He grows even more afraid as he comes silently closer and finds Gun standing with his mother’s dress in her hands, about to pack it up. In the same moment, it occurs to him that he ought to warn her before he comes in. But when he tries to call her name, his mouth is completely empty—empty of words, anyway. Nevertheless, she must have heard him coming because she shoves the dress into the bottom of a suitcase and sharply turns around and faces him. She looks at him and her eyes are very afraid, bright and afraid. Then she says something very strange.
How old are you, Bengt? She whispers without really knowing why.
Only twenty, he mumbles.
Then he notices he said “only.” Suddenly, he presses himself up against her body, as close as he can, throws his arms around her and kisses her.
Afterward, they part, leaving each other without a word. Gun goes out to the porch and stands motionless by the rail for a long time. Bengt dashes down to the sea, where he undresses on a rock and plunges into the water, sinking lower and lower. It’s the terrible ecstasy inside him that weighs him down. When he floats back up to the surface, he climbs back to shore, slings his clothes over his arm, and runs wet and naked into the cottage. He shuts the door and draws the curtain. Berit is leaning out of her bed. She dries the water off him with her hot hands. She can see he is overjoyed.
Why are you so happy? she whispers, herself happy.
Then, while beaming at her, beaming into her eyes with his delight, he says:
Because it feels so good to swim at night.
But he knows better why he’s so happy.
It isn’t because he has finally exacted his sworn revenge.
It’s because he has been freed from a long-standing jealousy.
A Letter to a Girl in Summer
Dear Berit!
Thanks for your lovely letter. I’m glad to hear that you arrived safely and that your father and mother are doing well. It’s also good to know that I’m welcome up to Härjedalen. But, as you know, there’s unfortunately no way I can come. For one thing, I have to spend the summer studying. Yes, I did do very well on the exam in April, but it’s best if I’m not too confident in the future—besides, you’ve said the same thing yourself. There’s also the question of money. As you know, I have no income of my own, and Papa seems to understand as little as ever that I need money, even though I don’t have time to devote myself to a fruitful job. The other day I even had to sell some of my books at a secondhand shop to get money for some basic necessities. It was a little annoying, since the books have been in the bookcase for a long time and he considers everything in there his personal property, although some of them actually are mine. I got them so long ago that he’s forgotten they don’t belong to him. But you don’t have to worry about my giving him any chances to make a scene. He usually doesn’t notice anything you don’t tell him directly. And why should I trouble someone with things they don’t care about, especially when they don’t even notice them?
In your letter you sounded a little worried about how I’d manage being alone when you’re not in town to look after me. My dear, of course, I feel miserable that you’re gone, sadder than you could imagine! After the wonderful thing that happened to us at Midsummer, you know that you mean everything to me. But once you have a person who means everything to you, you’re never alone again, as you can surely understand. I’m actually doing quite well here. And to study better, sometimes I take my bicycle out and go for a swim. I lie by the water and read, since anyone who’s spent a lot of time studying knows that you are most mentally efficient when you’re able to release your physical energy at the same time. This is quite true for every student—which I’m sure you know from your own experience at school. Yet it’s anything but obvious to Papa. One evening, he made quite a scene when he found out I was out swimming all day. He asked me if that was how I’ve been applying myself. I didn’t answer him, of course, but now I simply let him think I stay home every day. As you know, it’s not particularly nice to lie, but unfortunately, sometimes we’re forced to even when we are personally against it. But the whole thing is quite harmless. Because when all is said and done, it doesn’t really matter where he thinks I spend my days. So I don’t feel the least bit guilty.
When you wrote about how I had threatened to commit suicide, you must have misunderstood me somehow. It’s possible that I do get very depressed now and then, which is a very natural response to Mama’s death and to the pain Papa has caused me. But what I mentioned on that last night on the island, that life is only a postponed suicide, or whatever my exact words were, I don’t want you to take it too seriously, as you have obviously done. I didn’t mean to frighten you at all. As far as I recall, my point was only to get you to understand how depressing our stay on the island was for me in spite of everything, especially since I had to feign pleasure and indifference toward all of Papa’s tactlessness the entire time. Otherwise, I still stand by my theory that, strictly speaking, to live means nothing more than to postpone your own suicide day by day. Surely, you have experienced this as well, even if you can’t bring yourself to put it into words, but you know it subconsciously.
You also wrote that you would prefer to come back as soon as possible. My dear, you shouldn’t cut your vacation short for me! There’s nothing going on here in the city, but even if I could visit you, you know very well that I can’t keep taking your money as you have suggested, especially not since you spoke to your parents about it. It would be too humiliating. So I’ll just stay here in the heat. But I’m with you the whole time in my thoughts. You also asked whether I go to the cinema a lot. No, I don’t. Most of them are closed, especially the ones that usually have interesting pictures. Besides, you know that I really don’t care for films.
You don’t have to be worried about me. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to be worried about. I’m over the most painful part of my grieving for Mama, although I’m still sad and I do still miss her, but these feelings are manageable. My relationship with Papa hasn’t improved, of course, at least not as far as any emotional or mental connection. However, I’m trying as hard as I can to refrain from judging him too harshly. What he did is inexcusable in many ways, but I also have to be capable of some magnanimity, and I think I’ve punished him enough after six months of silence. Therefore, I’m trying to show some kindness in my outward conduct with him, not without some obvious reservations, of course.
Now I’ve written too much about myself and my world. I look forward to hearing from you soon. I’m very lonesome without you, as you probably know.
Yours lovingly,
Bengt
P.S. Just remembered that you asked how Gun is doing. I really don’t know, and I really don’t care, as you can probably understand. In fact, I haven’t seen her since Midsummer. Papa never brings her up either. So I can’t complain. I never did like it when he used to constantly talk about what they were up to. So it’s just as well that he doesn’t mention her anymore.
A Twilight Meeting
HELLO, BENGT, she says when he opens the door.
He does not say a word. Thirty seconds go by, maybe more. In her red dress, Gun is standing completely still on the cold, gray doorstep. Bengt doesn’t look at her but past her, looks out at the stairs that slowly lead up to the silent and empty attic. But when he finally does look at her, he notices that she isn’t looking at him either. She was looking past him, through the dark entrance as if she were searching for someone. He turns around and looks for himself. He can see farther than she can. He can see the broken sewing machine underneath the dusty cover all the way at the end of the hallway.