Stig Dagerman: A Burnt Child

It’s his dog, isn’t it?! he shouts.

Yes, she answers fatigued, he bought it for me.

In that moment, he knows what he is going to do to finally kill the mysterious man inside her, so that he himself could survive. He sits at the table, cool and collected, and they both drink a cup of rum before rowing out. Afterward, it’s easier for them to accept each other. You can accept anything at all when you’re a little intoxicated. They walk arm in arm down to shore, caressing each other’s hands. Bengt leads the dog in the brown leash. She doesn’t know what he’s going to do, nor does she really care. She is tired and resigned. Then she sits in the stern with her hands on her lap. She looks very old.

This time he doesn’t fail at getting the boat out. The sea is calmer, too. He doesn’t look at her as he rows, and she wonders why but is too tired to ask. When she turns around to look back at the shore, she sees that he has tied the dog to the boat. It’s trying to swim, but it’s having too much trouble. When she tries to untie the leash, she feels his hard grip on her shoulder. Startled and a little afraid, she faces him. He is holding a rock in one hand. It is round and wet and quite heavy. A hard wave thrashes the side of the boat. She slips off the seat and, sitting on the floor of the boat, she finds him looming over her with the rock raised in the air. To avoid seeing any more, she squeezes her eyes shut. And to avoid hearing anything else, she plugs her ears.

When it’s all over, he tosses the leash into the boat. He tries to help her up, but she won’t let him. After rowing back to the inlet, he carries her ashore. She is very heavy, but he still manages. Gently yet forcibly, he lays her on the bed. Pale and feeble, she lies with her eyes closed, but she isn’t covering her ears. So she hears what he says.

Don’t you see? he whispers. It was his. So I had to do it. You got it from him because you were supposed to drag him around with you wherever you went. Can’t you understand that? Can’t you forgive me?

Maybe she does understand, maybe not. She is very tired and it is dark outside. She asks him to go and close all the shutters. When he comes back, he is naked. For a brief moment, he is standing just a step away from her bed, breathing heavily and fervently in the dark.

Bengt, she whispers, light the lamp.

When he shines it on her, she opens her eyes. Strong and aroused, he leans over her, stronger and more aroused than ever before. His eyes are black. His lips are open at first, but then he closes them. It doesn’t matter to her. Indifferent, she lets herself be undressed by his strong, burning hands. When he is finished, she asks him to turn off the lamp, and she closes her eyes when he blows it out. Although it’s dark and she cannot see him, she still closes her eyes. He finds her wrist in the dark. He grabs it firmly and forcibly and raises her up to him. He takes both of her hands and makes them feel his body. She has to feel how strong he is. And she does, but she doesn’t care. She is indifferent to the fact that a man is getting into her bed.

Once he is asleep, she is not entirely indifferent. Because when he sleeps, he sleeps like a child. His knees are huddled up to his chin, and she feels how thin and bony his little boy knees are as she strokes them. And his shoulder blades are protruding from his back like wings. She caresses him dry. Then she kisses him wet. The whole time she fears waking him from his sleep. Because it’s only when he sleeps that she is able love him.

Deep into the night, she has the urge to see him. Carefully, she gets up to light the lamp but can’t find the matches at first. As she pads to the window where they usually are, she steps on the leash. She jerks her foot away as though an animal had bitten her. After lighting the lamp, she goes out to the other room and hangs the leash on the damper. Then she lingers there. She’s afraid to go near him with the lamp. She is afraid of the dark. But she is even more afraid of his face. And when she finally does illuminate his face, she finds herself on the verge of screaming. But instead of screaming, she blows out the flame. As soon as she does, she lies down and starts crying. It doesn’t wake him up. Because a woman’s sobs do not wake any man. Yet the sobs of men keep women vigilant. She cries herself to sleep, but even in sleep she isn’t free. She knows that she will have to love him the way some women love certain men: to give herself to him with lust but without pleasure; to let him believe she is everything to him because it would be too much trouble to let him think otherwise (besides, he would never believe it); to let herself be kissed when he wants, otherwise not bother; to accept a ring and be happy; to accept everything and be happy. This is more or less how she will love him. But she will never be able to love his face again.

Because the face she has lit up is the same face that loomed over her in the boat without seeing her, without seeing anything else but a dog doomed to death, nothing else but the tender prey needed to satiate the tiger in every man.

Even in her sleep, where a thousand seabirds are shrieking over a black sea, she sees the ugly, naked face of a young murderer.

Dear Papa!

I’m writing this letter on Christmas morning. Berit has gone to church with her parents. I had a headache, so I asked to stay home. Besides, church ceremonies are hardly for me. I’m doing very well here. The town is quite solitary, and we have a few feet of snow. So the socks you gave me for Christmas are being put to good use. I should also thank you for the razor. I received a seemingly expensive shirt from Berit and two wooden paper knives from her parents. They seem to think I read an unbelievable amount of books. As you know, I read frantically during the fall, but I still haven’t managed to wear out a paper knife. All joking aside, Berit’s parents are very good people. They live modestly and have very little contact with the outside world, but they are still friendly and courteous. They find me quite exceptional, though I’m just a philosophy student. The other day I heard Berit’s mother tell a neighbor that her daughter’s fiancé was a real philosopher. She stressed the final o when she pronounced philosopher. I didn’t correct her, because I was afraid to offend her. The people up here are quite proud. When I tried to give her parents each ten kronor for the celebration expenses, they simply refused to take it.

I won’t trouble you with all the details of my life here. But I did promise to write you as soon as I thought about what you told me before I left. As you so accurately stated, it’s always easier to discuss something like this in writing than in person. What you told me naturally came as a shock. Not because it was completely unexpected, but it still would have been better if you had let me know before the first wedding announcement was published. Then, what you call “the scene” could have been avoided. On the other hand, I want you to know that I don’t blame you in the least. Yes, I am my mother’s son, but I am also yours. I’m aware that I’m not only obligated to my mother’s memory but also to my loyalty to you. But that doesn’t mean I will acquiesce in each and everything you do as if it were beyond criticism, even if, as you so rightly put it, I’ve become more reasonable lately. Reason is, as you realize, something quite relative. When a person is reasonable, we mean, as a rule, that she understands and consequently forgives all our actions. I don’t mean to suggest that this is your attitude exactly—nor is it my own. I only mention it for the sake of balance, so to speak.

The reason I’m reacting differently to your marriage plans from how I did before is not that I’m suddenly more “reasonable” in December than I was in February, but that my initial pain has passed, and this has allowed me to develop a more dispassionate view of your behavior. Now I’m probably inclined to admit that love is something you can’t control. My sentimental regard for Mama can no longer conceal the fact that this pertained to her just as much as to anyone else. Moreover, I feel it’s my duty to tell you that I can confirm your suspicions about Erik and Mama’s relationship. Besides, I think it’s finally time we admit to ourselves that Mama was quite unbearable in her final years. There wasn’t anything we could do that she didn’t think was wrong or a failure. If we were kind to her, she suspected an ulterior motive. If we went shopping for her, we always came home with the wrong thing. On the other hand, if we didn’t shop for her, we were cruel and wished for her death to come sooner. Of course, I know she was sick and therefore entitled to some indulgence, but it doesn’t change the fact that her way of terrorizing us was simply unbearable.