Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

Bengt turns around to see how much farther they have to go. At first, he’s unable to see it. At first, he can only see Gun’s shoulder. A shadow from the father’s hand lingers on her white blouse. After the shadow, he sees the island. He also sees the cottage. It’s by the narrow inlet, whose sand is dazzling through the dusk.

Are you tired, Bengt? Gun asks. Not reproachfully, but very gently. Now he needs to show her that he isn’t tired. Needs to show her that he is just as strong as his father. Needs her to see that he has enough strength to do what he has to do. She needs to know. Then she needs to be afraid. Soon, they will both be afraid, perhaps all three of them. He’s the only one who won’t be afraid, because he knows what he’s going to do. He whips the water with the oars, sending the ivory foam flying into the boat.

It’s just a little windy, he says while panting.

But it’s still calm, warm, and serene—and motionless. When he says it, however, no one smiles. Then Gun starts singing again but stops as soon as they approach the shore. She takes off her shoes, splashes into the water with her bare white legs, and pulls the boat up as far as she can, while chatting a little about this and that.

They are exhausted after carrying everything into the house. Bengt, for that reason, is sweaty, although Berit is cold. They unlatch the shutters and open the windows up to the night. They have put everything on the floor in the main room. Now they are sitting around the open fireplace and the charred fire for a while. They grab some beer and sandwiches and sit down to eat. Berit doesn’t want any beer, so the father is nice and goes on his own to get her some water from the can. Then he thinks it would be nice to have a nip. He opens a bottle and mixes his beer pretty strongly with some aquavit. Then Gun holds out her glass and gets a dash, too. But Bengt suddenly changes his mind and doesn’t want any at all. He is suddenly down, and he can’t help it.

You two can drink, he says.

After he says it, he realizes he said it very loudly. However, no one drinks anymore. Then the father catches something in his throat and spits it into the extinguished fire, causing Bengt to cringe. Now it’s time to make up their beds. There are two alcoves at opposite sides of the main room, one with a sliding door separating them. Both alcoves have bunks fixed to the walls. Bengt and Berit will sleep in the outermost alcove. Berit wants the upper bunk, says that sleeping too close to the ground gives her a headache. Then Bengt gives her the lower one. As they spread the sheets over the cold mattresses, he hears Gun laughing from the inner alcove. He thinks it’s an ugly laugh. He walks out of his alcove, but he still can’t hear what she’s laughing at.

They wash up in the little inlet directly in front of the cottage. Berit is the only one who goes straight to bed without washing. She isn’t feeling well. And to avoid freezing, she spreads her black coat over herself. The other three wade into the water. Gun goes out the farthest. The father is standing closest to her and splashes water on her legs. He has rolled his pant legs up to his knees, but Bengt has hardly rolled his up at all. He has absolutely no desire to go too far out into the water. The father and Gun have the soap. After the father rinses his face, he blows his nose into the water. Bengt cringes once again. Soon there are white rings of foam around them. The rings are resting perfectly still on top of the water and twinkle a little before they dissolve. After Gun pulls up her hair, she abruptly takes off her blouse and tosses it to the father. Bengt goes back inside.

It’s an infinitely long time before they come back. And so that it won’t get too stuffy in the room, Bengt has opened the window. He is lying very close to the brown wooden ceiling and listening to their voices from the inlet. His underwear was wet with sweat and he couldn’t find his pajamas, so he’s naked underneath the blanket. Lying there, he suddenly gives a start. Something strange has happened to their voices. They have changed all of a sudden: one is much deeper than before; the other is much lighter. Then he notices that the voices are coming from behind the closed sliding door. Hearing it makes him so blistering hot that he flings the blanket off. After he has cooled off again, he hears a loud splash from the inlet and after a short moment of silence, he hears another splash. Then he climbs down from his bunk and leans out the window. Nothing is visible in the inlet. But there are two piles of clothes in the sand, one that is dazzlingly white and one so dark that he can hardly see it. Soon, he can see their two heads, like two dark balls bobbing up and down in the water. But before the swimmers wade back to shore, he slowly pulls the curtain from his fiancée’s bed. It occurs to him that he never said good night to her. When he came back from the beach, she had drawn the curtain that separated the hallway from their alcove as well as the curtain to her bed. Now he is leaning soundlessly over her. She’s breathing like she’s sleeping. But her eyes are open.

Are you cold? he asks. Is that why you have your coat over you? No, she whispers.

But she doesn’t touch him, even though she sees he is naked. Her hands are on her chest and clasped like a sick old woman.

Are you ill? he whispers.

She turns her head to the wall and closes her eyes. Playfully, he pulls some hairpins from her hair and covers her face with five locks of her own black hair.

No, she whispers. Just afraid.

Now he’s afraid, too.

Of what? he asks while listening for sounds outside.

So afraid of being alone, she whispers, wiping her hair away from her face. And afraid of your dad.

Now they are coming. He hears their soft pattering up the steps. He quickly hides himself behind the curtain of the fiancée’s bunk. Then, when the father and Gun are inside the other room, they close the sliding door again. He can’t hear them anymore.

Don’t be afraid, he whispers sharply, I will . . .

But she never gets to find out what he would do. He leaves her all alone, and he closes the window. Then he goes out to the hallway, where he burns his feet on their wet footprints. He slowly opens the sliding door again and peeks through the small opening. No one’s in the other room and the curtain to their alcove is drawn. Then he creeps back to his alcove and climbs into his bed. But he leaves the sliding door slightly ajar, so that the room won’t get too stuffy.

Beneath him, he hears his fiancée tossing and turning now and then, not for long stretches of time, but often. Then the walls of the wooden cottage start to creak. Otherwise, the cottage is completely silent. Beyond the silence, the sea murmurs impatiently, like the audience at a theater. But it isn’t the noise that keeps him from sleeping—it’s the silence. Or, more precisely, what he can’t hear. And for a long time he waits for sounds that never come. He waits, for instance, to hear the clinking of glasses. He does hear it in the end, but only because he wanted to so badly. At almost the same time, he hears the father snoring. Now he can roll over to the wall. Now he’s able to fall asleep, almost instantly.

In the morning, he is the first one to wake up. He forgot to close the shutter, so it’s very bright very early in the alcove. Behind the curtain, the fiancée is sleeping on her back. Her coat has slipped off, so he spreads it over her again. At his touch, she gives a start as though she were being punched and flings her hand over her face to protect herself. This upsets him, and he quickly leaves her. He opens the window and quietly climbs out. The rock is still cold underneath the coolness of the shade. He walks around the cottage just to see what it looks like in daylight. All but one of the green shutters are open. He stops in front of the closed shutter and lights a cigarette. He uses three matches for a single one. When he finishes it, no one has woken up yet. But he has a bad taste in his mouth.