Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

Bengt! What happened?

She receives no answer. What had happened is something he can’t confess. If he were a tiger, he would roar. But now he cannot roar, cannot even yell. He can only hurl his tiger body on top of her. Don’t cry, she says to him. But the words aren’t hers, nor can they ever be. They are his father’s words or, more precisely, a father’s words. What he now feels is something entirely new, something utterly absurd, something that only his instinct can comprehend—yet not entirely—or perhaps only express. The woman next to him, the woman he loves, is not just his father’s or maybe another man’s. She is his mother. This is what is so inconceivable to him.

We cannot fathom our own death or that someone is deceiving us, either. And we cannot imagine that someone else could sleep naked with the person we love. And if we could see it, our reason would not believe it. Only our heart would know it. Just as difficult to comprehend is the fact that we are capable of committing a crime ourselves. We can believe it of anyone else, but not ourselves. But when we do commit a crime, we still don’t believe it, because we are the ones committing it. Our reason cannot process it and our feelings won’t accept it. Our reason isn’t strong enough, nor is our imagination. Our only real guarantee of happiness relies on the failure of our imagination.

He therefore doesn’t spring from the bed, even though his heart knows that it’s his mother he is holding. Instead, he grows only more excited than before, and he infects her with his passion.

As this is happening, they look into each other’s eyes and this is when she finally has to understand, has to know that it is her son she loves, because she is afraid of what is happening, very afraid and very beautiful. The fear makes her beautiful but not him. But her beauty arouses him even more, and in the end it’s not eyes they see, even though they are gazing into each other’s eyes the whole time. Lust can transform everything. It is the deepest well, where all other feelings disappear. First, his fear disappears, then his jealousy drowns, and then his crime sinks down into it. Finally, his hate is swallowed up. The last thing he sees are her eyes, which are no longer eyes but a black, vertiginous well. Then his own body starts to sink down the well with all of his misery, courage, helplessness, and tears.

After he falls asleep, she rubs him dry with a sheet. She lays him gently on his side and watches him hour after hour, unable to take her eyes off him. She is no longer afraid, because he is her son. She is merely blissful and her body is throbbing as if she had just given birth to him. The only thing she still fears is that he might wake up. She loves him most when he is sleeping because then he is a child and his face is all alone, even his body is on its own. She has loved many men, but none like him. Before, she has only loved men, and men are never alone. Wherever they go, they drag their man with them.

She turns off the lamp without taking her eyes off him. The room smells like kerosene and sweat. It must be getting light out because the ocean sounds like it normally does at dawn. Birds are squawking high above the cottage, and the rain has stopped. When the dog comes up to her in the darkness and begs to be pet, she hits it. She doesn’t feel bad afterward, but her hand hurts. Then she lays it on Bengt’s heart, forgetting that she has done this a thousand times before.

Everything isn’t the same in the morning though still very much the same. It isn’t as though he forgot anything. When she woke him up with a bowl full of hot tea and rum, he recognizes her immediately. Not a single shadow on this face is foreign to him. He turns his face to the wall and drinks, and she is glad he turns away. The drink he is drinking tastes manly. Then he thinks of the pipe and the heavy cigarette case. He can’t remember the initials, except that he didn’t recognize them at all. But he is exhausted and quite satisfied and has a heavy, warm lump of gratification in his body. The tiger is full and satiated. It is sleeping. He also remembers his misdeed, but he can’t comprehend it. So it doesn’t upset him.

When they swim they now wear bathing suits. They used to run naked from the cottage—shivering in the morning cold—crash into the cold water with outstretched arms, and then dry off in front of the fire. Maybe it’s just particularly cold that day. They walk down the steps cautiously. Jagged leaves cover the rocks, and a thousand little flies rise up from the seaweed. An empty box has floated into the inlet overnight. On the mainland there is a fire burning. It is very bright out and the flame is low, yet pure. When they wade into the water, they do not go together. It reminds him of the time when she and his father went out together. Now she is standing a short distance away and cupping water over her breasts. When Bengt tries pulling her strap down to see her shoulder he breaks the strap. She becomes irritated but doesn’t say anything. She simply goes back to shore, but he doesn’t follow her. Instead, he beckons the dog to him. Together they bob up and down in the sea of green, and together they sink to the bright bottom. His body fills with water and the dog mounts him, dragging him down. And they come up together—the dog, trembling, and he, coughing and spluttering. Smoke starts to rise from the chimney.

When he comes in, she is lying stretched out in front of the fire with her hands folded behind her head. She is looking up at the ceiling, and she is naked. When he lies next to her, she starts to get cold and tells him so. Sullenly, he gets up and sits at the table. Then she asks him if he wants to join her for another swim. He doesn’t respond, nor does he go after her when she runs outside. Only the dog follows her.

Now he is the one lying on the skin rug when she comes back from swimming, and he has a pipe between his teeth. He watches her the whole time to see if she recognizes the pipe. But if she does, she doesn’t show it. He slowly crumbles some cigarettes and fills the pipe—even then, waiting for a hint of recognition. When she still doesn’t reveal anything, he grows discouraged and says that he feels cold. Then she says:

Don’t be stupid.

But he is stupid—stupid and sulky. At the table he lights the pipe and then she sees it.

Have you started smoking pipes? she asks.

Yes, he says, as you can see.

She is a lot wiser than he is. Women are much wiser than men, not more intelligent but wiser. She is still lying in front of the fire. And she is still grinning. She feels the same pain he does, yet she still smiles. Smiling, she starts brushing her hair with the white comb. He cannot let her be. Indeed, he knows her much too well, but that’s only when he is content or tired. But his lust can still transform her, make her almost unrecognizable. He leaves the pipe smoking on the table.

When he comes back it has gone out. As they eat breakfast— no longer on the rug but at the table—he keeps it next to his plate. They eat in silence. And Bengt gives most of his to the dog. It starts to rain. The fire goes out and it gets cold. To warm up, they drink tea with rum. As she clears the table, Gun tells him that he ought to write home and to Berit.

It helps to write. They are sitting on opposite sides of the table and thinking of things to say. They are playing a game, not committing a crime. And since it’s only a game, they are able to do it. So they playfully think of things people do when they’re drafted.

You have to write about girls, Gun says.

He looks up for a moment. Something occurs to him. And it makes him very upset. All of a sudden, he loses the desire to write the letter. He puts the pen down and looks at Gun. When she asks him why he isn’t writing, he says he is thinking about all the girls he has had. Right when he says this, he tries to see if Gun looks jealous—she doesn’t. She just laughs, leaving him disappointed. But not just disappointed. It also pains him to know that he cannot hurt her.