Still, I hadn’t expected this from her. That’s why what she said, which would have normally left me rather disinterested, made me furious. In fact, the words were probably pretty innocent. When will I get to see you again, Bengt? she asked. It was the tone she used and the way she pronounced the words that especially made me react so harshly. Apparently, it took everything within her to sound as kind and well meaning as possible, but since she was in no condition to control her voice, it turned out entirely mawkish and unnatural.
I don’t know what I said, and I was so upset that I didn’t even notice until later that she had addressed me so cheekily. But as soon as I hung up, I darted from the hall to the other room. Suddenly, the disgraceful image that I’d been trying for weeks to suppress from my consciousness thrust itself on me with such a terrible force that I simply knew I couldn’t go on without unleashing my rage. In that moment, I can assure you, she was lying in the daybed as she was that night I happened to walk in on them. So I pulled the cover off the daybed, and with a pillow in each hand I attacked her so violently that I tore one of the pillowcases. Afterward, I was completely worn out yet simultaneously satisfied that I had finally avenged the harm inflicted on me. Afterward, while resting in the daybed, I was still filled with the kind of joy that only purity can offer a person. I think that the greatest happiness in the world is to get revenge on the ones who are filthy. Purity is a terrible master, Bengt, but you’ll end up happy if you submit to it. Therefore, you must listen to it, obeying it always, even if your loyalty leaves you unbearably conflicted.
Bengt! This is what my purity has done. I must finally confess to you that something horrible has happened, something I can only endure by analyzing it to death, until I’m able to understand something of its nature. The same night of the phone call, though a bit later, something downright terrifying happened. I was still lying in the daybed. I wasn’t asleep, but I wasn’t really awake either – I think I was on the verge of falling asleep. I heard a whisper waft through the room, a whisper that I immediately recognized as my mother’s. “No, no, not now,” the whisper said, “Bengt can hear.” That was all. But in reality it was a lot. You see, in the same moment the whisper faded, I remembered that I had heard my mother whisper these very words once before. And I suddenly remembered when. I must have been about twelve then. I was home sick with the measles, the shade was drawn, and I was terribly bored. The doorbell rang the first day I stayed home, and I heard Mama greeting someone I didn’t recognize at the entrance. It was a man, and she called him Erik. They were talking in the kitchen, but then they went into the other room together. The daybed was where it is now, against the wall on the other side of my room, and I could tell they were sitting on it. They were talking quietly, and even though my door was ajar I couldn’t hear what it was about. Then the whisper came out of nowhere. There was something I was absolutely not allowed to hear, but Mama must have gauged incorrectly because it was actually her whispering that was clearer than anything else she had said before. “No, no, not now,” she whispered, “Bengt can hear.” At once, this Erik character left and didn’t come back again. The whole time I lay sick in bed I pondered over what it was I wasn’t supposed to hear. I could have simply asked Mama about it, but I instinctively suspected that she wouldn’t care to answer or that she would tell me something that wasn’t true. Then school and friends came along, and I forgot about the whole thing. It had never reappeared from out of the blue until this night. I have to confess that my forgotten memory stunned me, of course, now since I fully understand the significance of what really happened. What I wasn’t supposed to find out was, quite simply, that this stranger Erik was my mother’s lover. It was horrible to catch such an unexpected glimpse of a relationship that I was completely unaware of my whole life. To make sure that my memory wasn’t deceiving me, I very cautiously asked Papa the following day if our family had ever known someone named Erik. He immediately answered that he used to have a coworker named Erik. He had since moved to Södertälje and disappeared. He was incidentally quite fond of Alma, he said after a while, but she always kept a tight rein on him. Later still, he added, Though, you never know.
Though, you never know. I knew this last part was merely the bait he wanted me to bite – a weak, shameless attempt on his part to justify himself and his actions. In reality, I could tell that he was firmly convinced that Mama never betrayed him with Erik. Still, I have to admit that he’s right. You never know. Isn’t it terrible, Bengt, that no one ever knows? You can’t trust anyone. The one you trust most, the one you have loved the most, even she can betray you. Your own mother can say to you, I’m going out shopping now, Bengt, when she’s really going out to catch a cab to her lover. Your own fiancée can say, I have a headache tonight, Bengt, and can’t go out, while another man is in her room, lying on a made-up sofa. There’s only one person in the whole world you can trust, and that person is you. It’s a horrible thought, but once you’ve thought about it for a while, you realize that it’s also a soothing thought. As long as you can trust yourself, then you have nothing to lose. It’s only when you discover that you can’t trust yourself that all is lost. Therefore, it’s necessary to be trustworthy to yourself at every moment, to not let you trick yourself. That’s why it’s so important to be aware of your own actions, and the only way you can do that is to analyze every last ounce of your emotions and your deeds.
This is what I have done, and of course I’ve realized that what happened cannot in any way minimize the shamefulness of my father’s and his fiancée’s relationship. It is, and remains, a disgraceful act that betrays another person, even if that person has also betrayed. On the other hand, it obviously can’t help changing my feelings about Mama to some degree. Of course, I miss her all the time, but a tinge of doubt has crept in, dulling the intensity of my mourning and diminishing its permanence. It’s clear that I can no longer miss her with the same sadness now that I know that even her purity, the quality I loved most about her, was not untainted.
The important thing is that I’m no longer obligated to mourn my mother. Having suddenly discovered that she committed the same act that I’ve been despising Papa for, it’s obvious that my innocent grief has been tainted. I don’t enjoy mourning for the sake of mourning. I’m no self-tormentor, after all. Now I understand that the revenge I’ve felt obligated to carry out against Papa and his fiancée on behalf of Mama is really for myself, because the virtue I cherish most, purity, has been so ruthlessly violated.
Furthermore, what has happened has made me suspicious of everything and everyone. I don’t even trust Berit anymore. The other night I told her that no one could trust anyone, not even your own mother. We were sitting on a bench in Djurgården. Instead of starting to cry, as I had expected, she became surprisingly angry. She said, Why do you constantly defend her? She meant I was defending Papa’s fiancée. It was so absurd that I could’ve laughed. Lately, I’ve noticed that Berit criticizes her all the time, as if she were trying to divert attention from herself. I’m keen enough of an observer to be able to separate embellishment from the truth. After recently seeing Berit to her door one evening, I noticed that she lingered in the window, as if checking to see if I had really left. A little later, I called her for no particular reason and told her, also for no reason at all, that I saw how painstakingly she had checked to see if the coast was really clear. She started crying, and it relieved me a little.
Later.
Papa just got home. He’s been walking back and forth in the other room all night, so I knew he had something to say, but he couldn’t come out with it. Finally, he said it. His fiancée wants us to spend Midsummer in a cottage she’s borrowing in the archipelago. I surprised Papa by answering yes. My answer didn’t surprise me at all. I know now that if I’m ever going to have the chance to take revenge on her, it has to happen when we’re together because then she won’t be able to be evasive or hang up the phone – which could happen if I were to write to her or tell her what I think ove
r the phone. Besides, the cottage is supposedly on a small island, which makes my job much easier. I could tell Papa was happy I said yes. Based on the things he’s been saying lately, he still seems to hope that I’ll come to think of her as a mother one day. He is so naïve. I hoped you would be sensible, he said afterward. We’ll see how sensible I am, I answered. Then he stroked my hair. Then I heard him leave and call someone. Evidently, she must have a telephone at home, even though I couldn’t find her number in the phone book. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she were divorced, perhaps several times. So the number is probably in her husband’s name. I can’t describe how happy I am that my revenge is finally within reach. On Midsummer, I won’t leave a single word I’m going to say to her and Papa to chance. There’s still a month to go, but I’ll use it wisely!
Now I can hear that Papa’s asleep. I’m going to sleep, too. See you soon.
Your friend, Bengt
P.S. Papa gave the dog back. He claimed that I wasn’t nice to it, which is a lie, so he sold it to his fiancée. I saw through his trick, but I let him keep thinking he’s an exceptionally shrewd person. It won’t hurt him to believe that. Besides, his sisters think the same thing about themselves. They haven’t visited us since they raided the closet, although they have called us a few times. The last time, after they found out that she had visited us, they said, Forgetting Alma already!
As if I was the one who invited her! As if I could ever forget Alma!
Underwater Footprints
They are at sea for three days. At sea, they say playfully. That sounds like living on a boat. In reality, however, they are not on a boat but an island or, more precisely, two small islands connected by a funny little wooden arch, which they jokingly call a bridge. The open sea encircles them, and the coast disappears into the dark water, which blackens as the night approaches. To the west, the sun has just set behind a glimmering strip of land. Looking at it, they think, Look how dark the sea is out there, far back, by the lighthouse. The lighthouse, of course, is a church tower during the day. And when they hear sounds from the mainland at night, a honking car or a roaring train, it’s only natural for them to say, Did you hear that big ship? Now, that was a torrent! Therefore, at night they really are on the sea, not in it and definitely not by it. They are in a boat, in a little boat on a very large sea.
Something strange happens when people are in a small boat, something that rarely happens with people in a car or an elevator, on a train or even a boat large enough to say that you are on it instead of in it. What they experience is the sense of solitude. There are only a few thin boards keeping them from being totally engulfed by the surrounding deep sea. They are lonely, but it’s not an isolated loneliness, because they feel lonesome together, together with the others in the boat. This is why a temporary bond forms between people in a small boat. They only have each other, the deep sea is frightening, and small boats are very fragile. Therefore, each one of them becomes the other’s lifebuoy. If you’re not afraid, then neither am I, so we shouldn’t scare each other, and we ought to be nice to each other as long as the water surrounds us.
It’s a Saturday evening when they row away from the large pier, which they had reached by bus. Almost silently, because they aren’t in the boat yet, they put their baskets, bags, and small pieces of luggage on board. The father wants to row first. Bengt and Berit sit in the stern, but Gun sits in the prow behind the father. Berit is gazing at the sea, which glistens black under the drifting clouds. At first, she is afraid because it is so still. She is always afraid of water and even small boats. And the black water makes her think of death. But, then, when the swell comes and gently rocks them, she becomes even more terrified and immediately thinks the boat is going to capsize. So she grabs Bengt’s hand, which is lying wet and cold between them, and places it on her coat, a black coat that Bengt didn’t like. That’s why, when they were still in the bus, he said, Are you going to a funeral? She also owns a blue coat that is lighter and better suited for Midsummer, but she didn’t want to wear it. Nor did she want to come along, but Bengt had practically forced her, saying that she ought to come – if for nothing else than for the sake of his mother. So she gave in, and this is also why she’s wearing the black coat.
Bengt likes the sea, especially when it’s vast and dark. He likes thunderstorms the same way, which explains why he is curiously exhilarated when lightning suddenly blazes forth in the north sky. Out of nowhere, it suddenly leaps to life over the luminous horizon and slithers down into the sea like a fiery snake, almost hissing before dying out. Bengt is sitting on the ledge and smoking. And the tobacco tastes acrid because his fingers are wet. Earlier, they had to bail out the boat, which had been half-submerged in the water for a long time. He has been morose and defiant the whole day, has hardly responded to anyone, and has refused to do what anyone asked him. In fact, he did the opposite. As soon as they boarded the bus and Bengt pretended to drop the case of alcohol, the father yelled, If you don’t want to come, then just stay home! Yes, let’s just stay, Berit wanted to say, but Gun beat her to it. Everything will be fine once we get off, she had said and smiled. So Bengt stayed. But he didn’t smile back at her.
Now he is sitting and watching the father, who is rowing and who has unbuttoned his jacket. So he can see how his chest heaves underneath his red silk shirt with every movement. But the oars are splashing against the sea very choppily, and no matter how much he strains himself, it is sloppy rowing. Sometimes water splashes up and spatters inside the boat, so he makes excuses: If it weren’t so damn windy! In reality, however, it’s perfectly calm. The swell is mere child’s play and a sailboat is adrift. The flag is not even moving. The three who are not rowing simply smile.
Bengt isn’t smiling at the rowing. Nor is he merely smiling at the silk shirt. Nowadays the father only buys silk – silk underwear and silk sweaters and silk shirts. He never did before; he never bought anything, for that matter. Before it was always Alma, and she bought Doctor Lahman’s tricot. But the son isn’t smiling at this alone. He is smiling because he is happy. He has been happy the whole day – he just didn’t want to show it. It’s part of his plan to show displeasure at first, to pretend to join them reluctantly. He won’t be happy until they arrive, and then they will be pleased with him. For two and a half days they will be nothing but pleased with him. After that, the attack will come, just like lightning from a joyous sky. But during the attack he will continue to be happy, for what can arouse more pleasure than taking revenge for the sake of purity?
There’s a can of drinking water between Bengt’s legs. It’s a 50-liter milk can that was difficult to get into the boat. Without a thought, he suddenly lets go of the fiancée’s hand and starts drumming lightheartedly on the tin. They are already far out now, almost halfway. He spits his cigarette into the sea and starts whistling, quietly and softly. Then the father raises the oars into the boat. One of the blades ends up on Berit’s lap, so she gets cold but doesn’t dare move it away. Berit is almost like a small lake. For every cloud that drifts over her, she becomes dark, not just on the surface but at the bottom, too. Now she is dark because of the oar and Bengt’s whistling. She doesn’t like that he is happy. She doesn’t like it right now, anyway. Now it only makes her want to cry.
But the father likes it. He thinks the son whistles beautifully, and he likes beautiful whistling. The drumming is beautiful, too. Otherwise the evening is perfectly serene and the sea is perfectly silent, only the seashore can be heard sighing as it slowly dims. They have rowed so far out that they are nearly alone. The sailboat is now lying askew at the end of the curving disk, and when its sails are taken in for the night, it resembles a tiny skerry with a solitary tree on it. The coastline sinks lower and lower, and eventually the water is up to the gunwales. And from their tranquil, drifting boat they also see two islands. The one to the left is a narrow and high cliff, blanketed with low trees. A bird is squawking above it. The one to the right is a long and low island with luminous white rocks
along the water’s edge. But straight ahead, only a half-hour’s row away, is their island, so small and low that it nearly disappears when the swell comes. The water surrounding them is getting imperceptibly murky even though the sky is still shining above. Is it strange that the rower is happy?
When the bird stops squawking, Berit is also a little happy, but then Gun starts to sing. She sings softly as Bengt whistles softly and drums softly, too. He doesn’t notice it until a while later, and then, almost ashamed, he stops. He wipes some water off the can and lights a wet cigarette. He looks over his father’s shoulder and glances at Gun. She glances back at him and suddenly stops singing, but the song isn’t over yet. Then the father turns around and drops his heavy hand on her shoulder. She is wearing a white, luminous blouse.
Sing, he says.
But she doesn’t sing. She forgets the melody and the words, too. She just wants them to keep rowing. When Bengt looks at Berit, she is sitting with the wet oar on her lap and crying a little. She’s probably crying because the song was so beautiful – at least he thought it was. But he, too, thought Gun should have stopped singing, although he doesn’t know why. The father’s hand is still on Gun’s shoulder, causing her to gradually sink down, and it’s probably making her dirty, too.
Let’s go now, she says.
Just then, Bengt suddenly has the urge to row. Men in small boats are only too happy to row in the company of women, and Bengt wants to row for Berit. He takes her by the shoulder, not roughly or violently, though he can feel through the rough material of her coat that her shoulder is trembling. She herself is not afraid, but her shoulder is. It quivers like a small animal.
Don’t be cold, he says consolingly. Stand up. We’re almost there.
But this is precisely when her chills begin. When Bengt takes a step toward the father, the boat cants, a basket starts sliding across the floor, Gun cries out, though subdued and mildly, and the father lets go of her shoulder to grab the oars.
A Moth to a Flame Page 13