Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

Bengt likes the sea, especially when it’s vast and dark. He likes thunderstorms the same way, which explains why he is curiously exhilarated when lightning suddenly blazes forth in the north sky. Out of nowhere, it suddenly leaps to life over the luminous horizon and slithers down into the sea like a fiery snake, almost hissing before dying out. Bengt is sitting on the ledge and smoking. And the tobacco tastes acrid because his fingers are wet. Earlier, they had to bail out the boat, which had been half-submerged in the water for a long time. He has been morose and defiant the whole day, has hardly responded to anyone, and has refused to do what anyone asked him. In fact, he did the opposite. As soon as they boarded the bus and Bengt pretended to drop the case of alcohol, the father yelled, If you don’t want to come, then just stay home! Yes, let’s just stay, Berit wanted to say, but Gun beat her to it. Everything will be fine once we get off, she had said and smiled. So Bengt stayed. But he didn’t smile back at her.

Now he is sitting and watching the father, who is rowing and who has unbuttoned his jacket. So he can see how his chest heaves underneath his red silk shirt with every movement. But the oars are splashing against the sea very choppily, and no matter how much he strains himself, it is sloppy rowing. Sometimes water splashes up and spatters inside the boat, so he makes excuses: If it weren’t so damn windy! In reality, however, it’s perfectly calm. The swell is mere child’s play and a sailboat is adrift. The flag is not even moving. The three who are not rowing simply smile.

Bengt isn’t smiling at the rowing. Nor is he merely smiling at the silk shirt. Nowadays the father only buys silk—silk underwear and silk sweaters and silk shirts. He never did before; he never bought anything, for that matter. Before it was always Alma, and she bought Doctor Lahman’s tricot. But the son isn’t smiling at this alone. He is smiling because he is happy. He has been happy the whole day—he just didn’t want to show it. It’s part of his plan to show displeasure at first, to pretend to join them reluctantly. He won’t be happy until they arrive, and then they will be pleased with him. For two and a half days they will be nothing but pleased with him. After that, the attack will come, just like lightning from a joyous sky. But during the attack he will continue to be happy, for what can arouse more pleasure than taking revenge for the sake of purity?

There’s a can of drinking water between Bengt’s legs. It’s a 50-liter milk can that was difficult to get into the boat. Without a thought, he suddenly lets go of the fiancée’s hand and starts drumming lightheartedly on the tin. They are already far out now, almost halfway. He spits his cigarette into the sea and starts whistling, quietly and softly. Then the father raises the oars into the boat. One of the blades ends up on Berit’s lap, so she gets cold but doesn’t dare move it away. Berit is almost like a small lake. For every cloud that drifts over her, she becomes dark, not just on the surface but at the bottom, too. Now she is dark because of the oar and Bengt’s whistling. She doesn’t like that he is happy. She doesn’t like it right now, anyway. Now it only makes her want to cry.

But the father likes it. He thinks the son whistles beautifully, and he likes beautiful whistling. The drumming is beautiful, too. Otherwise the evening is perfectly serene and the sea is perfectly silent, only the seashore can be heard sighing as it slowly dims. They have rowed so far out that they are nearly alone. The sailboat is now lying askew at the end of the curving disk, and when its sails are taken in for the night, it resembles a tiny skerry with a solitary tree on it. The coastline sinks lower and lower, and eventually the water is up to the gunwales. And from their tranquil, drifting boat they also see two islands. The one to the left is a narrow and high cliff, blanketed with low trees. A bird is squawking above it. The one to the right is a long and low island with luminous white rocks along the water’s edge. But straight ahead, only a half-hour’s row away, is their island, so small and low that it nearly disappears when the swell comes. The water surrounding them is getting imperceptibly murky even though the sky is still shining above. Is it strange that the rower is happy?

When the bird stops squawking, Berit is also a little happy, but then Gun starts to sing. She sings softly as Bengt whistles softly and drums softly, too. He doesn’t notice it until a while later, and then, almost ashamed, he stops. He wipes some water off the can and lights a wet cigarette. He looks over his father’s shoulder and glances at Gun. She glances back at him and suddenly stops singing, but the song isn’t over yet. Then the father turns around and drops his heavy hand on her shoulder. She is wearing a white, luminous blouse.

Sing, he says.

But she doesn’t sing. She forgets the melody and the words, too. She just wants them to keep rowing. When Bengt looks at Berit, she is sitting with the wet oar on her lap and crying a little. She’s probably crying because the song was so beautiful—at least he thought it was. But he, too, thought Gun should have stopped singing, although he doesn’t know why. The father’s hand is still on Gun’s shoulder, causing her to gradually sink down, and it’s probably making her dirty, too.

Let’s go now, she says.

Just then, Bengt suddenly has the urge to row. Men in small boats are only too happy to row in the company of women, and Bengt wants to row for Berit. He takes her by the shoulder, not rough or violently, though he can feel through the rough material of her coat that her shoulder is trembling. She herself is not afraid, but her shoulder is. It quivers like a small animal.

Don’t be cold, he says consolingly. Stand up. We’re almost there.

But this is precisely when her chills begin. When Bengt takes a step toward the father, the boat cants, a basket starts sliding across the floor, Gun cries out, though subdued and mildly, and the father lets go of her shoulder to grab the oars.

I want to row, Bengt says and looks into his eyes.

But the father doesn’t want to let go of the oars. The boat is aslant, and a small suitcase is tipping over. Bengt lifts one of the oars over the gunwale, which frees Berit’s lap and she can put her hands there now. The bird starts shrieking again over the tall island. Then the oar sinks, sinks until it’s almost hanging straight down from the gunwale. On one side, the water is rising over the planks. It seems like a lot, and the case of liquor gets wet.

Are you crazy? the father asks. Do you want us to tip over?

Bengt looks down at the oar. It sparkles as the blade turns. Then he looks at Gun and sees her hand, more than anything else, stroking the red collar. He has never seen her touch his father before, so he raises the oar again.

Let Bengt row, Gun whispers; you shouldn’t row the whole way.

So the father makes his way aft, and Bengt sits down to row. When the oars touch the water, he feels how heavy the boat is. The shore isn’t as far as he presumed either. In fact, he can still see the bus with its bright headlights pulling away from the large concrete jetty. But the long island has spun around and the glinting of its white rocks has gone out. The father puts his arm around Berit’s shoulder. Her shoulder is tremulous, but she doesn’t dare break free. Only Bengt notices this. The father’s arm is still there.

Slowly, the boat takes off. A little water still splashes inside every time the oars plunge into the sea, so much that Berit and the father are completely wet, but they don’t say anything. The father merely squeezes the son’s fiancée a little, just a little closer to him. He never noticed before how nice her shoulders feel. Bengt doesn’t really care and only reacts to it in fun. So to get back at the father, he mischievously leans back a little. This allows him to make more powerful strokes with the oars. But it also allows him to feel Gun’s knees digging into his back. She doesn’t move them away, even though she ought to know that he needs more room to row as fast as he is going. He becomes a little irritated by this, so he takes up even more space. The wake is getting rough and deep, and the depressions left by the oars are filled with sparkling foam. Above them, the sky is getting even brighter, but over the water’s black surface and a few feet above that it’s twilight. Now even the sailboat stops shining, and the mast is long gone. But underneath her black hair, Berit’s face is completely white.