They don’t speak a lot about the future the first few days, perhaps not at all. Their bodies are so insatiable that no questions are needed, almost no thoughts either. Sometimes he wakes up at night. The ocean rushes through the night like an express train, and the dog snores in the kitchen. To avoid being alone, he delicately wakes her, and they lie in bed listening to the sea and the rain pecking like birds against the roof and the shutters. This may be when they are the happiest. They aren’t fully awake, and they have no memories of yesterday to startle them. They only have each other’s intimacy and warmth. In those moments, they are anonymous. There is no Bengt and no Gun, only one person next to the other, who could be anyone at all, and who is warm and in love. They even have to grope after each other’s faces like blind people to recognize each other. But this is only a game, because they don’t need to recognize each other. In fact, they shouldn’t recognize each other. The darkness as well as the tenderness and warmth of the flesh are enough.
This, among other things, is why they keep the shutters closed all day. And they lie naked with their eyes closed at the bottom of the boat because their clothes carry memories with them. And even though it’s harder for them, they can even be anonymous then – not for long periods of time but for a little while. But even in those moments they sense that the moment might be near, the moment when they are too familiar with each other, when their curiosity finally dies out. Then, every birthmark will be dangerously familiar; there won’t be a single gesture they can make that won’t remind the other of the gesture from yesterday or the day before. All of it is just a postponement.
One night, he wakes up and knows it is over. At the same time, he’s unable to fathom it. As usual, he first lies there listening to the marching of the ocean and the mendacious whistling of the wind. Somewhere, a shutter is banging and the rain is pouring down. He’s a little cold, has the urge to wake her, but suppresses it immediately without knowing why. Instead, he gets up very carefully. The floor is cold and damp. They were bathing in the dark just before they went to bed and their footprints haven’t had the chance to dry yet. Standing there, he hears Gun turn in bed and mumble something, and finally he hears her breathing peacefully again.
As he lights the lamp, he wonders what the word was. He thinks he heard a name, but he isn’t exactly sure. When he shines the light on her, she doesn’t react to it. She is lying on her back with her hair over her face. Nothing would have to happen if she woke up, but she doesn’t wake up. And he can’t wake her up, because he’s afraid she will recognize him. Instead, she just lies there, leaving him on his own. Yes, what he is feeling is loneliness. And her sleep is a shell that he cannot crack. He can only touch the shell and be terrified of its hardness. He tilts the lamp toward her and has the urge to twirl her hair around his finger. But he doesn’t submit to this urge either, because he suddenly remembers the last time he did this. It was like watching a film. His hand slowly makes its way to her hair. Then he coils a lock around his finger, and Gun smiles. He must have done it a thousand times. But he cannot do it for the thousand and first time.
The thousand and first time he can only watch. It’s the first time he has watched her while shining a light on her face. He sees that she is old. Then he realizes he will never be able to make her young, and this terrifies him. For the first time on the island, he sees for himself what he is doing and tears his eyes away. She has fine wrinkles under her eyes and her hair is dyed, with great care but not so well that he can’t notice. He lowers the light even more, of course, in the hope that she will wake up and defend them both against everything awakening inside him. Unfortunately, she does not wake up. She sleeps heavily and peacefully. But he burns himself on the lamp chimney.
He puts the lamp down by the open fireplace, where the embers are still faintly glowing. The dog comes pattering from the kitchen. He lies down on the rug and spreads the dog over him like a blanket, but the dog must think he’s going to hurt it and fiercely resists, clawing him on the shoulder. Then he has the overwhelming urge to be cruel to the dog, so he shoos it away. Of course, he is afraid to do any harm. He knows what it means. He knows how rotten people become when they hurt others. So he suffers alone and in silence, huddled up and musing in the glow of the fading embers.
Because when the desire within us starts to fade, we are struck with pangs of consciousness and a flood of questions. As long as our pleasure lasts, we can be happy – as long as we are also pure. But now he is lying there feeling filthy. It doesn’t last long, but long enough for it to sting. And once it has sufficiently burnt, he is no longer lying there filthy but standing at the porch railing, simply hating. He hates Gun.
It is raining and starless. With an almost invisible light, the moon wanders behind the thick clouds. The waves hiss against the rocks and fizzle out. He is naked but doesn’t feel the cold. He grips the rail harder; he does this instead of hitting her. And he wants to hit her because she is able to sleep. It really is because she can sleep that he hates her, because she can sleep while he suffers. He simply cannot fathom such heartlessness. That she can be sleeping underneath warm blankets as he stands freezing in the dark rain.
So that’s what she’s like, his anger tells him, that’s what the one I love is like. When she’s had enough fun, she sleeps, and when she wakes up, she only does so to have more. This is why I, being pure, must hate her. Oh, purity is a terrible master and always wears a mask.
It is his passion and not his reason that hates her. His reason, which is now quite powerless, tells him he hates her because she is old and because he has just discovered it, not because she is any worse than he is. But what else is our reason but a young gazelle that comes down to drink at the watering hole? There, it suddenly sees the crystal-clear surface darkened by a terrifying reflection. And the gazelle isn’t much in the tiger’s claws, a morsel at best. Its only salvation is that its flesh might be tough.
But his tiger has very strong teeth. And it’s ferocious. It roars in his ears what he should do. He closes both doors in the kitchen so that he can’t be caught by surprise. Her purse has a simple clasp – at least he’s able to open it easily. Inside, there is a heavy cigarette case he has never seen before. It is also easy to open. It’s empty, but engraved on the lid is “E.S.” His instinct immediately tells him it’s the name of a lover. There is a little notebook with yellow binders at the bottom of her purse. As he flips through it, his emotions tell him that he is right for doing it, because we have the right to know whether the one we love – that is, the one we give all our trust to – is deceiving us. In the book are some phone numbers next to insignificant names, the names of women. He doesn’t even find their own number.
When he closes the purse again the clasp snaps much louder than he expected. When he looks at the dog, which is sprawled out on the rug, he sees that it is studying him with vigilant eyes. He throws the purse down as if it had burnt him and loudly opens up a cupboard door, so the dog would think he was looking for something – a glass or a fork. To find a fork, he pulls out a random drawer. There are no forks in it, but there is a pipe, which hasn’t been smoked in ages. He sticks it between his teeth and inhales. It tastes bitter, as bitter as knowing you are being deceived. He carefully returns the pipe and slowly pushes in the drawer.
As he does this, the tiger swallows the gazelle in one gulp. Now he understands that everything is a lie. She had said that the island and the cottage on it belonged to a sick girlfriend who has been cared for by relatives in Norway for a long time now. But girlfriends don’t smoke pipes. The house is a lover’s. The boat, too. All the land he walks on during the day and all the skin he caresses at night belongs to a mysterious man, a man he hates but can do nothing about. He leans over and looks at the dog. This time with his tiger eyes. The dog is a man’s dog, not a woman’s. And with his tiger paws, he thrashes it on the back so that it yelps.
Then Gun wakes up. He hears her calling him through the thin walls. He turns up the lamp’s flame so t
hat it’s as bright as can be in the alcove, but he is instantly unable to look at her. What had just happened was too awful for that. When we ourselves deceive someone, we’re able to understand it so well because every naked act we do is escorted by elaborate explanations. But that we ourselves might be deceived is inconceivable – just as inconceivable as the idea that we will one day die. We can only accept that other people will die and burn.
He puts the smoking lamp on a chair with some clothes on it, his and hers mixed together. He starts moving them because her clothes are defiled, but also because it takes up time and he can safely keep his back to her for a little while longer.
Bengt, she finally says in a voice almost bereft of softness, come to me.
He goes to her, but not like a lover does. The person hovering over her is a man deceived. His hair blackens his face, his lips are pursed, his breathing is heavy and tense. He is ugly. She wants to touch him as she always does when he looks that way, wants to stroke his hair, moisten his lips with hers – make him beautiful. But she doesn’t. Partly because she is afraid of him, the unrecognizable stranger hovering over her. And we can only love strangers if they are beautiful. The other reason is that she is tired of constantly stroking his hair. It’s too familiar to her.
When Bengt realizes she is afraid, he is afraid, too. He is afraid of being alone. When she was asleep he wasn’t that afraid, because someone who is sleeping cannot leave another person as lonesome as someone who is awake. Like all other emotions, fear is contagious. With eyes full of despair, they gaze at each other in silence, a silence during which the ocean holds its breath and the rain ceases. They are both breathing heavily. Because she is stronger, she is the only one who can break the silence.
Why did you hit the dog? she whispers quietly and rather resigned, for she also knows in her own way that it’s all over.
Then he topples over her. Sinks down with his hate, with his jealousy, and with his fear, but also with his love. His love makes him mute. If he only hated, he would have screamed, but now he can only cry – cry and forget himself. A woman is never afraid of a man who cries. Because a man who cries is merely a child. But when women cry they become very old.
Don’t cry, she whispers and presses her mouth against his face.
The lamp is smoking, but it’s very bright. His face is a child’s face again, not a stranger’s. He is no longer ugly, and when he himself forgets that he is and leaves his face alone, she thinks it is beautiful. But just when she thinks it’s at its most beautiful, it hardens again. So she delicately rubs the ugly face to thaw it out, but her warmth is not enough. Hopelessly, she whispers:
Bengt! What happened?
She receives no answer. What had happened is something he can’t confess. If he were a tiger, he would roar. But now he cannot roar, cannot even yell. He can only hurl his tiger body on top of her. Don’t cry, she says to him. But the words aren’t hers, nor can they ever be. They are his father’s words or, more precisely, a father’s words. What he now feels is something entirely new, something utterly absurd, something that only his instinct can comprehend – yet not entirely – or perhaps only express. The woman next to him, the woman he loves, is not just his father’s or maybe another man’s. She is his mother. This is what is so inconceivable to him.
We cannot fathom our own death or that someone is deceiving us, either. And we cannot imagine that someone else could sleep naked with the person we love. And if we could see it, our reason would not believe it. Only our heart would know it. Just as difficult to comprehend is the fact that we are capable of committing a crime ourselves. We can believe it of anyone else, but not ourselves. But when we do commit a crime, we still don’t believe it, because we are the ones committing it. Our reason cannot process it and our feelings won’t accept it. Our reason isn’t strong enough, nor is our imagination. Our only real guarantee of happiness relies on the failure of our imagination.
He therefore doesn’t spring from the bed, even though his heart knows that it’s his mother he is holding. Instead, he grows only more excited than before, and he infects her with his passion. As this is happening, they look into each other’s eyes and this is when she finally has to understand, has to know that it is her son she loves, because she is afraid of what is happening, very afraid and very beautiful. The fear makes her beautiful but not him. But her beauty arouses him even more, and in the end it’s not eyes they see, even though they are gazing into each other’s eyes the whole time. Lust can transform everything. It is the deepest well, where all other feelings disappear. First, his fear disappears, then his jealousy drowns, and then his crime sinks down into it. Finally, his hate is swallowed up. The last thing he sees are her eyes, which are no longer eyes but a black, vertiginous well. Then his own body starts to sink down the well with all of his misery, courage, helplessness, and tears.
After he falls asleep, she rubs him dry with a sheet. She lays him gently on his side and watches him hour after hour, unable to take her eyes off him. She is no longer afraid, because he is her son. She is merely blissful and her body is throbbing as if she had just given birth to him. The only thing she still fears is that he might wake up. She loves him most when he is sleeping because then he is a child and his face is all alone, even his body is on its own. She has loved many men, but none like him. Before, she has only loved men, and men are never alone. Wherever they go, they drag their man with them.
She turns off the lamp without taking her eyes off him. The room smells like kerosene and sweat. It must be getting light out because the ocean sounds like it normally does at dawn. Birds are squawking high above the cottage, and the rain has stopped. When the dog comes up to her in the darkness and begs to be pet, she hits it. She doesn’t feel bad afterward, but her hand hurts. Then she lays it on Bengt’s heart, forgetting that she has done this a thousand times before.
Everything isn’t the same in the morning though still very much the same. It isn’t as though he forgot anything. When she woke him up with a bowl full of hot tea and rum, he recognizes her immediately. Not a single shadow on this face is foreign to him. He turns his face to the wall and drinks, and she is glad he turns away. The drink he is drinking tastes manly. Then he thinks of the pipe and the heavy cigarette case. He can’t remember the initials, except that he didn’t recognize them at all. But he is exhausted and quite satisfied and has a heavy, warm lump of gratification in his body. The tiger is full and satiated. It is sleeping. He also remembers his misdeed, but he can’t comprehend it. So it doesn’t upset him.
When they swim they now wear bathing suits. They used to run naked from the cottage – shivering in the morning cold – crash into the cold water with outstretched arms, and then dry off in front of the fire. Maybe it’s just particularly cold that day. They walk down the steps cautiously. Jagged leaves cover the rocks, and a thousand little flies rise up from the seaweed. An empty box has floated into the inlet overnight. On the mainland there is a fire burning. It is very bright out and the flame is low, yet pure. When they wade into the water, they do not go together. It reminds him of the time when she and his father went out together. Now she is standing a short distance away and cupping water over her breasts. When Bengt tries pulling her strap down to see her shoulder he breaks the strap. She becomes irritated but doesn’t say anything. She simply goes back to shore, but he doesn’t follow her. Instead, he beckons the dog to him. Together they bob up and down in the sea of green, and together they sink to the bright bottom. His body fills with water and the dog mounts him, dragging him down. And they come up together – the dog, trembling, and he, coughing and spluttering. Smoke starts to rise from the chimney.
When he comes in, she is lying stretched out in front of the fire with her hands folded behind her head. She is looking up at the ceiling, and she is naked. When he lies next to her, she starts to get cold and tells him so. Sullenly, he gets up and sits at the table. Then she asks him if he wants to join her for another swim. He doesn’t respond, nor does he g
o after her when she runs outside. Only the dog follows her.
Now he is the one lying on the skin rug when she comes back from swimming, and he has a pipe between his teeth. He watches her the whole time to see if she recognizes the pipe. But if she does, she doesn’t show it. He slowly crumbles some cigarettes and fills the pipe – even then, waiting for a hint of recognition. When she still doesn’t reveal anything, he grows discouraged and says that he feels cold. Then she says:
Don’t be stupid.
But he is stupid – stupid and sulky. At the table he lights the pipe and then she sees it.
Have you started smoking pipes? she asks.
Yes, he says, as you can see.
She is a lot wiser than he is. Women are much wiser than men, not more intelligent but wiser. She is still lying in front of the fire. And she is still grinning. She feels the same pain he does, yet she still smiles. Smiling, she starts brushing her hair with the white comb. He cannot let her be. Indeed, he knows her much too well, but that’s only when he is content or tired. But his lust can still transform her, make her almost unrecognizable. He leaves the pipe smoking on the table.
When he comes back it has gone out. As they eat breakfast – no longer on the rug but at the table – he keeps it next to his plate. They eat in silence. And Bengt gives most of his to the dog. It starts to rain. The fire goes out and it gets cold. To warm up, they drink tea with rum. As she clears the table, Gun tells him that he ought to write home and to Berit.
A Moth to a Flame Page 19