Stig Dagerman - Island of the Doomed

‘It was only when I’d got home and snuggled down under the covers I realized not how scared I was, but how much it had all hurt. I started crying, but not in the usual convulsive way at all, the tears just flowed out as easily as if there was somebody else crying inside me, and it was just as incredibly easy to scream afterwards: I just opened my mouth and Mummy or whoever it was did all the screaming inside me.

‘One evening Mrs Muehlhouse forced me to go with her to the tent church for a service, and among the people gathered around the entrance was a tall, grey-haired man with drooping eyelids, with his arm round a youth of about my age. The pastor and his son, whispered Mrs Muehlhouse respectfully, and then I recognized him, then I recognized the boy: it was the one who’d threatened to drown himself on my account, the one who’d flung me on to the floor between the altar and the stove.

‘Later on, when we were sitting there and I was feeling numb because of all the bodies giving witness and overflowing with worship and warmth, somebody, I can’t remember who, but somebody went up to the podium with me and I found myself standing there singing, singing all on my own some song or other I didn’t know in a voice I didn’t recognize. The pastor and his family were sitting on a little bench right at the front, and while I was singing I heard the pastor’s fat wife say: Somebody should shut her up, somebody ought to shut her up, but the pastor said: Why, it’s lovely.

‘Then the song was finished, but I didn’t realize that until there was a long silence afterwards and it was Mrs Muehlhouse with her white face and her raised eyebrows who made me come to. Then I went down on my knees at the side of the altar and the rich, mellifluous voice inside me said: Sinner, sinner, sinner. . who’s sitting on the bench with the white chip in it, who threw a lump of firewood at me when everything had gone wrong for him?

‘“There,” I whispered, pointing at the pew where the pastor and his family were sitting. “There, just look at him blushing and turning pale, first one then the other, and see how he’d love to run out of the tent in shame and fear, look at him, all you who have lifted up your hearts, look at the pastor’s son: he’s the one who threw me down one night between the altar and the stove, and tried to rape me.”

‘Suddenly, there was nothing but silence, the kind of silence you get between lightning and thunder, and once again I was raised up to the cruel surface of reality and I looked at the pastor’s son who had turned as pale as a sheet — and something horrible must have happened: I didn’t recognize him at all, there wasn’t the slightest similarity between him and the boy who claimed he wanted me, oh, it was all so awful, and when I suddenly saw Mrs Muehlhouse’s red face below me, all swollen with embarrassment, and with the abnormal urgency of a suicide I just opened myself up to the scream within me, I gave myself up like a beast on heat to the scream within me, I dissolved myself in deadly acids, I dived straight down with wide-open eyes into the octopus and was pulled to the floor on the podium, as the scream was so heavy I just couldn’t carry it in a standing position.

‘Afterwards, they told me they’d had to carry me all the way home, screaming like crazy, and it must have been ages before anything happened to me apart from a white flagpole constantly being taken down and then raised up again in front of my eyes. When they thought I was fit enough again, they sent me off on this voyage together with a stout lady who never said a word and who’s lying in bed ill in Ronton just now, waiting for us to come back; when she gets hold of your wrist, it feels as if you have handcuffs on.

‘But I was rescued from her — and Jimmie, I met you, I heard the captain telling somebody who you were ’cos I didn’t recognize you even though I said I did to get you on my side, I was surrounded by enemies you see, everybody was keeping watch on me, everybody except you. I thought: he’s the one who can give you warmth, he can keep evenings going on for ages, he can give you back the warm body you lost and I know you’d like to do that, Jimmie, I can feel it in the heat of that star that’s come back again, Jimmie, shall I fold back the canvas and kiss your throat? You have a little red mark just under your adam’s apple and that’s where I want to kiss you; or shall I stroke your arms and hands and give your muscles little bites, I think they’ll taste like rhubarb; or shall I undress you and give you my warm star so that it can keep both of us warm, ’cos I need to be warm, Jimmie. I do so long for warmth and evening. I need to be so warm, so warm, Jimmie.’

But the drumming behind her became more and more unbearable, and now somebody was beating the sand with a stick, hard and nastily.

‘Leave me alone!’ she cried, flinging herself backwards in fury; but they didn’t leave her alone. The four shadows in the sand, crouching round some invisible camp fire, came closer and closer, one step at a time, like pawns surrounding a king. Oh, they knew everything, they had octopus arms and eagle eyes and the venom of a snake and the agility of a puma, and she was useless against their combined strength and there was nothing she could do: just give in, once again, dive down into the octopus, bare breasts for the eagle’s beak, take off her shoes for the snake and embrace the puma — and then the scream:

‘You think I don’t know, don’t you? You’re probably thinking: there she is, the fool, prattling on and on without having the slightest idea, it’s just incredible, it’s not normal, it’s horrible; but you see, you’re all wrong. Oh yes, I know he’s dead, I know he’s been lying here dead all day, and you say: how can anybody be in love with a dead man, how can anybody talk to a dead man like that, how can anybody want to caress him? But look: why do you think I loved him, why do you think I dared to love him? Because he was so strong, so healthy, so full of power and strength? No! No! Because he was ill and weak, because his wounds had started stinking, because he was a cripple, because I never needed to think: he’ll want to have me tonight, he’ll come and force himself into me in his hut or in the bushes and he’ll pour out his rugged manliness all over me, he’ll come and force my legs apart, with a plank if needs be, and he’ll hurt me as much as he needs to do in order to satisfy his desires and his vanity, he’ll slobber all over my face and convince himself I love him as a result, he’ll shower me with nasty words and think they turn me on; oh no, how could I love anybody I’d be afraid of getting all that from? — But a dead man, a dead body that’s stopped longing for such horrid embraces, what’s purer than a dead man, what’s more worth loving than a dead or dying man, because you can confess everything to a dead body that’s still got its living consistency, and yet you can still retain your innocence; is there anything you can love more passionately and more painfully than someone who’s just died and who can no longer lure out of you in all kinds of dirty ways the impure undercurrents of your emotions? Oh, to be loved in return, that’s what I was always so afraid of, I was always afraid of being loved in return, I was always seeking warmth, but only I could provide that in my love of the defenceless, those who were not strong enough to force their own cruel, ugly love on to me. So take him away from me now, bury him, and put sand and stones over him, but don’t forget to do what I can see your eyes brimming over with desire to do to me. Fling yourselves on to me and force your way into me, look, I’m defenceless, I don’t even have a star between my legs as I’ve always boasted of having, press me down into the sand and let my hatred inflame you even more, really turn you on, so that your performance gets more and more frenzied. Poor little thing who’s short on love, you all think, she’s not worth anything better than being raped, than being forced into making love, in the name of justice, amen. Get on to her then. Roll me over — no, you won’t need a plank, you won’t even need to use your fists, I shan’t defend myself, I just don’t need to defend myself any more, a dead woman doesn’t need to defend herself, a dead woman who’s lost everything already, or gained everything, so there.’