But it’s true. He does know best of all. And that’s why he is sitting so quietly. The alcohol tastes good. And no one notices you if you are sitting quietly. Nor will they notice if you are too afraid to look at a candle. It may be true that death is a big empty hole and that sorrow is to know just how empty that hole is, but it’s only true if you are sober. If you have liquor, then you can fill the hole up with all the beautiful thoughts you can think of and all the nice words you can find. You can fill it up all the way to the brim and place a stone on it afterward.
But if you can’t, then you must have your reasons. The entire time the son sits and talks to his pale and petite fiancée about his dead mother, he thinks to himself, Why isn’t Papa saying anything? And why is he so afraid?
As for him, he isn’t trying to fill any empty hole, because he knows how empty it is. He is merely talking about the deceased with his fiancée. He isn’t doing it because he has been drinking. In fact, he never drinks. Almost never. He is doing it because he loved her. And, of course, you talk about the one you loved—if you talk at all. And he loved her because she loved him. And the one who has loved you should always receive your love in return. Otherwise, you are a fool.
But the flame is sinking lower and lower, and several of them want to leave before it has reached the bottom. The son’s fiancée is the first to leave. She is pale and has a headache. She is always pale, and she almost always has a headache. Or else she is crying. She even cries a little when she is laughing. She is just seventeen years old. The son walks her out to the entrance, where a telephone is sitting on a table. An attendant calls for a taxi since it’s snowing outside and she is almost always cold. Once she has her gloves on, he squeezes her hand very hard and looks deep into her eyes. She starts to cry. Then the taxi rolls up in the snow, and he gives her three kronor for the fare. It’s all he has.
He is sitting at the table between the candle and an empty chair. The flame is very low now but it warms him all the more, especially his hands. It feels good to be warmed since he always gets cold as soon as he touches the fiancée. He does care for her, but she makes him cold. So he has never been able to really hold her. He moves closer to the candle to get even warmer. Two enemies of the deceased leave because there is nothing more to eat or drink.
There are now thirteen at the table, and when the relatives from the country notice this, they want to leave, too. The father walks them out. They are his relatives, as the deceased doesn’t have any left. Two brothers, twenty years older, had died in America. Her mother died in a sanatorium in Jämtland, and her father died at sea when he was young.
The father’s relatives take a taxi through the snow. They don’t ride to the station as they say they will but to some richer relatives in Essingen. But they are respectful and don’t want to hurt the man who is poor and grieving. And they are a little drunk, too. They only come to the city for funerals and christenings, but when they do, they stay for a long time.
As they are saying good-bye at the entrance, a couple of the father’s rivals, two of his colleagues, leave as well. They are in a good mood, and since it’s only nine they still have plenty of time for more drinking. But they don’t tell Knut, because nobody wants to hurt a man who is recently widowed. Then one of the sisters, the beautiful one, comes out half a minute later. She has a headache and ought to go home. But when the coworkers pull up, she climbs into the same car.
What beautiful legs, one of them says as he brushes the snow from her silk stockings.
He has thought so the whole day. Even in the chapel, he thought it. So he whispers it into her ear. At first she thinks it’s inappropriate. Then she thinks it’s funny. Eventually, she likes it. She likes anyone who thinks she is beautiful. And because so many people find her beautiful, she likes so many people. But she likes herself most of all.
But back in the private room, the candle is almost burnt out and the ugly sister feels like crying, so she leaves before the tears start to fill her eyes. She knows that crying makes her ugly—uglier, that is. But the father is upset when she leaves. Not because she is leaving, but because she is ugly. Unattractive women usually arouse his contempt.
Why is Papa so upset? the son thinks. Now he is almost sitting on top of the candle. He is warm, and when he’s warm, he longs for his fiancée because he wants to warm her, too. But whenever she comes near, he just gets cold. The father looks at him, probably accidentally, but he looks all the same. What’s Papa so afraid of ? he thinks.
Maybe it’s the candle. Now the flame is almost scorching the black mourning crepe as it sinks mercilessly down to the bottom. Only emptiness is above it. The vast emptiness of death. But there is still a piece of candle grease underneath it, and he suddenly finds himself hoping that it will allow the candle to burn for a long time. Even though he knows all about the emptiness, he is still able to hope. Why does he still have hope? Is it because the father is so afraid of the candle going out?
Then the neighbors depart and leave them alone with the candle. No, the father walks them out and leaves the son alone with the candle. The flame is flickering. It’s almost dark in the room. And in the darkness the son does something unheard of. Slowly and silently, he leaves his seat and moves over to the mother’s. It’s so cold that he shivers. So cold is death. So frightfully cold. The flame of life is as faint as this flame now. When someone opens a door and looks in, the flame flickers violently, so he cups his hands around it to shield it. An attendant is standing between the doors.
Mr. Lundin? he asks.
Yes, the son answers.
There is a call for you up front.
For which Mr. Lundin? For Bengt?
Yes, the attendant says, I believe it was Bengt.
The son gets up to speak to his fiancée. He closes the door very carefully so that the candle won’t go out. He genuinely enjoys talking to his fiancée on the phone because he can make his voice very warm and then blow his warmth into her cold ear, making her voice warm, too. They are both warm over the phone.
As the son makes his way through the nearly empty restaurant, the three neighbors are sitting in a taxi. They will split the fare among the three of them since they cannot afford it on their own. The snow falls beautifully as they drive up Götgatan, billowing gently like a thick curtain in front of the display windows.
She had a nice funeral, says one of the female neighbors.
The others remain silent because there is nothing more to say. But the man who is sick is sitting in the middle, and suddenly he is no longer sick. He is healthy and strong—and drunk, too. So when the taxi rolls up their dark street, he puts his hand under one of the women’s snow-covered breasts. And the other woman laughs.
While the son is still making his way to the phone, the father is in the restroom. He has just washed his hands. Now he is washing them again. He holds them up to the mirror. Yes, they are clean. But he washes them one more time.
The telephone is on the table, and the receiver is off the hook. The son smiles as he sits down. He is grinning at what he’s about to say. If she has a headache, he will tell her, Take one pill and think of me. And if that doesn’t help, take one more and think of something else. But if she is crying, he will say, Don’t you remember what I said at the table? Yes, the same thing Mama told me whenever I was sad—when I was grown up and sad. When I was little, she kissed me until I felt better, but when I was older and sad, she said, Sit down at your desk and write a letter to yourself. It’s always good to write to yourself. Almost only to yourself. And when the letter is finished, you won’t be sad anymore. But you will have a long letter. A long and beautiful letter.