Stig Dagerman - A Burnt Child

In the letter, however, he writes that there are plenty of girls. We have different ones every night, he continues, so life here is never boring. Father will laugh at that; Gun laughs at it, too. Then she signs his name at the bottom in her handwriting. This way it’s more exciting. Now he feels he has to do something to get her to stop laughing. He crumples new cigarettes and stuffs them into the pipe. As he lights it, he senses that she recognizes it because she immediately seems bothered. Then he blows some smoke over her and says:

To think how little people know about each other.

She asks him what he means. He says that when his father gets the letter, he will believe it, believe that he has a new girl every night. Even Berit will believe hers, thinking that he is always alone. When she still doesn’t understand, he elaborates and explains that whenever Gun says that she loves him, he, too, can’t be sure if it’s true.

Bengt, she says, with eyes as imploring as only a woman’s can be when she is lying.

But then she agrees. It isn’t what he wanted, of course. He wanted to have proof he was wrong. Now he feels utterly empty for a moment.

Gun, he says helplessly, can’t we trust anyone?

She answers that we can trust the one we love.

And if she betrays you? he asks.

She replies that one should still trust her.

He cannot understand. So he wants to hurt her badly.

When I write letters to you, he whispers, you can never know if I’m lying.

Bengt, she says, are you jealous?

Some time goes by. He opens the window and rain sprinkles on his face. Outside, the clouds are low and drift slowly like black airships. The water is completely black. The dog is roaming around the rocks with its tail between its legs, head bowed, and tongue flapping.

Are you jealous of Knut? she asks.

For a very long time he searches deep down. Just as he closes the window and faces the room, she lights the fire on the hearth. Then she lies down and waits for him. When he comes to her, her lips are open but her eyes are closed. He unbuttons her blouse but leaves her lips untouched. Then he turns away. Quietly, he says:

Who is E.S.?

She says he has to kiss her first. When he kisses her, he has to keep going. Once he is tired and satisfied, he realizes that it doesn’t matter who E.S. is; almost nothing matters. Nevertheless, she explains. Nestled in her warmth, he listens to her story. It might hurt to some extent but not much. But when she asks him if it hurts him to know, he says that it hurts a lot. And it’s true. Everything he says is more or less true. That’s what’s so nice. It’s also what is so frightening or what will become frightening.

Is it Erik’s pipe? he asks afterward.

Yes, she answers and strokes his burning skin.

Then he snaps the pipe and throws the pieces in the fire. He doesn’t feel anything as he does it, only that he is doing what he’s supposed to be doing. And he usually feels nothing when he does what he has to. Although she seems to think he is affected.

Poor Bengt, she whispers.

He doesn’t dislike sympathy, never has. It lets him know that he is suffering. And he enjoys suffering.

I’ve never thought that about you, he says, suffering.

But in reality, he has thought that. And now, to suffer more, he begins accusing her. He claims that she doesn’t love him. This is a dangerous thing to say. If you want someone to love you, you don’t ask her to see if she “really” does. Because, when all is said and done, there isn’t much we “really” do. If you search deep down, you will find that the weight never reaches the bottom. Then you become terrified of the abyss within yourself. But you are never truly afraid until you discover that another name for this abyss is emptiness.

She walks in and sits on the bed. She lifts up the wet dog and starts petting it. When he can’t think of anything else to say, she says:

I can’t help it that I’m older than you. There were many before you. I can’t help that. Can’t you understand, Bengt?

Of course, he can’t understand. A lover is like an actor. For him to perform really well, his heart has to believe that he’s the first to play the role. If his heart isn’t able to believe it, then his reason has to be convinced, at least, that no one has ever played the part as well as he. Once Bengt finally grows tired of suffering, he sits on the floor, beneath her, and asks:

Do you still love him?

No, she answers, I never have.

He asks to know why, so she explains. She explains what kind of man he was. She talks about him as if he were dead, but he is only in prison. She puts the dog down and pulls Bengt off the floor instead. She has to fill her emptiness, too, after all.

The man she talks about has been sitting in prison for a long time. He was a barber. When she met him, he was rich and happy. He was also pretentious and vain. He always combed his hair before going to bed. This makes them both laugh for the first time that day. He always tried to be funny, too. For instance, he always called the Swiss the Swisserists. He always tried to make her laugh, but she felt less inclined to do so as time went on. So he came up with new jokes that were even less funny. He used to put brilliantine in his hair before going to bed. He also bought her an island. When she asked him where he got his money, he didn’t say, but he was very upset that she had asked. Then she realized that it was because of his uneasiness that he was with her. Just when she was about to break it off, he was caught. He had been selling counterfeit liquor ration coupons. He wanted her to hide him, but she didn’t want to. She did not care for him enough.

After she explained everything, she asks him if he is satisfied. He says that he is because that’s all he is. Satisfied that he was able to release his rage, satisfied that he had hurt her, satisfied that he was able to suffer. But when he kisses her, he notices that her body is still full of the other man. He wants to kiss him out of her; he wants to love him out of her. But when he tries, he cannot do it. Limp and crying, he falls next to her on the bed.

Poor Bengt, she says.

Then he leaps up, dashes out, and pushes the boat into the sea. By the time she reaches the shore, he is already drifting away. He is standing up in the boat, trying to get it to ride straight into the waves. They aren’t high, but he is nevertheless powerless. The oars slip from his hands, he trips on the planked floor, crashes down, and doesn’t pick himself up. She manages to pull the boat back to shore. When she turns him on his back, he pretends to be badly hurt.

Bengt, be sensible, she says as she tries helping him to his feet.

Her dress is soaked up to her waist. When they get inside, she slings it over the damper to dry. He flings himself down on the ground, longing for her tenderness or maybe just one word. A single little word would save him. The word could even save her. As she packs up in the kitchen, she leaves the door open to hear the word. But all she hears is the creaking of the floorboards when he rolls over. As he rolls over, the dog comes up and sniffs him. He suddenly clutches it by the throat and starts to squeeze. When it tries to break loose, he becomes enraged and squeezes even tighter. Inside the kitchen, Gun drops whatever she was doing and comes running out. She pinches him to get him to stop.

Be sensible, Bengt! she yells.

But he doesn’t want to be sensible. Anyone who fails with a woman doesn’t feel like being sensible; he wants to be wild. But he isn’t wild now, just very afraid, afraid as men usually are. Not afraid because he cannot love her the way she deserves, but because he might not be normal.

When he calms down, she asks him to explain himself. She is very gentle now, stroking his hair and kissing the salt from his face. He is lying down, silent and stiff. More than anything, he wants to humiliate her and to hurt her. He wouldn’t be able to love her until he hurt her as much as she deserves. Not until then would he be fervent and strong. Therefore, the reason he gives her for trying to strangle the dog isn’t true, or more precisely, it’s as true as everything else.