On certain nights, when the father thinks the son is sleeping and when the son thinks the father is sleeping, the father pulls the shades down as far as they can go over the two windows in the room. Then he locks the door to the hallway. But over the keyhole to the son’s room, he hangs Alma’s black hat. Not because he plans on doing something he shouldn’t. He simply wants to be more alone. And when he is more alone, he turns on as many lights as possible: all five lights on the ceiling as well as the lamp on top of the radio. He doesn’t do this because he’s afraid of the dark. He only does this so that he won’t be entirely alone.
When all of this is done, he opens the closet door. It creaked on the first night, so he greased the hinges. Now it no longer makes a sound. The deceased’s shoes are on the floor of the closet. He takes them out, pair after pair. There are four pairs, and he puts them all on the table because it has the most light. Eventually, the green tablecloth becomes dirty because he doesn’t spread newspaper over it. He used to spread newspaper on the chair where he stood to wind up the clock. Now the chair is also dirty. But the clock has stopped.
Next, he leans over the shoes. Brushes his hands over them. Holds one shoe at a time up to the light. If he ever finds a smudge on an upper, he rubs and rubs the spot against his sleeve until it’s dirty and until the leather shines immaculately in the harsh light. If there is ever a little dried mud under a sole, he scrapes it onto the floor with a used match. Then he flicks the match onto the linoleum, since it’s no longer good, of course.
There are eight shoes to look at, and he studies each one of them at length. One pair has holes in the soles and cracks on the upper. It’s a wide, heavy pair with low heels, and the label inside has been worn away by Alma’s feet. She was wearing these shoes when she died. Some sawdust is stuck between the cracks, and there is a streetcar ticket hanging from the broken heel. He takes it off on the first night. And when he scrapes off the sawdust four nights later, the ticket is still on the floor. He doesn’t pick it up. With his fingers he feels the smooth interior of the shoes. He thinks it’s beautiful. He finds it very beautiful that a woman’s foot can polish the inside of a shoe. Otherwise, he thinks the shoes are ugly. Even so, on the first night he spent nearly the longest time on these shoes. He held them underneath the ceiling light and was glad that it was so bright. But even though it was bright, he couldn’t help feeling that a dead person had once worn these shoes. He felt this less on the following night. On the third night, he found them exceptionally ugly. On the fifth night, he doesn’t even hold them up to the light. He places them by the door. Now they can be thrown away. After all, what use is a pair of worn-out shoes?
Now he studies a different pair for a long time. A pair of bulky walking shoes. Stiff and black, but not ugly. She hardly wore them, had said that they were tight and that they pinched. On the first night, he quickly puts them aside. They aren’t particularly beautiful and she wasn’t wearing them when she died. But on the second night, he looks at them for a long time. On the fifth night, he looks at them almost the longest. He likes that she barely wore them. He sticks a couple fingers inside the shoe and feels under the toe. There is a nail there, so he bends it down with his pocketknife. It’s hardly noticeable after that.
Then there is a third pair. She had worn them to parties, the few parties she had been to, since she never really enjoyed going out. There was a funeral and a wedding now and then and that time he celebrated his fiftieth birthday party last October. It was the biggest party of all—sixty people and damn expensive. He had to take out a loan, so there were no new shoes for that party. Instead, she had old ones half-soled. Good soles but a little rough. She hadn’t worn them down much. The last time she wore them was the day after Christmas. They were invited to Mälarhöjden. The heels are also very nice. But she thought they were too high. On the fifth night a thought occurs to him as he holds the heels up to the light. Alma was a good woman, all right. And she didn’t go through shoes. The thought makes him happy. So happy that he pulls out a handkerchief. Then he gazes a little longer at the beautiful high heels. A beautiful woman can walk in these, a beautiful woman with beautiful feet.
But on the first night, as well as all the other nights, it’s the fourth pair that he looks at the longest. It’s a strange pair of shoes. Perhaps not so strange in themselves, but strange because they had belonged to her. Well, belonged and not belonged. The fact is that she had never worn them. He came home with them one Saturday evening at the beginning of December after winning a Soccer League pool. He put the box in the middle of the table and smiled contentedly. She untied the knot, since she never used scissors for knots, and after lifting the lid, she said, Do you think I’m seventeen?
These words were difficult for him to forget. She never wore them the day after Christmas. And they are so beautiful now that he’s glad they were never worn, never even tried on. They are black and the heels are high and they have a bold curve. The straps are thin. And meant to be fastened around slender insteps—slender, beautiful insteps. A beautiful woman should fasten them in the evening, and a man should unfasten them at night. Such are these black shoes, shoes for a party. He looks at these shoes the longest. On the fifth evening, he opens up the bookcase and hides them behind an unread Bible.
After hiding them, he is sweaty. So he quietly rolls up the shades and opens the window slightly. But when he looks out, a car turns onto the street and its lights reflect in the windows of the butcher shop. He instantly closes the window and is no longer sweating. He puts the remaining shoes back inside the closet. But he grabs the ones he set by the front door and takes them with him to the kitchen. He plans on throwing them in the garbage, but it’s full. So he puts them next to it on the floor. Then he opens the pantry and looks for a beer. But no one remembers to buy beer anymore. So he takes a swig instead, a big swig straight from the bottle of aquavit. He isn’t cold anymore.
He locks the door to his room again. Then he stands by the son’s door for a while and listens. He doesn’t hear a sound, but he lets the hat stay where it is. It’s an ugly hat. Alma didn’t like hats. So whenever she did buy one, she always bought an ugly one. Alma didn’t like anything that was beautiful.
But it’s probably worse with dresses. It isn’t so painful with jewelry. Because the jewelry poor women get from their husbands is nothing to flaunt. And their husbands know it. And they never dare flaunt the jewelry they get from other men. But their husbands don’t know anything about that. This is why jewelry isn’t so bad. Dresses are much worse.
There are three dresses. A black one hangs at the very front. He takes it out, along with the hanger, and lays it on the table underneath the lamp. Carefully, he takes it off the hanger. Then he drops the hanger on the floor. He stands in silence for a while and waits, but he doesn’t hear anything from the son’s room. He is not alarmed, because he is confident that the son is fast asleep. It’s a simple black dress. It’s quite worn, but it can be turned. The belt that goes to it is missing. It was lost in the ambulance. A button is missing near the neck, but a new one can be sewn on. There is also a little blood. But it isn’t Alma’s blood. When she was lying on the floor, the butcher assistant cut her coat open. Then he cut the top button off her dress. He had taken a first aid course and thought that she needed air. In reality, however, she didn’t need a thing. But it isn’t a lot of blood, and if it can’t be cleaned, then a collar can cover it up. A resourceful woman could manage it. It isn’t a particularly beautiful dress. But it is in one piece.