Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

The thousand and first time he can only watch. It’s the first time he has watched her while shining a light on her face. He sees that she is old. Then he realizes he will never be able to make her young, and this terrifies him. For the first time on the island, he sees for himself what he is doing and tears his eyes away. She has fine wrinkles under her eyes and her hair is dyed, with great care but not so well that he can’t notice. He lowers the light even more, of course, in the hope that she will wake up and defend them both against everything awakening inside him. Unfortunately, she does not wake up. She sleeps heavily and peacefully. But he burns himself on the lamp chimney.

He puts the lamp down by the open fireplace, where the embers are still faintly glowing. The dog comes pattering from the kitchen. He lies down on the rug and spreads the dog over him like a blanket, but the dog must think he’s going to hurt it and fiercely resists, clawing him on the shoulder. Then he has the overwhelming urge to be cruel to the dog, so he shoos it away. Of course, he is afraid to do any harm. He knows what it means. He knows how rotten people become when they hurt others. So he suffers alone and in silence, huddled up and musing in the glow of the fading embers.

Because when the desire within us starts to fade, we are struck with pangs of consciousness and a flood of questions. As long as our pleasure lasts, we can be happy—as long as we are also pure. But now he is lying there feeling filthy. It doesn’t last long, but long enough for it to sting. And once it has sufficiently burned, he is no longer lying there filthy but standing at the porch railing, simply hating. He hates Gun.

It is raining and starless. With an almost invisible light, the moon wanders behind the thick clouds. The waves hiss against the rocks and fizzle out. He is naked but doesn’t feel the cold. He grips the rail harder; he does this instead of hitting her. And he wants to hit her because she is able to sleep. It really is because she can sleep that he hates her, because she can sleep while he suffers. He simply cannot fathom such heartlessness. That she can be sleeping underneath warm blankets as he stands freezing in the dark rain.

So that’s what she’s like, his anger tells him, that’s what the one I love is like. When she’s had enough fun, she sleeps, and when she wakes up, she only does so to have more. This is why I, being pure, must hate her. Oh, purity is a terrible master and always wears a mask.

It is his passion and not his reason that hates her. His reason, which is now quite powerless, tells him he hates her because she is old and because he has just discovered it, not because she is any worse than he is. But what else is our reason but a young gazelle that comes down to drink at the watering hole? There, it suddenly sees the crystal clear surface darkened by a terrifying reflection. And the gazelle isn’t much in the tiger’s claws, a morsel at best. Its only salvation is that its flesh might be tough.

But his tiger has very strong teeth. And it’s ferocious. It roars in his ears what he should do. He closes both doors in the kitchen so that he can’t be caught by surprise. Her purse has a simple clasp— at least he’s able to open it easily. Inside, there is a heavy cigarette case he has never seen before. It is also easy to open. It’s empty, but engraved on the lid is “E.S.” His instinct immediately tells him it’s the name of a lover. There is a little notebook with yellow binders at the bottom of her purse. As he flips through it, his emotions tell him that he is right for doing it, because we have the right to know whether the one we love—that is, the one we give all our trust to— is deceiving us. In the book are some phone numbers next to insignificant names, the names of women. He doesn’t even find their own number.

When he closes the purse again the clasp snaps much louder than he expected. When he looks at the dog, which is sprawled out on the rug, he sees that it is studying him with vigilant eyes. He throws the purse down as if it had burnt him and loudly opens up a cupboard door, so the dog would think he was looking for some-thing—a glass or a fork. To find a fork, he pulls out a random drawer. There are no forks in it, but there is a pipe, which hasn’t been smoked in ages. He sticks it between his teeth and inhales. It tastes bitter, as bitter as knowing you are being deceived. He carefully returns the pipe and slowly pushes in the drawer.

As he does this, the tiger swallows the gazelle in one gulp. Now he understands that everything is a lie. She had said that the island and the cottage on it belonged to a sick girlfriend who has been cared for by relatives in Norway for a long time now. But girlfriends don’t smoke pipes. The house is a lover’s. The boat, too. All the land he walks on during the day and all the skin he caresses at night belongs to a mysterious man, a man he hates but can do nothing about. He leans over and looks at the dog. This time with his tiger eyes. The dog is a man’s dog, not a woman’s. And with his tiger paws, he thrashes it on the back so that it yelps.

Then Gun wakes up. He hears her calling him through the thin walls. He turns up the lamp’s flame so that it’s as bright as can be in the alcove, but he is instantly unable to look at her. What had just happened was too awful for that. When we ourselves deceive someone, we’re able to understand it so well because every naked act we do is escorted by elaborate explanations. But that we ourselves might be deceived is inconceivable—just as inconceivable as the idea that we will one day die. We can only accept that other people will die and burn.

He puts the smoking lamp on a chair with some clothes on it, his and hers mixed together. He starts moving them because her clothes are defiled, but also because it takes up time and he can safely keep his back to her for a little while longer.

Bengt, she finally says in a voice almost bereft of softness, come to me.

He goes to her, but not like a lover does. The person hovering over her is a man deceived. His hair blackens his face, his lips are pursed, his breathing is heavy and tense. He is ugly. She wants to touch him as she always does when he looks that way, wants to stroke his hair, moisten his lips with hers—make him beautiful. But she doesn’t. Partly because she is afraid of him, the unrecognizable stranger hovering over her. And we can only love strangers if they are beautiful. The other reason is that she is tired of constantly stroking his hair. It’s too familiar to her.

When Bengt realizes she is afraid, he is afraid, too. He is afraid of being alone. When she was asleep he wasn’t that afraid, because someone who is sleeping cannot leave another person as lonesome as someone who is awake. Like all other emotions, fear is contagious. With eyes full of despair, they gaze at each other in silence, a silence during which the ocean holds its breath and the rain ceases. They are both breathing heavily. Because she is stronger, she is the only one who can break the silence.

Why did you hit the dog? she whispers quietly and rather resigned, for she also knows in her own way that it’s all over.

Then he topples over her. Sinks down with his hate, with his jealousy, and with his fear, but also with his love. His love makes him mute. If he only hated, he would have screamed, but now he can only cry—cry and forget himself. A woman is never afraid of a man who cries. Because a man who cries is merely a child. But when women cry they become very old.

Don’t cry, she whispers and presses her mouth against his face.

The lamp is smoking, but it’s very bright. His face is a child’s face again, not a stranger’s. He is no longer ugly, and when he himself forgets that he is and leaves his face alone, she thinks it is beautiful. But just when she thinks it’s at its most beautiful, it hardens again. So she delicately rubs the ugly face to thaw it out, but her warmth is not enough. Hopelessly, she whispers: