Bengt! Now you have to have a dance with Gun.
Gun puts on the same record again, goes up to him, closer than she really should.
Otherwise I’ll be hurt, she says to Bengt.
So he takes her by the shoulder, reluctantly, almost as if touching her is revolting to him. He does want to punish her and what better way to do that than to dance with her and show her how much he despises holding her body. But the dance seems to last forever. It’s the first time he’s ever touched her for so long, and by the end his hands are completely wet. When they finally do stop, he notices he was holding her tight; maybe he even hurt her, because afterward she grabs her shoulder as if feeling for the pain. He no longer regrets the dance.
He notices something else when the dance is over: Berit is gone. When he goes to bed, he hears her quiet sobs behind the curtain. He doesn’t feel like asking her why she’s crying. He has no desire to speak with her, to touch her even. The wine has made him too tired. The father and Gun have also gone to bed. He waits to hear the father snoring through the half-open sliding door. But he never hears it, and while falling asleep, an unexpected noise jolts him wide-awake. It’s a doorknob that turned with a creak, the kitchen doorknob. He jumps noiselessly to the ground and puts on his pants and a shirt. Just as quietly, he opens the window and lands on the rocks outside. On tiptoe, though he wouldn’t have been heard anyway, he sneaks around the island. The boat is still in its place. No voices can be heard. They must be somewhere in the silence. It’s just before sunrise. Above the sea, the red-hot sky is about to burst. As he tiptoes across the little arch, it creaks but not too loudly. He quickly hides himself behind some bushes. For a short yet dangerous moment, he peers down at the little square patch of grass and flowers. Gun is sitting there. Her body is wrapped in her yellow robe – only her shoulders are bare. Her shoulders are white and naked, and when the father, who is sprawled out next to her, suddenly puts his hand on one of them, it doesn’t become whiter. But it does become more naked, excruciatingly naked.
When he goes back to the cottage, he leaves the door ajar and opens the sliding door a little more. He draws the curtains and plops down heavily beside the fiancée. He is aroused and full of hate, and when he kisses her awake, he does it out of hate. But she thinks it’s out of love and since he has never kissed her like that before, she becomes warmer than she has ever been before. She is so warm that she’s finally able to be happy. Afterward, he is warm and limp, and his hate is limp, too, but also very deep. He gets up and closes both of the doors. He also draws the curtains and closes the shutter. He hopes to sleep in for as long as possible the next morning. It’s the morning of their last day at sea, the day he will get revenge. From the darkness, the fiancée stretches her pale arms up to him.
You have made me so happy, she whispers.
Then he leans over and kisses her rather coldly on her lips. They are too open, and one of them has a sore. When the father and Gun do come back, he only hears it in the form of a dream, a short and insignificant dream.
On the day of his revenge, they all sleep in very late. Berit is particularly happy that day. When they swim, she laughs louder than the others and thrusts herself more boldly against the waves. Her body is slender and white, whereas Gun already has a nice tan. Berit is wearing a black bathing suit that is pretty old-fashioned. In the water she acts almost like his mother, which irritates Bengt. Apparently, the father is also irritated. When she voluntarily asks for some liquor at breakfast, they’re taken aback – as if they had heard an unusually crude swear word. And she isn’t upset when Bengt moves her glass away. She only said it because she wanted to be loved, not because she really wanted to drink. She isn’t upset. She just doesn’t understand. There is a lot she won’t be able to understand as the day goes on.
It’s very hot in the afternoon. They grow tired and weak and lie out on the beach, half-sleeping till evening. The men are lying on the outer sides. Gun is wearing sunglasses with red frames and opaque lenses. So it’s difficult to see whether her eyes are closed. Despite this, however, Bengt takes a chance and slowly props himself on his elbow and gazes at her, starting from the top and working his way down. Then he flings himself into the burning sand, his hatred burning so hot that he has to find some shade. So he leaves the sand and goes alone to the square patch, where he lies down in the cool grass. As soon as he lies down, he realizes that it’s a very bad spot if he wants to cool off. Because now he is even hotter. But instead of leaving, he throws himself on his stomach, rips up the grass, bites into it like an animal, digs his body into it, and attacks it. Berit, who suddenly catches him, doesn’t understand a thing. She merely runs away in fear.
Worn out, he stays in the hollow until somebody calls him. They eat dinner on the porch as usual. It is hot and airless, and the drinking water is almost gone. Down at the mainland, vacationers’ boats are flowing toward the city in a steady stream. They are very quiet: Berit, because she doesn’t really understand; the father, because he’s very hungry and because the hard liquor is gone; and Gun, because she is suddenly afraid of Bengt, who is looking at her as if she’s supposed to be afraid. Bengt isn’t saying anything either, even though he knows he should. And whenever he opens his mouth to say what he ought to say, his heart shrinks and he always says something else: “Can I have another beer?” or “Could you pass some more herring?”
However, he is able to look at her without difficulty. And when he realizes he can frighten her with just one glance, he feels proud. But that night as he lies next to the fiancée, he feels disappointed in himself. Disheartened, he is like a cold stone next to her, and despite this, she tries to fondle him. He is disappointed because he didn’t really get revenge. After they had finished eating, they packed up and then something always got in the way. They all went to bed after they packed, everyone except for Gun, who wasn’t fully ready. Through the sliding door, Bengt can hear that his father is sleeping. Gun isn’t asleep yet. She’s busy with their suitcases in the kitchen. Then he mysteriously senses that the right moment has arrived. Entirely clear-headed and with every word burning on the tip of his tongue, he climbs out of bed. At the same time he has an insatiable thirst. So when the fiancée anxiously asks him where he is going, he answers:
To the kitchen for a drink of water. I’m so damn thirsty.
But there must have been something that frightened her, something in his voice or in his face, because then she tries clinging to him with her hands. He impatiently jerks away. When he enters the main room, he closes the sliding door behind him, stands with a pounding heart and burning feet, and looks straight into the kitchen. Aware of what he is going to do, he is not afraid. A sense of freedom warms him, a certainty that what he is about to do is something that needs to be done, if he didn’t choke, and that everything will be much better afterward. Then he thinks he sees shadows on the floor, shadows of wet footprints. It frightens him a little.
He grows even more afraid as he comes silently closer and finds Gun standing with his mother’s dress in her hands, about to pack it up. In the same moment, it occurs to him that he ought to warn her before he comes in. But when he tries to call her name, his mouth is completely empty – empty of words, anyway. Nevertheless, she must have heard him coming because she shoves the dress into the bottom of a suitcase and sharply turns around and faces him. She looks at him and her eyes are very afraid, bright and afraid. Then she says something very strange.
How old are you, Bengt? She whispers without really knowing why.
Only twenty, he mumbles.
Then he notices he said “only.” Suddenly, he presses himself up against her body, as close as he can, throws his arms around her and kisses her.
Afterward, they part, leaving each other without a word. Gun goes out to the porch and stands motionless by the rail for a long time. Bengt dashes down to the sea, where he undresses on a rock and plunges into the water, sinking lower and lower. It’s the terrible ecstasy inside him that weighs him down. Wh
en he floats back up to the surface, he climbs back to shore, slings his clothes over his arm, and runs wet and naked into the cottage. He shuts the door and draws the curtain. Berit is leaning out of her bed. She dries the water off him with her hot hands. She can see he is overjoyed.
Why are you so happy? she whispers, herself happy.
Then, while beaming at her, beaming into her eyes with his delight, he says:
Because it feels so good to swim at night.
But he knows better why he’s so happy.
It isn’t because he has finally exacted his sworn revenge.
It’s because he has been freed from a long-standing jealousy.
A Letter to a Girl in Summer
Dear Berit!
Thanks for your lovely letter. I’m glad to hear that you arrived safely and that your father and mother are doing well. It’s also good to know that I’m welcome up to Härjedalen. But, as you know, there’s unfortunately no way I can come. For one thing, I have to spend the summer studying. Yes, I did do very well in the exam in April, but it’s best if I’m not too confident in the future – besides, you’ve said the same thing yourself. There’s also the question of money. As you know, I have no income of my own, and Papa seems to understand as little as ever that I need money, even though I don’t have time to devote myself to a fruitful job. The other day I even had to sell some of my books at a secondhand shop to get money for some basic necessities. It was a little annoying, since the books have been in the bookcase for a long time and he considers everything in there his personal property, although some of them actually are mine. I got them so long ago that he’s forgotten they don’t belong to him. But you don’t have to worry about my giving him any chances to make a scene. He usually doesn’t notice anything you don’t tell him directly. And why should I trouble someone with things they don’t care about, especially when they don’t even notice them?
In your letter you sounded a little worried about how I’d manage being alone when you’re not in town to look after me. My dear, of course I feel miserable that you’re gone, sadder than you could imagine! After the wonderful thing that happened to us at Midsummer, you know that you mean everything to me. But once you have a person who means everything to you, you’re never alone again, as you can surely understand. I’m actually doing quite well here. And to study better, sometimes I take my bicycle out and go for a swim. I lie by the water and read, since anyone who’s spent a lot of time studying knows that you are most mentally efficient when you’re able to release your physical energy at the same time. This is quite true for every student – which I’m sure you know from your own experience at school. Yet it’s anything but obvious to Papa. One evening, he made quite a scene when he found out I was out swimming all day. He asked me if that was how I’ve been applying myself. I didn’t answer him, of course, but now I simply let him think I stay home every day. As you know, it’s not particularly nice to lie, but unfortunately, sometimes we’re forced to even when we are personally against it. But the whole thing is quite harmless. Because when all is said and done, it doesn’t really matter where he thinks I spend my days. So I don’t feel the least bit guilty.
When you wrote about how I had threatened to commit suicide, you must have misunderstood me somehow. It’s possible that I do get very depressed now and then, which is a very natural response to Mama’s death and to the pain Papa has caused me. But what I mentioned on that last night on the island, that life is only a postponed suicide, or whatever my exact words were, I don’t want you to take it too seriously, as you have obviously done. I didn’t mean to frighten you at all. As far as I recall, my point was only to get you to understand how depressing our stay on the island was for me in spite of everything, especially since I had to feign pleasure and indifference toward all of Papa’s tactlessness the entire time. Otherwise, I still stand by my theory that, strictly speaking, to live means nothing more than to postpone your own suicide day by day. Surely, you have experienced this as well, even if you can’t bring yourself to put it into words, but you know it subconsciously.
You also wrote that you would prefer to come back as soon as possible. My dear, you shouldn’t cut your vacation short for me! There’s nothing going on here in the city, but even if I could visit you, you know very well that I can’t keep taking your money as you have suggested, especially not since you spoke to your parents about it. It would be too humiliating. So I’ll just stay here in the heat. But I’m with you the whole time in my thoughts. You also asked whether I go to the cinema a lot. No, I don’t. Most of them are closed, especially the ones that usually have interesting pictures. Besides, you know that I really don’t care for films.
You don’t have to be worried about me. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to be worried about. I’m over the most painful part of my grieving for Mama, although I’m still sad and I do still miss her, but these feelings are manageable. My relationship with Papa hasn’t improved, of course, at least not as far as any emotional or mental connection. However, I’m trying as hard as I can to refrain from judging him too harshly. What he did is inexcusable in many ways, but I also have to be capable of some magnanimity, and I think I’ve punished him enough after six months of silence. Therefore, I’m trying to show some kindness in my outward conduct with him, not without some obvious reservations, of course.
Now I’ve written too much about myself and my world. I look forward to hearing from you soon. I’m very lonesome without you, as you probably know.
Yours lovingly,
Bengt
P.S. Just remembered that you asked how Gun is doing. I really don’t know, and I really don’t care, as you can probably understand. In fact, I haven’t seen her since Midsummer. Papa never brings her up either. So I can’t complain. I never did like it when he used to constantly talk about what they were up to. So it’s just as well that he doesn’t mention her anymore.
A Twilight Meeting
Hello, Bengt, she says when he opens the door.
He does not say a word. Thirty seconds go by, maybe more. In her red dress, Gun is standing completely still on the cold, gray doorstep. Bengt doesn’t look at her but past her, looks out at the stairs that slowly lead up to the silent and empty attic. But when he finally does look at her, he notices that she isn’t looking at him either. She was looking past him, through the dark entrance as if she were searching for someone. He turns around and looks for himself. He can see farther than she can. He can see the broken sewing machine underneath the dusty cover all the way at the end of the hallway.
Papa isn’t home, he mumbles.
It isn’t until then that they look at each other, uncertain of what to say, afraid of what might be said.
Oh, Gun whispers, but he should be home tonight.
Then she turns not only her gaze from him but her head, too, and looks up at the same staircase. There is a smooth gray wall beyond the staircase window, the wall of a newly built building, where she lets her gaze hang for a while, like a window washer hanging from his ropes. Bengt pulls the door toward him. He eventually decides to close it, but she holds her hand on the doorknob. So he lets the door stay where it is.
Papa’s at a fiftieth birthday party, he says. He’ll probably come home late. Very late.
Gun notices that he said “very late.” Or more precisely, she notices how he said it. Suddenly Bengt notices, too, and, confused, he wants to take it back since it’s none of her business. But instead of taking it back, he opens the door a little wider, and she lets go of the doorknob. Downstairs, the front door slams. Someone whistling is approaching, coming up quickly. Then it occurs to him that she can’t keep standing where she is, not when someone is coming.
Please come in for a bit, he says, I was just making coffee.
Of course, it isn’t true. She realizes this once she’s in the kitchen, and Bengt does, too. He sits down on the kitchen bench and stares down at his hands. He doesn’t look up until Gun turns on the gas. She is standing with her
back to him, a slender, straight back in a red dress. It’s a dress he recognizes, but he isn’t sure he has ever seen this particular back before. She opens the jars on the shelf and finds the coffee in the last one. She is busy for a while washing spoons, drying cups, and slicing bread. She dries more cups than they need and slices more bread than they will be able to eat. He is glad that it’s taking so long, but he’s afraid it will suddenly be silent in the kitchen, and then he won’t know what to say. As she sets the table for him, he feels ashamed. It occurs to him that he’s sitting in his mother’s kitchen and that a stranger is using it as if it were her own. What will he say if his mother asks him about it? But when they sit on opposite sides of the table, they talk about something else.
They talk about Berit. And Bengt is the one who initiates the conversation. He has just written a letter to her, a still unsent letter.
I sent her your regards, he says and looks at her, in a separate P.S.
Then he realizes how stupid it is that he said “P.S.” It doesn’t matter whether he did it in a postscript or in the body of the letter.
I think Berit is sweet, Gun says.
Papa thinks she’s ugly, Bengt replies.
Then he quickly adds:
But I don’t think so.
I don’t think so either, Gun says. I think she is very sweet.
So they both think she is sweet. They sit for a while thinking of what else they can say about Berit besides that she is sweet. But then Bengt realizes there’s nothing more to say, so he comes up with something else. He talks about Härjedalen and about her parents who live there. Gun mentions that she has also been to Härjedalen.
A Moth to a Flame Page 16