You have beautiful shoes.
He knows that he shouldn’t have said it. He just can’t help it. Nor can she help answering.
I got them from Knut, she says, almost inaudibly.
At once, they notice she said “Knut.” She could have said “your father.” But now he is glad she didn’t, because Knut is not his father. Knut is a stranger. And this stranger has given Gun a pair of shoes. This doesn’t really matter to him, but the way she says it makes it clear that she doesn’t know whose shoes they had been. This makes him happy, and it makes her pure. And the one you love has to be pure. Otherwise, you cannot love her.
But to love someone is also to make her pure. So he shoves the shoes into the darkness under the table and asks with burning cheeks: You have a beautiful dress, too.
A question, indeed, but perhaps a question unnoticed. In any case, she does not answer. He takes her gently by the shoulders and feels how naked the material is. But it’s only so naked before he finds out what he needs to know. And to get the answer, he looks directly into her eyes, afraid yet hopeful at the same time, and of course he sees what he wants to see: she has never found out who the dress was meant for. Then he starts to unbutton the red dress. One by one, he takes the soft, tiny buttons and slips them through the holes. Gun watches in silence, watches how his hand sinks lower and watches how calm and beautiful it is.
She knows she shouldn’t. She knows there’s still time to get up and leave. She is very discerning and knows very well what would happen if she left now. They would suddenly hear all the noises from the street again. All the noises in the house, too. For a brief moment they would stand and face each other in shame. Then he would bend down to get her shoes, and as he put them on her feet, she would button up her dress again. How simple everything could be. In spite of knowing this, she doesn’t leave.
She doesn’t leave, because she is paralyzed. Not paralyzed with fear, or desire either. What binds her and what binds him, too, is the beauty of the moment. Nothing is ever as beautiful as the first isolated minutes with someone who might be able to love you— with someone you yourself might be able to love. There is nothing as silent as these minutes, nothing so saturated with sweet anticipation. It is for these few minutes that we love, not for the many that follow. Never again, they realize, would anything so beautiful ever happen to them. They might be happier, more impassioned, too, and infinitely satiated with their own bodies and with each other’s. But never again would it be so beautiful.
This is why she doesn’t leave, and why he continues to hesitantly unbutton the red dress, trying to get it to last as long as possible. But when there are no more buttons, she slowly pulls the dress over her head. Carefully, she pulls the white comb from her hair and places it between them without making a sound.
But the moment before it happens, they look into each other’s eyes. Her eyes are bright and soothing; they hypnotize him into tranquility. It’s because of her calmness that he loves her. And the one we love has to be calm because nothing is as loathsome as anxiety. Never before has anyone he loved been so calm. Never before has he himself been so still. When they come together, they come together in a great moment of peace and stillness. They are not afraid of the unimaginable thing that is happening. All they can feel is that one calm is joining another calm, like a great calm wave washing over a warm calm rock. They do not even pant, but they breathe rapidly yet without difficulty. Their bodies are hot but not sweaty, their lips are not bleeding, just slightly moist, and when they look into each other’s eyes, their pupils do not gleam with the hysteria of desire but with a tender and unexpected serenity.
Afterward, he places the white comb in her hair, delicately, like a flower. They go into his room and lie quietly next to each other for a long time. He doesn’t cleave to her, because he knows he doesn’t have to. She’s not like someone else who you could never let go of, someone who, through her fear of being quickly forgotten, tensely clutches you and forces you to think, think the entire time it lasts, Now I’m lying with her. Now I’m stroking her. Now I’m moving my hands up higher.
They aren’t surprised even after it happened. They speak peacefully with each other, lying on their backs and letting the words fly up to the ceiling as if they were talking to themselves. Because they are so calm, they can tell each other everything without shame and without it sounding like a confession. Nor are they surprised by what they learn about each other. Quite openly, she tells him how she has longed for him every night since that evening when Knut invited her over for tea. Quite openly, she lets him know that she always expected it would happen if only he wanted it to. She also admits to him that she knew Knut wasn’t going to be home tonight.
Just as candidly, he talks about his solitary promenades—al-ways in her direction—about his cold nights outside patrolling the cinema, about his dreams, and that whenever he kissed Berit, he always closed his eyes and imagined it was Gun he was kissing.
Everything is natural and free of shame. A bit later, when they are at Bengt’s desk and leafing through his books like lovers do, Gun finds his letter to Berit. He has already sealed the envelope, but she doesn’t ask him to open it, just as he doesn’t reproach her for the time she locked herself in the cottage with his father. All she says about the letter is that he should send it and that he should write more letters more often. And they aren’t cynical when they tell each other, once again, that Berit is sweet and that they can’t hurt her. They are only considerate because their tenderness toward each other also makes them compassionate to others. As for Knut, they say that everything should go on as usual. Gun will continue to see him, will continue to let him love her, because it’s the only possible way if they are to go on loving each other. They speak calmly and without bitterness about Berit and Knut, two poor strangers who are not allowed to be hurt.
Later still, when the light is off and when the roar of the city sounds like the humming of a gigantic shell, they carry on whispering in the darkness about the future. They will meet seldom and in secret, but one time they will meet for a long time. In this future, there is nothing threatening, nothing that could not be dealt with, because through their calmness they have disarmed all dangers.
Perhaps all but one, and it’s her fault that they notice it. She suddenly lays her hand over his eyes as if there were something he wasn’t allowed to see in the dark and then whispers over his face:
I’m so afraid.
Of what? he whispers back.
That I’m too old for you.
Then her hand cools but only for a moment. He spreads the blanket over them along with all the thoughts he had during the loneliness of spring. Then he folds his hands around her back, as if protecting them both from all threats, and whispers:
I’ll make you young, just as young as I am. Now you’re just as young as I. Don’t you feel it?
She does feel it and then takes her hand away from his eyes. For a long time, she is just as young as he, and there is nothing silly about it. Only something beautiful.
But much later, no magic can help. They are not asleep, nor are they fully awake. Peaceful and relaxed with all desire dormant within them, and happy as one is when there isn’t anything more to ask for, they rest in each other’s arms—he on her right and she on his left. Then, suddenly, a car door slams on the street below. At first, they don’t grasp what it is, because they’ve forgotten all reality. This causes their fright to descend all the more rapidly, tearing them violently apart. And when he slightly opens the window shade, the magic is gone.