Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

Though, you never know. I knew this last part was merely the bait he wanted me to bite—a weak, shameless attempt on his part to justify himself and his actions. In reality, I could tell that he was firmly convinced that Mama never betrayed him with Erik. Still, I have to admit that he’s right. You never know. Isn’t it terrible, Bengt, that no one ever knows? You can’t trust anyone. The one you trust most, the one you have loved the most, even she can betray you. Your own mother can say to you, I’m going out shopping now, Bengt, when she’s really going out to catch a cab to her lover. Your own fiancée can say, I have a headache tonight, Bengt, and can’t go out, while another man is in her room, lying on a made-up sofa. There’s only one person in the whole world you can trust, and that person is you. It’s a horrible thought, but once you’ve thought about it for a while, you realize that it’s also a soothing thought. As long as you can trust yourself, then you have nothing to lose. It’s only when you discover that you can’t trust yourself that all is lost. Therefore, it’s necessary to be trustworthy to yourself at every moment, to not let you trick yourself. That’s why it’s so important to be aware of your own actions, and the only way you can do that is to analyze every last ounce of your emotions and your deeds.

This is what I have done, and of course I’ve realized that what happened cannot in any way minimize the shamefulness of my father’s and his fiancée’s relationship. It is and remains a disgraceful act that betrays another person, even if that person has also betrayed. On the other hand, it obviously can’t help changing my feelings about Mama to some degree. Of course, I miss her all the time, but a tinge of doubt has crept in, dulling the intensity of my mourning and diminishing its permanence. It’s clear that I can no longer miss her with the same sadness now that I know that even her purity, the quality I loved most about her, was not untainted.

The important thing is that I’m no longer obligated to mourn my mother. Having suddenly discovered that she committed the same act that I’ve been despising Papa for, it’s obvious that my innocent grief has been tainted. I don’t enjoy mourning for the sake of mourning. I’m no self-tormentor, after all. Now I understand that the revenge I’ve felt obligated to carry out against Papa and his fiancée on behalf of Mama is really for myself, because the virtue I cherish most, purity, has been so ruthlessly violated.

Furthermore, what has happened has made me suspicious of everything and everyone. I don’t even trust Berit anymore. The other night I told her that no one could trust anyone, not even your own mother. We were sitting on a bench in Djurgården.Instead of starting to cry, as I had expected, she became surprisingly angry. She said, Why do you constantly defend her? She meant I was defending Papa’s fiancée. It was so absurd that I could’ve laughed. Lately, I’ve noticed that Berit criticizes her all the time, as if she were trying to divert attention from herself. I’m keen enough of an observer to be able to separate embellishment from the truth. After recently seeing Berit to her door one evening, I noticed that she lingered in the window, as if checking to see if I had really left. A little later, I called her for no particular reason and told her, also for no reason at all, that I saw how painstakingly she had checked to see if the coast was really clear. She started crying, and it relieved me a little.

Later.

Papa just got home. He’s been walking back and forth in the other room all night, so I knew he had something to say, but he couldn’t come out with it. Finally, he said it. His fiancée wants us to spend Midsummer in a cottage she’s borrowing in the archipelago. I surprised Papa by answering yes. My answer didn’t surprise me at all. I know now that if I’m ever going to have the chance to take revenge on her, it has to happen when we’re together because then she won’t be able to be evasive or hang up the phone—which could happen if I were to write her or tell her what I think over the phone. Besides, the cottage is supposedly on a small island, which makes my job much easier. I could tell Papa was happy I said yes. Based on the things he’s been saying lately, he still seems to hope that I’ll come to think of her as a mother one day. He is so naïve. I hoped you would be sensible, he said afterward. We’ll see how sensible I am, I answered. Then he stroked my hair. Then I heard him leave and call someone. Evidently, she must have a telephone at home, even though I couldn’t find her number in the phone book. And I wouldn’t be surprised if she were divorced, perhaps several times. So the number is probably in her husband’s name. I can’t describe how happy I am that my revenge is finally within reach. On Midsummer, I won’t leave a single word I’m going to say to her and Papa to chance. There’s still a month to go, but I’ll use it wisely!

Now I can hear that Papa’s asleep. I’m going to sleep, too. See you soon.

Your friend, Bengt

P.S. Papa gave the dog back. He claimed that I wasn’t nice to it, which is a lie, so he sold it to his fiancée. I saw through his trick, but I let him keep thinking he’s an exceptionally shrewd person. It won’t hurt him to believe that. Besides, his sisters think the same thing about themselves. They haven’t visited us since they raided the closet, although they have called us a few times. The last time, after they found out that she had visited us, they said, Forgetting Alma already!

As if I was the one who invited her! As if I could ever forget Alma!

THEY ARE AT SEA FOR THREE DAYS. At sea, they say playfully. That sounds like living on a boat. In reality, however, they are not on a boat but an island or, more precisely, two small islands connected by a funny little wooden arch, which they jokingly call a bridge. The open sea encircles them, and the coast disappears into the dark water, which blackens as the night approaches. To the west, the sun has just set behind a glimmering strip of land. Looking at it, they think, Look how dark the sea is out there, far back, by the lighthouse. The lighthouse, of course, is a church tower during the day. And when they hear sounds from the mainland at night, a honking car or a roaring train, it’s only natural for them to say, Did you hear that big ship? Now, that was a torrent! Therefore, at night they really are on the sea, not in it and definitely not by it. They are in a boat, in a little boat on a very large sea.

Something strange happens when people are in a small boat, something that rarely happens with people in a car or an elevator, on a train or even a boat large enough to say that you are on it instead of in it. What they experience is the sense of solitude. There are only a few thin boards keeping them from being totally engulfed by the surrounding deep sea. They are lonely, but it’s not an isolated loneliness, because they feel lonesome together, together with the others in the boat. This is why a temporary bond forms between people in a small boat. They only have each other, the deep sea is frightening, and small boats are very fragile. Therefore, each one of them becomes the other’s lifebuoy. If you’re not afraid, then neither am I, so we shouldn’t scare each other, and we ought to be nice to each other as long as the water surrounds us.

It’s a Saturday evening when they row away from the large pier, which they had reached by bus. Almost silently, because they aren’t in the boat yet, they put their baskets, bags, and small pieces of luggage on board. The father wants to row first. Bengt and Berit sit in the stern, but Gun sits in the prow behind the father. Berit is gazing at the sea, which glistens black under the drifting clouds. At first, she is afraid because it is so still. She is always afraid of water and even small boats. And the black water makes her think of death. But, then, when the swell comes and gently rocks them, she becomes even more terrified and immediately thinks the boat is going to capsize. So she grabs Bengt’s hand, which is lying wet and cold between them, and places it on her coat, a black coat that Bengt didn’t like. That’s why, when they were still in the bus, he said, Are you going to a funeral? She also owns a blue coat that is lighter and better suited for Midsummer, but she didn’t want to wear it. Nor did she want to come along, but Bengt had practically forced her, saying that she ought to come—if for nothing else than for the sake of his mother. So she gave in, and this is also why she’s wearing the black coat.