It helps to write. They are sitting on opposite sides of the table and thinking of things to say. They are playing a game, not committing a crime. And since it’s only a game, they are able to do it. So they playfully think of things people do when they’re drafted.
You have to write about girls, Gun says.
He looks up for a moment. Something occurs to him. And it makes him very upset. All of a sudden, he loses the desire to write the letter. He puts the pen down and looks at Gun. When she asks him why he isn’t writing, he says he is thinking about all the girls he has had. Right when he says this, he tries to see if Gun looks jealous – she doesn’t. She just laughs, leaving him disappointed. But not just disappointed. It also pains him to know that he cannot hurt her.
In the letter, however, he writes that there are plenty of girls. We have different ones every night, he continues, so life here is never boring. Father will laugh at that; Gun laughs at it, too. Then she signs his name at the bottom in her handwriting. This way it’s more exciting. Now he feels he has to do something to get her to stop laughing. He crumples new cigarettes and stuffs them into the pipe. As he lights it, he senses that she recognizes it because she immediately seems bothered. Then he blows some smoke over her and says:
To think how little people know about each other.
She asks him what he means. He says that when his father gets the letter, he will believe it, believe that he has a new girl every night. Even Berit will believe hers, thinking that he is always alone. When she still doesn’t understand, he elaborates and explains that whenever Gun says that she loves him, he, too, can’t be sure if it’s true.
Bengt, she says, with eyes as imploring as only a woman’s can be when she is lying.
But then she agrees. It isn’t what he wanted, of course. He wanted to have proof he was wrong. Now he feels utterly empty for a moment.
Gun, he says helplessly, can’t we trust anyone?
She answers that we can trust the one we love.
And if she betrays you? he asks.
She replies that one should still trust her.
He cannot understand. So he wants to hurt her badly.
When I write letters to you, he whispers, you can never know if I’m lying.
Bengt, she says, are you jealous?
Some time goes by. He opens the window and rain sprinkles on his face. Outside, the clouds are low and drift slowly like black airships. The water is completely black. The dog is roaming around the rocks with its tail between its legs, head bowed, and tongue flapping.
Are you jealous of Knut? she asks.
For a very long time he searches deep down. Just as he closes the window and faces the room, she lights the fire on the hearth. Then she lies down and waits for him. When he comes to her, her lips are open but her eyes are closed. He unbuttons her blouse but leaves her lips untouched. Then he turns away. Quietly, he says:
Who is E.S.?
She says he has to kiss her first. When he kisses her, he has to keep going. Once he is tired and satisfied, he realizes that it doesn’t matter who E.S. is; almost nothing matters. Nevertheless, she explains. Nestled in her warmth, he listens to her story. It might hurt to some extent but not much. But when she asks him if it hurts him to know, he says that it hurts a lot. And it’s true. Everything he says is more or less true. That’s what’s so nice. It’s also what is so frightening or what will become frightening.
Is it Erik’s pipe? he asks afterward.
Yes, she answers and strokes his burning skin.
Then he snaps the pipe and throws the pieces in the fire. He doesn’t feel anything as he does it, only that he is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. And he usually feels nothing when he does what he has to. Although she seems to think he is affected.
Poor Bengt, she whispers.
He doesn’t dislike sympathy, never has. It lets him know that he is suffering. And he enjoys suffering.
I’ve never thought that about you, he says, suffering.
But in reality, he has thought that. And now, to suffer more, he begins accusing her. He claims that she doesn’t love him. This is a dangerous thing to say. If you want someone to love you, you don’t ask her to see if she “really” does. Because, when all is said and done, there isn’t much we “really” do. If you search deep down, you will find that the weight never reaches the bottom. Then you become terrified of the abyss within yourself. But you are never truly afraid until you discover that another name for this abyss is emptiness.
She walks in and sits on the bed. She lifts up the wet dog and starts petting it. When he can’t think of anything else to say, she says:
I can’t help it that I’m older than you. There were many before you. I can’t help that. Can’t you understand, Bengt?
Of course, he can’t understand. A lover is like an actor. For him to perform really well, his heart has to believe that he’s the first to play the role. If his heart isn’t able to believe it, then his reason has to be convinced, at least, that no one has ever played the part as well as he. Once Bengt finally grows tired of suffering, he sits on the floor, beneath her, and asks:
Do you still love him?
No, she answers, I never have.
He asks to know why, so she explains. She explains what kind of man he was. She talks about him as if he were dead, but he is only in prison. She puts the dog down and pulls Bengt off the floor instead. She has to fill her emptiness, too, after all.
The man she talks about has been sitting in prison for a long time. He was a barber. When she met him, he was rich and happy. He was also pretentious and vain. He always combed his hair before going to bed. This makes them both laugh for the first time that day. He always tried to be funny, too. For instance, he always called the Swiss the Swisserists. He always tried to make her laugh, but she felt less inclined to do so as time went on. So he came up with new jokes that were even less funny. He used to put brilliantine in his hair before going to bed. He also bought her an island. When she asked him where he got his money, he didn’t say, but he was very upset that she had asked. Then she realized that it was because of his uneasiness that he was with her. Just when she was about to break it off, he was caught. He had been selling counterfeit liquor ration coupons. He wanted her to hide him, but she didn’t want to. She did not care for him enough.
After she explained everything, she asks him if he is satisfied. He says that he is because that’s all he is. Satisfied that he was able to release his rage, satisfied that he had hurt her, satisfied that he was able to suffer. But when he kisses her, he notices that her body is still full of the other man. He wants to kiss him out of her; he wants to love him out of her. But when he tries, he cannot do it. Limp and crying, he falls next to her on the bed.
Poor Bengt, she says.
Then he leaps up, dashes out, and pushes the boat into the sea. By the time she reaches the shore, he is already drifting away. He is standing up in the boat, trying to get it to ride straight into the waves. They aren’t high, but he is nevertheless powerless. The oars slip from his hands, he trips on the planked floor, crashes down, and doesn’t pick himself up. She manages to pull the boat back to shore. When she turns him on his back, he pretends to be badly hurt.
Bengt, be sensible, she says as she tries helping him to his feet.
Her dress is soaked up to her waist. When they get inside, she slings it over the damper to dry. He flings himself down on the ground, longing for her tenderness or maybe just one word. A single little word would save him. The word could even save her. As she packs up in the kitchen, she leaves the door open to hear the word. But all she hears is the creaking of the floorboards when he rolls over. As he rolls over, the dog comes up and sniffs him. He suddenly clutches it by the throat and starts to squeeze. When it tries to break loose, he becomes enraged and squeezes even tighter. Inside the kitchen, Gun drops whatever she was doing and comes running out. She pinches him to get him to stop.
Be sensible, Bengt! she yells.
When he calms down, she asks him to explain himself. She is very gentle now, stroking his hair and kissing the salt from his face. He is lying down, silent and stiff. More than anything, he wants to humiliate her and to hurt her. He wouldn’t be able to love her until he hurt her as much as she deserves. Not until then would he be fervent and strong. Therefore, the reason he gives her for trying to strangle the dog isn’t true, or more precisely, it’s as true as everything else.
It’s his dog, isn’t it?! he shouts.
Yes, she answers fatigued, he bought it for me.
In that moment, he knows what he is going to do to finally kill the mysterious man inside her, so that he himself could survive. He sits at the table, cool and collected, and they both drink a cup of rum before rowing out. Afterward, it’s easier for them to accept each other. You can accept anything at all when you’re a little intoxicated. They walk arm in arm down to shore, caressing each other’s hands. Bengt leads the dog in the brown leash. She doesn’t know what he’s going to do, nor does she really care. She is tired and resigned. Then she sits in the stern with her hands on her lap. She looks very old.
This time he doesn’t fail at getting the boat out. The sea is calmer, too. He doesn’t look at her as he rows, and she wonders why but is too tired to ask. When she turns around to look back at the shore, she sees that he has tied the dog to the boat. It’s trying to swim, but it’s having too much trouble. When she tries to untie the leash, she feels his hard grip on her shoulder. Startled and a little afraid, she faces him. He is holding a rock in one hand. It is round and wet and quite heavy. A hard wave thrashes the side of the boat. She slips off the seat and, sitting on the floor of the boat, she finds him looming over her with the rock raised in the air. To avoid seeing any more, she squeezes her eyes shut. And to avoid hearing anything else, she plugs her ears.
When it’s all over, he tosses the leash into the boat. He tries to help her up, but she won’t let him. After rowing back to the inlet, he carries her ashore. She is very heavy, but he still manages. Gently yet forcibly, he lays her on the bed. Pale and feeble, she lies with her eyes closed, but she isn’t covering her ears. So she hears what he says.
Don’t you see? he whispers. It was his. So I had to do it. You got it from him because you were supposed to drag him around with you wherever you went. Can’t you understand that? Can’t you forgive me?
Maybe she does understand, maybe not. She is very tired and it is dark outside. She asks him to go and close all the shutters. When he comes back, he is naked. For a brief moment, he is standing just a step away from her bed, breathing heavily and fervently in the dark.
Bengt, she whispers, light the lamp.
When he shines it on her, she opens her eyes. Strong and aroused, he leans over her, stronger and more aroused than ever before. His eyes are black. His lips are open at first, but then he closes them. It doesn’t matter to her. Indifferent, she lets herself be undressed by his strong, burning hands. When he is finished, she asks him to turn off the lamp, and she closes her eyes when he blows it out. Although it’s dark and she cannot see him, she still closes her eyes. He finds her wrist in the dark. He grabs it firmly and forcibly and raises her up to him. He takes both of her hands and makes them feel his body. She has to feel how strong he is. And she does, but she doesn’t care. She is indifferent to the fact that a man is getting into her bed.
Once he is asleep, she is not entirely indifferent. Because when he sleeps, he sleeps like a child. His knees are huddled up to his chin, and she feels how thin and bony his little boy knees are as she strokes them. And his shoulder blades are protruding from his back like wings. She caresses him dry. Then she kisses him wet. The whole time she fears waking him from his sleep. Because it’s only when he sleeps that she is able to love him.
Deep into the night, she has the urge to see him. Carefully, she gets up to light the lamp but can’t find the matches at first. As she pads to the window where they usually are, she steps on the leash. She jerks her foot away as though an animal had bitten her. After lighting the lamp, she goes out to the other room and hangs the leash on the damper. Then she lingers there. She’s afraid to go near him with the lamp. She is afraid of the dark. But she is even more afraid of his face. And when she finally does illuminate his face, she finds herself on the verge of screaming. But instead of screaming, she blows out the flame. As soon as she does, she lies down and starts crying. It doesn’t wake him up. Because a woman’s sobs do not wake any man. Yet the sobs of men keep women vigilant. She cries herself to sleep, but even in sleep she isn’t free. She knows that she will have to love him the way some women love certain men: to give herself to him with lust but without pleasure; to let him believe she is everything to him because it would be too much trouble to let him think otherwise (besides, he would never believe it); to let herself be kissed when he wants, otherwise not bother; to accept a ring and be happy; to accept everything and be happy. This is more or less how she will love him. But she will never be able to love his face again.
Because the face she has lit up is the same face that loomed over her in the boat without seeing her, without seeing anything else but a dog doomed to death, nothing else but the tender prey needed to satiate the tiger in every man.
Even in her sleep, where a thousand seabirds are shrieking over a black sea, she sees the ugly, naked face of a young murderer.
A Letter to the Father from the Son
Dear Papa!
I’m writing this letter on Christmas morning. Berit has gone to church with her parents. I had a headache, so I asked to stay home. Besides, church ceremonies are hardly for me. I’m doing very well here. The town is quite solitary, and we have a few feet of snow. So the socks you gave me for Christmas are being put to good use. I should also thank you for the razor. I received a seemingly expensive shirt from Berit and two wooden paper knives from her parents. They seem to think I read an unbelievable amount of books. As you know, I read frantically during the fall, but I still haven’t managed to wear out a paper knife. All joking aside, Berit’s parents are very good people. They live modestly and have very little contact with the outside world, but they are still friendly and courteous. They find me quite exceptional, though I’m just a philosophy student. The other day I heard Berit’s mother tell a neighbor that her daughter’s fiancé was a real philosopher. She stressed the final o when she pronounced philosopher. I didn’t correct her, because I was afraid to offend her. The people up here are quite proud. When I tried to give her parents each ten kronor for the celebration expenses, they simply refused to take it.
I won’t trouble you with all the details of my life here. But I did promise to write to you as soon as I thought about what you told me before I left. As you so accurately stated, it’s always easier to discuss something like this in writing than in person. What you told me naturally came as a shock. Not because it was completely unexpected, but it still would have been better if you had let me know before the first wedding announcement was published. Then, what you call “the scene” could have been avoided. On the other hand, I want you to know that I don’t blame you in the least. Yes, I am my mother’s son, but I am also yours. I’m aware that I’m not only obligated to my mother’s memory but also to my loyalty to you. But that doesn’t mean I will acquiesce in each and everything you do as if it were beyond criticism, even if, as you so rightly put it, I’ve become more reasonable lately. Reason is, as you realize, something quite relative. When a person is reasonable, we mean, as a rule, that she understands and consequently forgives all our actions. I don’t mean to suggest that this is your attitude exactly – nor is it my own. I only mention it for the sake of balance, so to speak.
The reason I’
m reacting differently to your marriage plans from how I did before is not that I’m suddenly more “reasonable” in December than I was in February, but that my initial pain has passed, and this has allowed me to develop a more dispassionate view of your behavior. Now I’m probably inclined to admit that love is something you can’t control. My sentimental regard for Mama can no longer conceal the fact that this pertained to her just as much as to anyone else. Moreover, I feel it’s my duty to tell you that I can confirm your suspicions about Erik and Mama’s relationship. Besides, I think it’s finally time we admit to ourselves that Mama was quite unbearable in her final years. There wasn’t anything we could do that she didn’t think was wrong or a failure. If we were kind to her, she suspected an ulterior motive. If we went shopping for her, we always came home with the wrong thing. On the other hand, if we didn’t shop for her, we were cruel and wished for her death to come sooner. Of course, I know she was sick and therefore entitled to some indulgence, but it doesn’t change the fact that her way of terrorizing us was simply unbearable.
Therefore, I can understand if you felt the need to run off to a less depressing environment. I would have done the same if I had been able to. So I understand quite well why you want to get married now. But I have nothing against your choice for a companion, so I have to disagree with you on that point. If I have shown your fiancée any “coldness,” as you call it, it was probably because for a long time I was unsure of how I should behave in front of her. After all, it’s still our first year of mourning (which you probably consider too conventional), and you can’t blame me if this has caused me to keep some distance from her. But to conclude that I would somehow be cruel to her because of this is, without a doubt, to go too far. I wish you both happiness, and I think it’s great the wedding is going to take place after the New Year; this way, no one can say that you remarried the same year Mama died.
A Moth to a Flame Page 20