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.
A Letter to the Father from the Son
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.
Therefore, I can understand if you felt the need to run off to a less depressing environment. I would have done the same if I had been able to. So I understand quite well why you want to get married now. But I have nothing against your choice for a companion, so I have to disagree with you on that point. If I have shown your fiancée any “coldness,” as you call it, it was probably because for a long time I was unsure of how I should behave in front of her. After all, it’s still our first year of mourning (which you probably consider too conventional), and you can’t blame me if this has caused me to keep some distance from her. But to conclude that I would somehow be cruel to her because of this is, without a doubt, to go too far. I wish you both happiness, and I think it’s great the wedding is going to take place after the New Year; this way, no one can say that you remarried the same year Mama died.
I am a little hurt that you completely misunderstood my reaction to the news. Perhaps I should explain. It wasn’t my intention to make a “scene,” as you call it. And there were two reasons why I was a little harsh. The first and most important reason was that I was a little overwrought as a result of my studies being so demanding lately. As you know, I had to spend the majority of the fall term at the library into the wee hours of the night just to make up for what I lost during my military service. And this certainly wasn’t beneficial to my nerves. The other and less significant reason was that, as I’ve already mentioned, I was a bit surprised by the sudden news, more precisely, not by the news itself but that it came so unexpectedly. Therefore, none of it was because of any resentment toward either of you, as you seem to think. You said yourself that you noticed Gun has been holding a slight grudge against me—ever since she found that stupid letter from that girl in my pocket when she was brushing my coat—and you therefore suspected that I had some reason to be upset with her, too. Yes, you might be right that it’s really none of Gun’s business if I’m unfaithful to Berit and that the scene she made when she found the letter was quite strange, but I think there’s a natural explanation for her frustration. Women are very loyal to each other, and Gun must have felt very hurt on Berit’s behalf. But she scarcely had any reason to be so upset for Berit in this situation. On the one hand, Berit didn’t find out about it, of course. On the other hand, the affair was quite harmless. I simply met that girl while visiting a friend from school. She’s one of those types who like falling for men, and rather often. You must have seen that cartoon with the woman who has a heart for a stomach? That’s what she was like. Her lips were like a carnivorous flower. Kissing her was like sinking down into a swamp, and she didn’t give me any pleasure. So I don’t feel sorry about it, because you can’t punish forbidden acts with regret, and we only feel remorse if we truly enjoyed it. The reason I “fell” for her was something deeper than mere lust. In my state of overexcitement I was seized by the suspicion that Berit was cheating on me. In retrospect, I agree that it was absurd, but you yourself know how absurd jealousy can be. Now, the best remedy for jealousy is to arouse jealousy yourself. This way, we achieve a comfortable balance. By the way, I think a Don Juan is a man who tries to keep his life in balance by not investing all of his affection into one object. A cowardly man? No. A wise man. Because for every disappointment, he can find solace in someone else. He knows how to economize his feelings. He is practical.