pets it. When the dog comes, the son notices it has a brand-new shiny silver collar. It didn’t have it two hours ago. It had a leather one, brown and chewed up. He fondles the new collar for a while, and then, with a clenched fist, he hits the dog under its nose so that it yelps and scurries off to the father. The father slams his coffee cup on the table – since they always drink coffee without a saucer nowadays – and asks him what he’s doing.
Hector has a new collar, the son replies.
The son raises his cup and takes a sip, even though the cup is empty. Because it’s easier to really study a person when one is drinking. The father looks briefly into the son’s eyes. The funeral eyes. He thinks they are ugly, and he doesn’t like anything ugly. But there is something about ugliness that he fears. Therefore, it isn’t his son that he fears. It’s the ugliness inside him. And the ugliness inside him is so hideously similar to the dead wife that he immediately has to look at something else. So he looks at the dog. It doesn’t have beautiful eyes either, but at least they don’t frighten him. He also looks at the collar. The son has smudged its shiny surface. Otherwise, it’s smart and cold to the touch.
I got a good deal for it, he says, squeezing it firmly like a hand. I bought it at the pet shop on Södermannagatan.
Then the son says that there is no pet shop on that street.
This is when the father forgets that he has been deceived. He probably hasn’t forgotten for good, but he at least forgets in that moment. However, he who is exposed must defend himself. And to do so, the deceiver must convince the deceived that he is wrong. But if it’s a fellow deceiver he must convince, then it is easier if this fellow deceiver doesn’t realize that he himself is exposed. This allows him to be convinced more easily. Besides, he’ll be pleased since it can be gratifying to gain false trust when he himself only has deceit to offer. And once the son has been pleased, the father is, too, because our emotions are as cunning as serpents. They are also as deceitful as serpents are said to be. Of course, the son is glad that the father tells him about his long evening promenades with the dog, but when the dog suddenly walks past him on the way to its place in the hallway, he is still skeptical about the collar. But the father – who has no collar to look at but only something he has said to believe in – is not skeptical. Instead, he is only frightened when he notices the son’s suspicion. He knows that he has to keep the son’s happiness alive. Or else his own happiness will die out. So he goes to fetch the liquor.
As he searches the cupboard, he asks the son to pull down the shades. Because a father shouldn’t drink with his son. But if he does, then the shades have to be drawn. The son lowers them slowly. Slowly, because he’s gazing out the window. It’s dark outside, but the darkness is bright as it always is in March, mingled with falling rain and the soft glow of streetlights. Over the butcher shop, the bull’s head glistens in the dampness. In the springtime it looks soft, almost like flesh. It’s only in winter that it looks hard and cold. After the snow melted away and the spruce garlands were taken down, they started to shop there again – when they shop at all, of course. And most of it is for the dog. But it’s a strange dog because it’s only hungry in the mornings and never wants anything at night.
The father was making noise with the glasses and had already poured them by the time the son sits down. He has filled his own shot glass to the brim but put five drops too many in the son’s, so it has spilled over. When they toast the first time, their hands are slightly tremulous. But when they toast the second time, they are much steadier. But the third time, they look each other in the eye, and their eyes are beautiful. In fact, it’s not until their eyes are beautiful that they dare begin to speak about what they are too afraid to mention. They also sit closer to each other, as if they felt safer that way. The father wraps his arm around the son’s shoulder. The arm is soft and warm, and the shoulder is, too.
Do you miss Mama a lot? the father asks.
Yes, the son says, I miss her.
Then the father notices that the son didn’t say “a lot.” So he asks again.
Doesn’t it feel a little empty? he asks.
Yes, the son says, it does feel a little empty.
I want to do something for you, my boy, the father says.
Because they are drunk and quite near each other, the son cannot say what he wants to say, so he says something else. But when he says this other thing, he realizes that it’s also true.
If I didn’t have you, he says, it would seem much, much emptier.
My son, the father says.
Quite suddenly, he is moved. And he sees that the son is moved, too. To keep their emotions alive, the father pours them both another shot. He doesn’t want to make the son drunk. He just wants to make him beautiful. And anyone who is moved is beautiful. He is already beautiful. He has beautiful moist eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are silky. And when they toasted the fourth time, he is even gentler. And when he speaks, he speaks so beautifully.
Inside every intoxicated person is a sober will, and anything he does is not what his sober will desires but what his drunken will desires, because it’s much stronger. He puts his hands on the table and studies them carefully. Then the father puts his hands next to his and they gaze at each other’s hands. They both find the other’s hands very beautiful, and they cannot resist squeezing them. Like two sleeping lovers, their hands fuse together on the table. Then the son says what his sober will has not allowed.
Well, whoever is dead is dead, he says.
After he says this, the kitchen becomes terribly silent and terribly still. After a long period of stillness, their hands awaken. Their bodies stretch out in their slumber, and they have dreams before they wake. Once they are fully awake, they look at each other and are surprised they are together. Then they are glad and they embrace, sinking into each other’s tenderness. They part slowly, each going in the opposite direction, yet longing for the other the whole time. It can be seen in their fingers. Once their hands are finally separated aga
in, the father says, quietly:
Yes, whoever is dead is dead.
It hasn’t really been true until now. Not until now does the sober person, who is sitting on a chair inside the son’s inebriation and telling him what is happening in the sober world, comprehend how terribly true it is. He immediately snaps out of his drunkenness, and for a second he is struck with fear as he perceives the depth of the abyss. But his intoxication bursts like a mist and soon it is dense again. Meanwhile, the father hasn’t noticed a thing, and the son has hardly noticed anything himself. With clasped hands, the father says:
Yes, Alma was sweet.
Now the son’s drunken will is infinitely stronger than his other will because even though he really wants to say something else, he says:
Yes, Alma was sweet enough.
Now, the father is not so drunk that he fails to notice the son has said “Alma.” Or that he has said “enough.” At once, he moves even closer to him. He does it because he feels he has to. And because he feels he has to, he also puts his arm around the son’s shoulder again. The shoulder and arm are still tender, but the father is silent, silent because he immediately realizes that one day the son will say, Yes, Knut was nice enough, exactly as he just said it about Alma. And because he realizes it so quickly, he doesn’t sit quietly for long. He is a rather lonely man. He doesn’t always feel it, but in the very moment he caused the son to betray his own mother with those words, a shiver of such chilling loneliness shoots through him that not even the son’s heat is enough to warm him. No, for a moment the son’s warmth even makes him cold. So he pours himself another shot of aquavit. He doesn’t pour anything for the son. Afterward, it’s almost nice and the shivers are gone. Now there is just a little snow falling through his soul, and once the snow has melted, there is nothing left, not even the cold.
Bengt, he whispers and puts his hand over the son’s hand, whoever is dead is dead. So you have to move on. You have to consider the ones who are living. Sooner or later, we’ll be dead, too, Bengt. And it will be good to have lived. Do you know what I mean?
Now the son knows what the father means.
This is why he remains silent. Silent for a long time. Through silence, anyone who is drunk can become a little sober. The fog disperses among the silence and darkness, and the abyss that appears is black and deep, and coldness flows throughout its depths. He frees his burning hand from the father’s. Then he places it over his eyes. To be drunk is really only to see beautiful dazzling lights and soft corners where there are usually hard ones. But when you close your eyes, you only see darkness. This is why you can sober up when you close your eyes. Not completely sober but sober enough so that you can sense what is happening. Although you probably can’t keep it from happening.
I know, the son says.
Then he is silent again.
But the father is not silent. What has to be done has to be done soon. Everything has to happen quickly for the one who is drunk. Otherwise, it can easily be too late, since being drunk makes silence unbearable.
She is sweet, too, the father says. She is very sweet. You’ll think so, too. I think you will like her. Just as much as Alma.
After he said it, he tries to pull the son’s hand away from his eyes because he knows how dangerous the darkness is. Afraid, he pulls too hard, but the son’s hand doesn’t budge. Now the abyss grows deeper and deeper, and the cold is even more piercing. In the end, the son’s intoxication is only ice and darkness. This is when he shouts:
I never want to see her! Never! Never! Never!
Immediately, the father says:
I know you don’t want to. I know you can’t because of Alma. But, Son, can you forgive me for seeing her sometimes? Not often, but sometimes. It’s not because I’ve forgotten Alma. I will never forget her. She was so sweet.
Then the ice starts to melt and the darkness begins to recede. Gently, the mist surges through him again after the warmth – which his internal sober self, cold this whole time, has been longing for – emerges unexpectedly from the dark pit. Deep below was a warm well that his father’s words created, his last words. No, not the father’s but the son’s. Because they are his words, after all. They are bright and that makes them beautiful. The son willingly lays his hand on the table.
I will never forget her, he whispers. She was so good.
Now they are both emotional. They look at each other. Then they look at each other’s hands.
But I never want to see her, the son whispers.
Why not? the father asks.
Because I miss Mama too much, the son replies.
I understand, the father says.
And in a sense he does understand. In a sense the son understands the father, too. They sit there, finally understanding. Then they toast one more time, to their understanding. But before they go to bed, the father gives the son twenty kronor. The son takes the money and thanks him.
He is quite drunk when he enters his room. The light in the room is flashing and making him dizzy, so he leans on his desk. Then he plops down on the unmade bed and whistles as he undresses. It’s his first time being drunk. Mother would have never forgiven him. But he forgives himself. Before he slips under the covers, he manages to raise himself up and open the desk drawer. Inside it, there is some money in a book. He counts it over and over again. Finally, he reaches a hundred and twenty twice in a row. It’s probably right. Ten lies at ten kronor apiece and twenty kronor for an hour of understanding comes to exactly that.
The next day, he wakes up late and almost without any remorse. It isn’t until he is standing half-dressed in the kitchen – where the father’s wallet is lying on the firewood bin and where the shot glasses, but not the bottle, are still sitting out – that he feels a slight pain. So he sits down on the sofa and tries to remember, laying his heavy head in his hands. He remembers that he received some money. Then he remembers that they talked about his mother, and he is tremendously relieved when he recalls that they only spoke well of her. But everything is true when you are drunk and not when you are sober. Yet the things that were true during intoxication don’t necessarily lose all their accuracy later. You vaguely remember what was said and you start to brood over it. Then you find that there is some truth to it and that ultimately this truth might be rather significant. He remembers that he called his mother Alma. Then he begins to feel nauseated, so he drinks the last few drops in the shot glass. Once he feels a little better, he realizes there’s nothing wrong with it. Her name was Alma, after all.
He gets dressed and shaves. Then he makes some coffee. It tastes bitter, and for no reason at all he grabs the bottle from the cupboard and pours himself half a shot. Surely, it won’t be noticed. Another half shot won’t be noticeable either, so he pours one more. After having some coffee, he is cheerful. Then he goes into the other room. It is semi-dark because the shades are still drawn, but he doesn’t open them, for he has nothing to fear. He sits in the armchair and smokes for a while. Their ashtray is broken, so they use the father’s pencil holder instead. He never writes anything anyway. The son sits for a while and stares at the white door to the closet. Then he walks up to it and opens it on a whim. He really only wanted to open it, but once it’s open, he steps inside just for the hell of it. He stands there for a moment, breathing in the dingy air of camphor and staleness. Then for no particular reason he opens up a brown cardboard box at the bottom of the closet. There are some old silk stockings inside it. He always thought silk stockings were beautiful. For fun, he takes out the least worn-out pair, and in the light beaming from one of the windows he lets the silk run through his fingers.
Then he sticks his hand into one of the feet of the stocking. His mother’s foot had once been exactly where his hand is now, limp and hot. At one time, his mother’s foot was a long, tender piece of flesh and sinew encased in a sheer, sheer stocking. He rolls up the shades a little bit and looks at the foot. It’s a long, slender foot because his hand is long and slender. It’s a young foot, too. He
imagines it’s his mother’s foot when she was young.
He thinks it is a beautiful image, but after thinking about it for a while, he suddenly becomes upset. He doesn’t know why. But he puts the box back, closes the closet, and rolls up the shades. He drinks a little more coffee to calm down some more. The coffee is cold and bitter. And to get rid of the pungent taste, he takes another swig of aquavit – hardly half a shot.
But afterward, he’s not any less upset. Then he suddenly remembers a pair of keys that were on a shelf in the closet, and for no reason at all he takes them from the shelf. The two keys are thin and shiny, and one of them opens the desk drawer. For the hell of it, he unlocks it and cautiously looks inside. Now he is even more upset. His hands are shaking, and when he carries the drawer from the desk to the table underneath the light, he doesn’t do it for fun. In an instant, his cheeks have become hot and his heart is pounding. He takes out one sheet of paper after the other and spreads them out on the table. They flicker before his eyes as he reads them, but beneath his ruddy glaze of nervousness, he is very cool and clear-headed. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to sort the papers so precisely as he does, exactly as he found them in the drawer.
Some old bills are at the very top. The latest are from January and already paid. Underneath are old scraps of paper, the kind you keep in your pockets for a while and later think a shame to throw away: a restaurant bill saved as a memento of an exceptional celebration; a flier someone got on the street and found interesting; an article that someone clipped from a newspaper, why and which paper was quickly forgotten; or an advertisement, because someone wanted to buy something that was never bought.
A Moth to a Flame Page 7