But his tiger has very strong teeth. And it’s ferocious. It roars in his ears what he should do. He closes both doors in the kitchen so that he can’t be caught by surprise. Her purse has a simple clasp— at least he’s able to open it easily. Inside, there is a heavy cigarette case he has never seen before. It is also easy to open. It’s empty, but engraved on the lid is “E.S.” His instinct immediately tells him it’s the name of a lover. There is a little notebook with yellow binders at the bottom of her purse. As he flips through it, his emotions tell him that he is right for doing it, because we have the right to know whether the one we love—that is, the one we give all our trust to— is deceiving us. In the book are some phone numbers next to insignificant names, the names of women. He doesn’t even find their own number.
When he closes the purse again the clasp snaps much louder than he expected. When he looks at the dog, which is sprawled out on the rug, he sees that it is studying him with vigilant eyes. He throws the purse down as if it had burnt him and loudly opens up a cupboard door, so the dog would think he was looking for some-thing—a glass or a fork. To find a fork, he pulls out a random drawer. There are no forks in it, but there is a pipe, which hasn’t been smoked in ages. He sticks it between his teeth and inhales. It tastes bitter, as bitter as knowing you are being deceived. He carefully returns the pipe and slowly pushes in the drawer.
As he does this, the tiger swallows the gazelle in one gulp. Now he understands that everything is a lie. She had said that the island and the cottage on it belonged to a sick girlfriend who has been cared for by relatives in Norway for a long time now. But girlfriends don’t smoke pipes. The house is a lover’s. The boat, too. All the land he walks on during the day and all the skin he caresses at night belongs to a mysterious man, a man he hates but can do nothing about. He leans over and looks at the dog. This time with his tiger eyes. The dog is a man’s dog, not a woman’s. And with his tiger paws, he thrashes it on the back so that it yelps.
Then Gun wakes up. He hears her calling him through the thin walls. He turns up the lamp’s flame so that it’s as bright as can be in the alcove, but he is instantly unable to look at her. What had just happened was too awful for that. When we ourselves deceive someone, we’re able to understand it so well because every naked act we do is escorted by elaborate explanations. But that we ourselves might be deceived is inconceivable—just as inconceivable as the idea that we will one day die. We can only accept that other people will die and burn.
He puts the smoking lamp on a chair with some clothes on it, his and hers mixed together. He starts moving them because her clothes are defiled, but also because it takes up time and he can safely keep his back to her for a little while longer.
Bengt, she finally says in a voice almost bereft of softness, come to me.
He goes to her, but not like a lover does. The person hovering over her is a man deceived. His hair blackens his face, his lips are pursed, his breathing is heavy and tense. He is ugly. She wants to touch him as she always does when he looks that way, wants to stroke his hair, moisten his lips with hers—make him beautiful. But she doesn’t. Partly because she is afraid of him, the unrecognizable stranger hovering over her. And we can only love strangers if they are beautiful. The other reason is that she is tired of constantly stroking his hair. It’s too familiar to her.
When Bengt realizes she is afraid, he is afraid, too. He is afraid of being alone. When she was asleep he wasn’t that afraid, because someone who is sleeping cannot leave another person as lonesome as someone who is awake. Like all other emotions, fear is contagious. With eyes full of despair, they gaze at each other in silence, a silence during which the ocean holds its breath and the rain ceases. They are both breathing heavily. Because she is stronger, she is the only one who can break the silence.
Why did you hit the dog? she whispers quietly and rather resigned, for she also knows in her own way that it’s all over.
Then he topples over her. Sinks down with his hate, with his jealousy, and with his fear, but also with his love. His love makes him mute. If he only hated, he would have screamed, but now he can only cry—cry and forget himself. A woman is never afraid of a man who cries. Because a man who cries is merely a child. But when women cry they become very old.
Don’t cry, she whispers and presses her mouth against his face.
The lamp is smoking, but it’s very bright. His face is a child’s face again, not a stranger’s. He is no longer ugly, and when he himself forgets that he is and leaves his face alone, she thinks it is beautiful. But just when she thinks it’s at its most beautiful, it hardens again. So she delicately rubs the ugly face to thaw it out, but her warmth is not enough. Hopelessly, she whispers:
Bengt! What happened?
She receives no answer. What had happened is something he can’t confess. If he were a tiger, he would roar. But now he cannot roar, cannot even yell. He can only hurl his tiger body on top of her. Don’t cry, she says to him. But the words aren’t hers, nor can they ever be. They are his father’s words or, more precisely, a father’s words. What he now feels is something entirely new, something utterly absurd, something that only his instinct can comprehend—yet not entirely—or perhaps only express. The woman next to him, the woman he loves, is not just his father’s or maybe another man’s. She is his mother. This is what is so inconceivable to him.
We cannot fathom our own death or that someone is deceiving us, either. And we cannot imagine that someone else could sleep naked with the person we love. And if we could see it, our reason would not believe it. Only our heart would know it. Just as difficult to comprehend is the fact that we are capable of committing a crime ourselves. We can believe it of anyone else, but not ourselves. But when we do commit a crime, we still don’t believe it, because we are the ones committing it. Our reason cannot process it and our feelings won’t accept it. Our reason isn’t strong enough, nor is our imagination. Our only real guarantee of happiness relies on the failure of our imagination.
He therefore doesn’t spring from the bed, even though his heart knows that it’s his mother he is holding. Instead, he grows only more excited than before, and he infects her with his passion.
As this is happening, they look into each other’s eyes and this is when she finally has to understand, has to know that it is her son she loves, because she is afraid of what is happening, very afraid and very beautiful. The fear makes her beautiful but not him. But her beauty arouses him even more, and in the end it’s not eyes they see, even though they are gazing into each other’s eyes the whole time. Lust can transform everything. It is the deepest well, where all other feelings disappear. First, his fear disappears, then his jealousy drowns, and then his crime sinks down into it. Finally, his hate is swallowed up. The last thing he sees are her eyes, which are no longer eyes but a black, vertiginous well. Then his own body starts to sink down the well with all of his misery, courage, helplessness, and tears.
After he falls asleep, she rubs him dry with a sheet. She lays him gently on his side and watches him hour after hour, unable to take her eyes off him. She is no longer afraid, because he is her son. She is merely blissful and her body is throbbing as if she had just given birth to him. The only thing she still fears is that he might wake up. She loves him most when he is sleeping because then he is a child and his face is all alone, even his body is on its own. She has loved many men, but none like him. Before, she has only loved men, and men are never alone. Wherever they go, they drag their man with them.
She turns off the lamp without taking her eyes off him. The room smells like kerosene and sweat. It must be getting light out because the ocean sounds like it normally does at dawn. Birds are squawking high above the cottage, and the rain has stopped. When the dog comes up to her in the darkness and begs to be pet, she hits it. She doesn’t feel bad afterward, but her hand hurts. Then she lays it on Bengt’s heart, forgetting that she has done this a thousand times before.