I think I’ve learned that before you attempt to sacrifice everything for a just cause, you should always keep in mind that no one is willing to give up as much as you are. Because of that, it’s no longer right but, rather, very wrong, many times over. Therefore, it’s a matter of finding a cause that only a few people are willing to renounce everything for. The fewer there are, the surer you can be that your sacrifice is not in vain. It’s best when there are only two. Love, you see, requires two and sacrifices everything to continue being love.
By now you must be tired of this long letter, and maybe even a little afraid. You shouldn’t be afraid. There’s nothing to be afraid of. You shouldn’t be afraid of morality, because there’s no one who believes in morality as strongly as we believe in each other. There is no one who could sacrifice for morality a thousandth of what we sacrifice for what we believe in. And by the way, is there anything more virtuous than giving up everything for something you know is right?
My darling! On Friday night we’ll finally be alone together, more alone than anyone before us and perhaps even after us. I’m coming on the ten o’clock bus, and you can wait with the boat by the jetty. I’m arriving late so that no one will see us. I’m only bringing along a small suitcase with essentials, since you don’t really need a lot of personal belongings when you’re called in for service—or when you’re in love. Then, you only need each other. There are three days left. Do you think I can wait that long?
Yours,
Bengt
P.S. Something silly happened this evening. Berit found a button in my bed, which must have come loose from your dress. I don’t know if she recognized it, but she started crying all the same. When I asked her why, she asked whether I thought she was ugly. So I told her that I thought she was sweet. Of course, I think she’s ugly, but it’s senseless to let her know that. Then she asked me whether I had been unfaithful to her. I jokingly answered, Yes, several times. She didn’t realize it was a joke, so I had a hard time trying to convince her that the button was Aunt Idás. She finally believed me, because you can convince her of anything if you just keep at it long enough. Knut’s very pleased that she’s around a lot nowadays, and I keep her here as late as I can. It isn’t necessary, of course, to raise any suspicions. We have to be very careful. That’s why I think the island is an excellent choice. There will be some problems with the address. A conscript eventually does need a station address. I pretended to find out that I’d be placed in the vicinity of Norrtälje and gave both Knut and Berit poste restante Norrtälje as the temporary address. It’s no longer a military address, but neither of them has been drafted, so there shouldn’t be any risk. Good night, my darling. I should hurry and post the letter before Knut comes home.
A Tiger and a Gazelle
THE SEA IS HIGH AND GREEN during the day and black with flashes of white at night. But the water is clear as it usually is in fall. The six broadleaf trees around the inlet are shedding their leaves, which blow freshly onto the porch every morning. At night, the cool September moon gleams red. When it drifts out of the night’s dark clouds it has blood on its lips. The sailboat season is over, and now colliers sway sluggishly along the horizon. Their smoke sinks black and heavily into the sea. Twice a week a train of barges drifts across the bay, and during that hour Bengt and Gun stay inside, thinking that someone might see them. When they kiss each other, their lips taste like salt. In fact, wherever they put their lips tastes like salt. So after ten days they know the taste of salt all too well.
They stay on the island for two weeks. And during that time they only see each other and no one else. Sometimes they might see people on the barges, but it’s from several hundred feet away. No faces, just black shadows huddled up against the rudders—maybe only smoke from the pipes. Though this is true, they also see the dog. At first he hates the dog, but after the first week he is happy to have it along. But eventually he starts to hate it again.
The first few days are probably the best, the days before they really know each other. It’s harder when they get to know each other, because it’s hard to love the one we know really well. To be in love is to be curious. Therefore, only what we aren’t accustomed to is beautiful. And maybe only that which is new is beautiful. In any case, we’re only capable of loving what is new. So in order to love someone we know well, it’s necessary to forget her first, not entirely but significantly.
This is what they learn in fourteen days. But they don’t admit it to each other. They are cautious and even untruthful. To be able to love someone for long, you have to lie, largely to yourself but mostly to the one you love. One form of lying is refinement, and soon they are also refined. They give each other new names, find new places to kiss, new places to fall asleep. It makes them happy for a while, but it cannot hide the truth, so they find other ways to hide it. One way to prolong their love is to combine it with hate; this is the best way but perhaps also the most dangerous. Love and hate are the cat and mouse of emotions. Sometimes the cat chases the mouse, and sometimes the mouse chases the cat. But once the cat and mouse are both tired of the chase, there isn’t much else for them to do. The only thing left is to acknowledge the most painful truth of all, the most painful but also the most honest: that two people in love cannot be alone together on an island without falling out of love, that they cannot be an island. They need contact with the mainland. They need all the other people they know. It’s a horrible consolation for anyone who believes that love is an island in the sea, but once we weary of islands, it’s actually quite comforting. Because when a person grows tired of loving, he is relieved to find there are still so many people to love besides the one he has loved.
The first few days are wonderful for them. The sun shines, there is a fresh breeze, and they are alone. They drink each other up, sleep, and rouse again. The dog often wakes them up, and when they put it outside, it barks in front of the door, slams its heavy body against it, and raps the doorknob with its paws. If the dog is inside, they jerk from their sleep, awakened from a dream about rain or some waves. The dog is hovering over them and licking their shoulders. Gun pulls it down to her, lays it between them, and pets it. Bengt is a tad jealous of the dog, afraid of it, even—afraid in an absurd kind of way. But he doesn’t dare admit it. He’s afraid the dog is a witness. He’s afraid the dog will understand.
Otherwise he isn’t afraid at all. He simply thinks it’s all very nice. They found a fur rug in a closet and spread it out in front of the fireplace, where they make large fires several times a day, lie naked in the flickering light, and play with each other’s bodies. For the first time he isn’t ashamed of his body. It’s because Gun says his body is beautiful and because he knows he is strong. She makes him strong. They make each other strong. They aren’t calm like the first time, but much stronger. They lie close to the fire, which nearly burns them. The sides braving the fire grow hot, but they wrap the rug around their cold parts. For the most part, they lie quietly with only their fingers playing. They constantly find new places to linger on, each softer than the previous. They don’t move around much these days—just trips to the kitchen, to the alcove, to look for firewood, down to the sea. And they play innocent games. They pretend they’re in paradise, the most innocent place of all. Lying naked at the bottom of the boat, they drift for hours and hours through paradise. The ocean crashes against the frame, water splashes inside—it is cold yet it burns. Sometimes he is her child, and he doesn’t mind. And since she has never had a child, she enjoys it, too. Cleaving to her, he drinks her milk; he drinks and drinks and it never runs out. His lips only become sore.