Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

The son is standing by the bookcase, but he isn’t looking for a book. He is not even looking through the glass. He is looking in the direction of the door. It is open, so everything being said in the hallway can be overheard, as well as everything not being said. In front of the doorway, there is a curtain that his mother once put up to make it look nicer. When she put it up, she thought it was beautiful, but they thought it was ugly. And this is why it hasn’t been used for three months. They hardly even noticed it was there. But earlier when he was alone, he pulled it across and it stayed that way the whole evening. Now Berit is squeezing his hand so that she won’t have to be lonesome. Irritated—nearly disgusted, really—he feels that it’s clammy.

Because the curtain is there, he doesn’t see them at first. He only hears their footsteps approaching, one set is gentle, light, and brisk, and the other is heavy, deep, and squeaky. The footsteps stop behind the curtain for a moment. Then the curtain rings rattle as the father sharply slides it open. Because the son was listening to their footsteps, it is their feet he sees first. Or shoes, to be precise. The woman slowly entering the room has black shoes, and they are very beautiful. There was only one other time, he thinks, when he had seen such beautiful shoes. But he can’t remember when.

Now she comes so close to him that he has to look up so it won’t seem like he’s bowing. And when he does look up, he sees flowers. They were not for the father since they are still wrapped in white paper. The footsteps stop again, and the flowers are raised up to him, as far as they can go, right up to his chest, making him go cold inside.

How do you do, Bengt? Gun says.

Bengt looks at Gun. Coolly, like he imagined he would, maybe not exactly, but it isn’t warm either. If anything, it’s a look of confusion, as he is also confused. When you intend to be harsh, the person you want to be harsh to must behave the way you expect her to. Otherwise, you won’t be harsh at all, but instead how you’re normally supposed to be.

He didn’t expect flowers. If he had expected them, then he would have planned it so that he would have taken the flowers and plopped them on the daybed, letting them just lie there. But now he takes them and stands in the middle of the room as everyone quietly watches him unwrap the tissue paper. It’s a lot of paper, which is why there’s much silence. When the paper is unwrapped, he has five roses, five red roses, in his hand. He doesn’t know what to do with them, but he knows what he ought to do with them. He knows that he should give them back, that he should be firm, with a piercing glare, a stern voice, and that he should say harsh words: Thanks, he should say, but keep your roses. Roses are inappropriate for mourning. Especially red roses.

That’s when Gun first notices Berit. It’s often the case with Berit that even when you know she will be there, you don’t see her. She must be somewhere else, you think. But then you hear that she’s in the room, after all. Even furniture can let you know it exists, because it creaks. And when you do see her, you find her standing with her back to you. It’s not until later that you realize she isn’t standing that way at all. It’s just that her face and the front of her body can sometimes convey a solitude and silence that only a back can convey.

Hello, Berit, Gun says.

Then Berit extends her hand to Gun as if she’s handing her a gift. Behind them, the father is watching the two women. Berit is a bit taller and therefore thinner, too. Berit has straight black hair and straight legs. He doesn’t like women with straight legs. And he doesn’t think Berit is pretty. What he does find attractive is that Gun is looking at Berit like a mother. He finds mothers very attractive, especially beautiful mothers. But because they were looking at her for so long, Berit turns red and dashes off to the kitchen to look for a vase.

Then the father says:

Let’s sit down then.

As soon as he says it, he remembers he had said it once before, but he can’t remember where. Then he looks at the son to see if he remembers, but he doesn’t seem to recall either. He is merely standing there with the flowers. The roses are very red, but Bengt is very white. After standing for some time, he goes to sit down, holding the flowers in his hands the whole time. With both hands, though he only needs one. When he sits down, he notices there are five roses. Then, when he looks up, he notices the table is only set for four. So that they will be five again, he stuffs the flowers in the vase that Berit brought him and lights the candle. As soon as he lights the candle, he notices that Gun is watching him. The father is also watching him. Berit, too.

What are you looking at me for?! he wants to shout. But he only shouts with his eyes. It’s the only yell he can get out. Deep down inside him, the other cry, the real cry, is buried. It’s an egg buried underneath the baking sand, and it has to get much hotter before it will hatch. Then, once it has hatched, it will come out, but no one will know what it’s going to look like until the shell cracks. Not even he will know.

But even the roaring of his eyes can be heard. At least the father hears it. This might be why he is scratching his ear and keeping quiet. But Berit is holding one hand to her mouth as if she were the one who wanted to scream. And she probably does. Because she has suddenly discovered something that frightens her more than all the other things she has recently seen. What she noticed is that the candle, which is just starting to blaze, is in front of Gun. She is the one who put it there, but she wasn’t exactly sure she did it since she often does things that later surprise her. She is usually afraid of what she has done, and lately she is almost always afraid. Her sofa also broke again, and she doesn’t dare sleep at night. She is afraid of her own fear. But now she is afraid of the candle.

But she doesn’t really have to be afraid. Because nothing ever happens with the candle, nothing else but that a flame flares up searchingly high, like flames usually do. But after that, the candle burns like an ordinary candle. After lighting it, Bengt sits down between his mother and his fiancée. Yes, his mother. Because even though it’s true that a white cake is on her plate and that her cup is turned over in the shadow that the tall cake is casting over a small portion of the table, he still knows she is there. And he knows that they know she is there. Even she who is sitting behind the candle knows it because she can’t possibly think someone would light it for her. She can’t believe that a son in mourning would light a candle for the one who has hurt the deceased. Therefore, he purposely leaves the candle there. In the end, the candle will burn her and whoever is burnt suffers greatly. Whoever is burnt will also remember why she is burnt. Every time she looks at her hands, she will remember.

For the time being, however, she doesn’t burn herself. Probably thanks to the father. Because he takes the candlestick by the base and slowly moves it to the center of the table. Bengt watches his hand as he moves it. It isn’t burned but it’s afraid, because it grips it harder than a candle needs to be gripped. The father’s hand grips it so tightly that Bengt can see that it knows what candle it’s really moving. So that she will know, too, Bengt moves the candle back with one hand and offers her a cookie with the other. As she takes it, she says with an air of surprise:

What happened to your hand, Bengt?

Suddenly, he lets go of the candle and nearly drops the plate. Then he puts both of his hands on his lap.

I burnt myself, he answers without looking at anyone. I burnt myself on a candle.