Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

This is what they learn in fourteen days. But they don’t admit it to each other. They are cautious and even untruthful. To be able to love someone for long, you have to lie, largely to yourself but mostly to the one you love. One form of lying is refinement, and soon they are also refined. They give each other new names, find new places to kiss, new places to fall asleep. It makes them happy for a while, but it cannot hide the truth, so they find other ways to hide it. One way to prolong their love is to combine it with hate; this is the best way but perhaps also the most dangerous. Love and hate are the cat and mouse of emotions. Sometimes the cat chases the mouse, and sometimes the mouse chases the cat. But once the cat and mouse are both tired of the chase, there isn’t much else for them to do. The only thing left is to acknowledge the most painful truth of all, the most painful but also the most honest: that two people in love cannot be alone together on an island without falling out of love, that they cannot be an island. They need contact with the mainland. They need all the other people they know. It’s a horrible consolation for anyone who believes that love is an island in the sea, but once we weary of islands, it’s actually quite comforting. Because when a person grows tired of loving, he is relieved to find there are still so many people to love besides the one he has loved.

The first few days are wonderful for them. The sun shines, there is a fresh breeze, and they are alone. They drink each other up, sleep, and rouse again. The dog often wakes them up, and when they put it outside, it barks in front of the door, slams its heavy body against it, and raps the doorknob with its paws. If the dog is inside, they jerk from their sleep, awakened from a dream about rain or some waves. The dog is hovering over them and licking their shoulders. Gun pulls it down to her, lays it between them, and pets it. Bengt is a tad jealous of the dog, afraid of it, even—afraid in an absurd kind of way. But he doesn’t dare admit it. He’s afraid the dog is a witness. He’s afraid the dog will understand.

Otherwise he isn’t afraid at all. He simply thinks it’s all very nice. They found a fur rug in a closet and spread it out in front of the fireplace, where they make large fires several times a day, lie naked in the flickering light, and play with each other’s bodies. For the first time he isn’t ashamed of his body. It’s because Gun says his body is beautiful and because he knows he is strong. She makes him strong. They make each other strong. They aren’t calm like the first time, but much stronger. They lie close to the fire, which nearly burns them. The sides braving the fire grow hot, but they wrap the rug around their cold parts. For the most part, they lie quietly with only their fingers playing. They constantly find new places to linger on, each softer than the previous. They don’t move around much these days—just trips to the kitchen, to the alcove, to look for firewood, down to the sea. And they play innocent games. They pretend they’re in paradise, the most innocent place of all. Lying naked at the bottom of the boat, they drift for hours and hours through paradise. The ocean crashes against the frame, water splashes inside—it is cold yet it burns. Sometimes he is her child, and he doesn’t mind. And since she has never had a child, she enjoys it, too. Cleaving to her, he drinks her milk; he drinks and drinks and it never runs out. His lips only become sore.

Then they play games that spare their lips. She is his child, a little doll that he tenderly undresses for bed. They learn not to hurt each other. They pretend they’re made of porcelain and that they have to be delicate with each other if they don’t want to break. They are boundlessly imaginative. When they eat, they eat on the rug, lying on their stomachs like children on green grass. They close the shutters and play all night and throughout the thunder. They toast apples and roast potatoes in the crackling fire. They have wine, too, and they drink it but just a little. Because we never want to see the one we love drunk but only pure—pure, ardent, and beautiful. When they swim, they charge hand in hand into the highest swell, but the dog stays behind barking on the shore. When it finally does join them, they whirl around in the water, all three of them roaring with happiness. Sometimes he carries her under the water, and she is as light as a child. But he never dares carry her on land, because he’s afraid he isn’t strong enough and he’s afraid to look foolish. And nobody in love can afford to look foolish. The first few times she asks why she is so light in the water, he says it’s because she is a child or a bird that he is rescuing. But the day he responds with Archime-des’s principle, she is pensive, though still not afraid.

They don’t speak a lot about the future the first few days, perhaps not at all. Their bodies are so insatiable that no questions are needed, almost no thoughts either. Sometimes he wakes up at night. The ocean rushes through the night like an express train, and the dog snores in the kitchen. To avoid being alone, he delicately wakes her, and they lie in bed listening to the sea and the rain pecking like birds against the roof and the shutters. This may be when they are the happiest. They aren’t fully awake, and they have no memories of yesterday to startle them. They only have each other’s intimacy and warmth. In those moments, they are anonymous. There is no Bengt and no Gun, only one person next to the other, who could be anyone at all, and who is warm and in love. They even have to grope after each other’s faces like blind people to recognize each other. But this is only a game, because they don’t need to recognize each other. In fact, they shouldn’t recognize each other. The darkness as well as the tenderness and warmth of the flesh are enough.

This, among other things, is why they keep the shutters closed all day. And they lie naked with their eyes closed at the bottom of the boat because their clothes carry memories with them. And even though it’s harder for them, they can even be anonymous then— not for long periods of time but for a little while. But even in those moments they sense that the moment might be near, the moment when they are too familiar with each other, when their curiosity finally dies out. Then, every birthmark will be dangerously familiar; there won’t be a single gesture they can make that won’t remind the other of the gesture from yesterday or the day before. All of it is just a postponement.

One night, he wakes up and knows it is over. At the same time, he’s unable to fathom it. As usual, he first lies there listening to the marching of the ocean and the mendacious whistling of the wind. Somewhere, a shutter is banging and the rain is pouring down. He’s a little cold, has the urge to wake her, but suppresses it immediately without knowing why. Instead, he gets up very carefully. The floor is cold and damp. They were bathing in the dark just before they went to bed and their footprints haven’t had the chance to dry yet. Standing there, he hears Gun turn in bed and mumble something, and finally he hears her breathing peacefully again.

As he lights the lamp, he wonders what the word was. He thinks he heard a name, but he isn’t exactly sure. When he shines the light on her, she doesn’t react to it. She is lying on her back with her hair over her face. Nothing would have to happen if she woke up, but she doesn’t wake up. And he can’t wake her up, because he’s afraid she will recognize him. Instead, she just lies there, leaving him on his own. Yes, what he is feeling is loneliness. And her sleep is a shell that he cannot crack. He can only touch the shell and be terrified of its hardness. He tilts the lamp toward her and has the urge to twirl her hair around his finger. But he doesn’t submit to this urge either, because he suddenly remembers the last time he did this. It was like watching a film. His hand slowly makes its way to her hair. Then he coils a lock around his finger, and Gun smiles. He must have done it a thousand times. But he cannot do it for the thousand and first time.