A Moth to a Flame

by Stig Dagerman

  I am a little hurt that you completely misunderstood my reaction to the news. Perhaps I should explain. It wasn’t my intention to make a “scene,” as you call it. And there were two reasons why I was a little harsh. The first and most important reason was that I was a little overwrought as a result of my studies being so demanding lately. As you know, I had to spend the majority of the fall term at the library into the wee hours of the night just to make up for what I lost during my military service. And this certainly wasn’t beneficial to my nerves. The other and less significant reason was that, as I’ve already mentioned, I was a bit surprised by the sudden news, more precisely, not by the news itself but that it came so unexpectedly. Therefore, none of it was because of any resentment toward either of you, as you seem to think. You said yourself that you noticed Gun has been holding a slight grudge against me – ever since she found that stupid letter from that girl in my pocket when she was brushing my coat – and you therefore suspected that I had some reason to be upset with her, too. Yes, you might be right that it’s really none of Gun’s business if I’m unfaithful to Berit and that the scene she made when she found the letter was quite strange, but I think there’s a natural explanation for her frustration. Women are very loyal to each other, and Gun must have felt very hurt on Berit’s behalf. But she scarcely had any reason to be so upset for Berit in this situation. On the one hand, Berit didn’t find out about it, of course. On the other hand, the affair was quite harmless. I simply met that girl while visiting a friend from school. She’s one of those types who like falling for men, and rather often. You must have seen that cartoon with the woman who has a heart for a stomach? That’s what she was like. Her lips were like a carnivorous flower. Kissing her was like sinking down into a swamp, and she didn’t give me any pleasure. So I don’t feel sorry about it, because you can’t punish forbidden acts with regret, and we only feel remorse if we truly enjoyed it. The reason I “fell” for her was something deeper than mere lust. In my state of overexcitement I was seized by the suspicion that Berit was cheating on me. In retrospect, I agree that it was absurd, but you yourself know how absurd jealousy can be. Now, the best remedy for jealousy is to arouse jealousy yourself. This way, we achieve a comfortable balance. By the way, I think a Don Juan is a man who tries to keep his life in balance by not investing all of his affection into one object. A cowardly man? No. A wise man. Because for every disappointment, he can find solace in someone else. He knows how to economize his feelings. He is practical.

  Not that I’m a Don Juan. It was just an observation, nebenbei, so to speak. Of course, I eventually realized that Berit was faithful to me. It was just tragic, or more precisely, tragicomical. So I burnt up all my letters from the girl and asked her to burn all of mine. Unfortunately, I must have forgotten one in my coat, but that kind of thing happens, as you know. Yes, it was too bad that Gun happened to read it, but the fact is that no one asked her to. To make it up to her, I bought her that bracelet I showed you before I left. It was rather expensive, but it’s worth the price if it can restore peace to our family. Don’t you think?

  Well, I’ve explained my point of view the best I could. If you speak with Gun about my letter, you can mention my explanation for my trivial relationship with that girl. It really doesn’t concern her, but it might make her feel a little less offended for Berit’s sake.

  Wishing you a Merry Christmas

  (what’s left of it) and a

  Happy New Year

  from your son Bengt

  P.S. Berit and her parents send their warm wishes.

  Three O’Clock

  Berit is even afraid of the ice. Not just the ice that has formed overnight, but also the solid ice that has been freezing all winter. This is why she is so anxious as they travel across the ice to the island. She is sitting on the kicksled and Bengt is pushing her. She fears the whole time that the ice will give way. But it does not. It only creaks. The runners are screeching, and Gun is singing. She is sitting on the father’s sled with a bag in her lap. She is wearing short white boots. Berit has high black ones that she has borrowed. But they are too big, so she wobbles when she walks.

  Sunday morning is white and clear and three degrees Fahrenheit. A sheet of frost covers the ice, and tiny spruce trees are scattered about. A car rolls in slowly from across the frozen sea, and its snow chains rattle with fear, like chattering teeth. Farther out, a ship is frozen in the water; it looks like it’s lying flat on the ice. Its contours are sharp and precise. The smoke rising from the funnel is thin and frigid. And large ivory spider webs seem to be hanging between the masts. The islands look a lot different from how they did in summer. The long, low island has sunk into the ice and snow. A single ski track goes into it but doesn’t come back out. And the tall island is no longer as high as it was in the summer. The frozen crowns of the pine trees glisten in the sun. Gun puts on her sunglasses, the same ones from last summer. And Berit covers her eyes with one hand. Partly because of the sun and the ice, and partly because she is imagining things.

  Bengt is also imagining things. They all are, for that matter. Gun stops singing. So now only the runners are singing. Up ahead, the ice is black, and they cross a stream. There, Bengt doesn’t dare dig his spike too deep in the ice, so the father is able to catch up to him and even pass him. Then Gun leans to the side and looks back. Her stepson returns her glance. Neither of them smiles, but Bengt steers in behind the father. This relieves Berit, although she won’t be truly at ease until they arrive.

  The cliffs are covered by a deep layer of snow, and ice towers over all the rocks like little white volcanoes. An animal has apparently trudged across the island; the tracks could be from a dog. They leave the sleds on the ice and plod up to the house. But Bengt takes a different route. He climbs over the cleft, where the wind has packed the snow into solid drifts. He hardly leaves any tracks behind him. But in the hidden hollow, he sinks down to his knees. Then he stands up for a while, takes off his gloves, and fills his hands with snow. When he tastes it, it tastes like salt. Then someone calls out to him and he goes back.

  Where have you been? the father asks.

  Out, he says curtly.

  The fire is burning on the hearth. The father has taken off his shoes and socks. Now his feet are propped up on the edge of the fireplace. They are not very clean.

  What time is it? the son asks.

  Ten, the father says as he curls his toes in a hideous way. They eat at eleven. And even though it’s warm inside, Berit is cold.

  It is four below zero outside. A skater on sails swooshes across the bay in a flash, like a darting mouse. They drink tea with rum after they eat. Gun lights a candle that she happens to have with her and places it in the center of the table. Then Bengt goes outside for a while and sits down on the steps and smokes. Berit comes out and sits next to him, doodling in the snow with the tips of her boots. The father and stepmother eventually come out, too. Gun is standing at the foot of the stairs and squinting into the sun. She wants to take some photographs. Bengt steps out of the frame.

  Why? Gun asks as he takes the camera from her.

  He doesn’t answer; he just takes it. He has them stand on the steps and has them look straight ahead for a very long time, but it never turns out well. They are standing either too high or too low. But mostly they stand too far apart from each other.

  Squeeze closer together, he says.

  His voice is tense, so he can barely say it. But hiding behind the camera, he is able to see how Gun’s eyes try to watch him. For the first time in a long time, she wants to look at him. The camera shakes and he never gets a good shot.

  Closer, he says.

  Then she puts her arm around the father’s body, around his new dark blue coat. The father puts his around Berit’s black coat.

  That’s good, Gun whispers.

  But it’s not good for her. It’s good enough for Bengt, even though he is shaking. Behind the camera, his eyes are pleased, but he doesn’t want anyone to notice.


  Smile, he whispers.

  They all hear him, but he said it only to Gun.

  Afterward, only the father is smiling. The newlyweds go inside. They have been married for two weeks, and for fifteen days Bengt has been living with Berit. The back of the sofa is fixed, but they still aren’t happy. They were especially unhappy the night the father got married. It was a small wedding, smaller than the father had anticipated. None of his friends came. They must have remembered that the first year of mourning hadn’t quite passed, that there were more than fourteen days left. Fourteen days can be quite a lot of time for acquaintances; besides, it was a Thursday. Only the bridegroom’s sisters came, dressed in Alma’s clothes. They made coffee before the wedding and helped him with his shirt. But Berit was the only one who helped Gun with her dress. They took only one car to and from the courthouse. They ate dinner at the same restaurant, not in a private room though pretty close to the music. The sisters left first; they didn’t have an appetite. Nor did they laugh a single time. They had merely been curious. Actually, the ugly sister did laugh once when the bridegroom dropped the ring as he was putting it on Gun’s finger. She laughed then, but into her glove. The only time she laughs is at the mishaps of others. The only time she’s alive is when someone else dies.

  The bridal pair and Bengt and Berit left at the same time but in different directions. The newlyweds took a fancy car, and Bengt and Berit rode the streetcar to Berit’s. She woke up in the middle of the night because Bengt was awake.

  Are you asleep? she whispered.

  He did not answer. Then she asked:

  What are you thinking about?

  He lay in endless silence. He was drenched in sweat. Suddenly, he shouted:

  Do you know what they looked like?

  Who? she whispered. She was afraid, partly because he had yelled and partly because someone might have heard it.

  Of course, she knew whom he meant, and he knew that she knew.

  Like dogs, he whispered. Like two satisfied little dogs.

  Then something compelled her to say:

  Why do you love her, Bengt?

  As soon as she said it, but not before, she knew it was true. But she didn’t know how she knew it. When Bengt told her that what she had said was a lie, she realized that he was lying, although he was unaware of it then.

  I hate her, he whispered.

  Then he became fervent and aroused. Fearful of the banjo player and the sleeping card players, she let him take her. When he had fallen asleep, she started to cry in silence. And even though the blankets were thick, she was cold. She knew that the one she loved had spent someone else’s wedding night with her.

  But in a sense it is true that he hated. Bengt hasn’t been home for two weeks, nor has he called. One evening the father called him and he wasn’t sober. It’s our honeymoon, you understand, he said. The father sounded happy to be have been left alone. He sounded happy about everything, happy, too, to be drunk. Take Berit and come to the island early tomorrow morning, he said. There’s ice now.

  After the picture is taken, Bengt places Berit into the sled, fastens his spike, and pushes her gently into the inlet. He goes around the island three times with her – very slowly at first. The first time, they stop and look back at the island. Smoke is rising from the chimney; it is faint and delicate. The windowpanes are glinting in the dull sun. Heavy and tinged with blue, the snow covers the roof. The father comes out to the porch holding a pail, a shiny pail that he carries very carefully. He empties it over the snow beneath the railing. Now there is a large, ugly patch in the snow. He goes back inside without seeing them.

  Nothing like that happens the second time they go around. Nothing happens at all, except that the smoke stops. They also hear a door slam, softly yet distinctly. Then Bengt turns the sled toward the sea. They stand up for a moment and look at the frozen-in ship. There is a granular trench behind it, filled with tall blocks of ice. The ship is deeply submerged and leaning slightly aport. They are too far away to be able to read its name. Ice encrusts the gunwale and the smokestack is frozen in ice, too. The flagpole is holding up a stiff pennant of ice. Next to the ship, there is a dark cloud of men gathered around a black horse and a sled. Its hooves aloft, the horse starts to gallop to shore. A man in a white fur is sitting in the sled, and its ringing bells slide across the ice. The hooves clatter, sometimes hollowly, as if over a bridge.

  The third time, the shutter to the cabin is closed. Then he turns very sharply but proceeds very slowly to the island. They sit on the steps for ages before the father unlocks the door and steps outside. He laughs as soon as he sees them. In that moment he looks like a dog. He is more affectionate than ever on his honeymoon, so he takes Berit by the arm, and she goes sledding one more time. Bengt goes inside.

  When he enters, Gun hasn’t finished getting dressed. So she quickly wraps a fur around her when she hears him coming. Without touching, they move two chairs in front of the fireplace and feel totally lonesome as they sit there.

  Thank you for the letter, Gun says after a while.

  The fire is blazing again. In its light, Bengt suddenly sees the dog leash hanging on the damper. He takes it down and hides it in his pocket. The leash shouldn’t hang there, since the dog had been run over on the way to Gun’s brother’s farm.

  It wasn’t for you, he answers. The letter was for Papa.

  She doesn’t respond but rips off the corner of a newspaper and throws it into the fire. Then she rips off an even bigger piece. Finally, she throws in the entire newspaper. The corners of the house creak in the coldness, and the sun is starting to set. It’s fifteen below. Bengt moves his chair closer to the fire and closer to her, but he knows he can’t get too close. They had promised this to each other after she got married. At the very most, they can get close but never too close. But when they aren’t near each other, Bengt hates her because his tiger roars incessantly into his ear all the things she does when they’re apart. And if it is lying – well, who would dare accuse a tiger of lying?

  But once his chair is extremely close to hers, he realizes how short the distance between love and hate is; they are merely two sides of the same coin. We can only hate the one we truly love, and he does love her because he is close to her. She notices and becomes afraid, afraid of the severity of the law but also afraid of the longing of the flesh. Whenever she was alone in the new, unfamiliar home, she sometimes opened the bookcase and read about this crime as well as all the other crimes. But now she is mostly quivering because she wants him, because she has been longing for him, too.

  They both want to, and though they try, they can’t resist. And they can’t resist because they no longer know each other so well. They are once again beautiful strangers to each other.

  Your cheeks are so red, she whispers as she looks at him.

  She is also red. But it’s foolish of her to have said it, because once you mention something like that, you crave touching it. And to touch him, she had to move closer to him, but she is still a little afraid. Bengt strokes her fur.

  Thank you for the bracelet, she whispers.

  She isn’t wearing it. He asks why. She says she is too afraid of Knut. Then she reaches for her purse. The bracelet is lying at the bottom of it, and the cigarette case is gone. For a split second, he is grazed by his own hatred. A hot wind strikes his cheek and vanishes in an instant, as wind usually does.

  I threw it away, she whispers, for you. Now I have nothing left.

  His reason tells him it’s a lie, but he still accepts it as the truth. For we will gladly accept lies as long as they are presented as the truth.

  He fastens the bracelet around her wrist. It is heavy and beautiful. And because he doesn’t recognize her wrist, he strokes it. And when they kiss, they do not recognize their lips. Then, when she takes off the fur, they hear Knut’s voice from outside and they go up to the window. Knut and Berit are climbing up the snow. The thermometer reads twenty below zero. They manage to kiss each other one mo
re time before the other two arrive.

  Berit is crying when she comes in. Tears, or maybe water, have frozen on her cheeks. Knut is laughing.

  She started crying out in the middle of the ice, he says, placing his new hat on the table and taking off his earmuffs. It was different in my day. Then, girls had nothing against sledding. Now we need cars to keep them from crying.

  Bengt goes out to the porch alone, and even though it’s twenty below, it feels good to be on the porch. He isn’t cold but simply refreshed. Now the sun is setting, and the glow of winter covers the ice like a thin sheet of red tissue paper. The giant webs of ice on the frozen-in ship are also red. The spider is bleeding and so are the flies. When Berit comes out, he takes her hand.

  Poor Berit, he whispers.

  She does not ask him why. He doesn’t really know why he said it either. He is merely cheerful and gentle. When tears begin to cloud her eyes, he strokes her with his warm hands, but she continues to cry. Then he leads her to her bed. When they pass the father and Gun’s alcove, he hears them murmuring quietly inside, even laughing a little. But it doesn’t faze him. He only feels calm and peaceful.

  As the twilight deepens and grows warm, they sit and talk on the edge of her bed – that is, he talks. She just lies there and listens, but as she listens, her face grows paler and paler. Finally, he asks her if she isn’t feeling well. Then she says that she is ill. But he can tell that isn’t all she has to say, so he asks her to tell the truth.

  She asks him if he remembers what day it is. He remembers as soon as she asks. But he doesn’t grow cold, at first. First, he just says that his mother was sweet, and when Berit isn’t satisfied with hearing that, he adds that he had known what day it is. She grows paler.

  At the table, the father asks her why she looks so pale. Bengt says it’s because of the cold. Then the father gives her some alcohol to drink because he doesn’t think pale cheeks are beautiful. Then Berit’s cheeks turn a light shade of red, and the father caresses them. As he does this, Bengt and Gun gaze at each other from across the table – joyful and without shame. Their eyes are a little glossy from the alcohol but mostly from joy. Then they suddenly remember all the beautiful things that had happened in the room, but nothing of the ugly things. They also might be feeling a little remorse in front of the ones who don’t have a clue, but this only makes their memories sweeter since remorse is, after all, the best spice of all.