A green one is hanging farther in. It is quite stunning. She had worn it to his fiftieth birthday party. She wore it to her own party, too. Which, come April, will have been two years ago. Around the bodice is a thin red belt that passes through the dress’s green velvet loops. And the bodice is pleated. It has a torn seam, but it can be easily mended. It goes far up the neck and down the back a little. But she usually wore a boa over her shoulders—a boa that he bought for her. It was very cheap, since he was the frugal type, after all. He eventually sold it when he had needed money, but he told her about it afterward. She didn’t get upset. And she didn’t ask what he needed the money for.
Alma was kind, he thinks to himself. Thinks it completely willingly as he stands under the light and pokes through the loops with his nail. A little below the neckband are two shiny spots with a good handbreadth, the widower’s handbreadth, between them. He is a little irritated when he sees them. He starts rubbing and rubbing them. But then he suddenly stops. It feels as if he has burned himself. The area he was rubbing had been stretched out by Alma’s breasts. She had large, heavy breasts, and they stretched out all of her dresses. When she was young, they were also large, but in those days they were firm. He used to sink into them headfirst. But later he always felt with his hand first. He thinks breasts should be big and firm enough to provide just the right resistance to a man’s hands. That was nice. And beautiful, too. Nevertheless, he burned himself as he rubbed against the memory of Alma’s breasts.
Then he hangs the green dress in the closet again.
Finally, he takes out the red dress. He always takes it out last. Because he looks at it the longest and because it hangs the farthest in. But also because it’s the worst dress. Because it’s the most beautiful dress. Even though he appreciates anything beautiful, he’s afraid of the beautiful red dress. When he holds it, he holds it like a man holds a woman, a dainty and beautiful woman. And before he lays it on the table, he blows away as much dust as he can from the tablecloth.
He shouldn’t actually feel what he feels when he leans over the red dress and watches the light reflecting on its soft surface. No stretched out breasts have ever left any marks on it. Nor have any bony hips or a protruding backside touched it. The dress is utterly pristine because Alma has never worn it. He bought it for a Christmas present. He didn’t have the money for it, but he still bought it. Alma wasn’t with him when he did. If she had tried it on, it would have been too tight. And he knew it would be too tight. But he bought the dress anyway.
You couldn’t have known, she said on Christmas morning, as she stood barelegged in her thick slip in front of the mirror, trying to put it on. In that moment he wanted to say, Yes, of course, I could have known. I knew, all right. But I still bought it. But instead of saying it, he started laughing. Not a prolonged laugh by any means, but afterward he wished that he hadn’t because she asked what he was laughing at. At a story I happened to think of, he answered. She didn’t ask which story. She only laid the dress on the table. Don’t worry, she said; you’ll see, I can let it out. Since I can’t wear it as it is now. Then a thought sank deep into his mind like a hot stone. Then it dropped to his tongue, where it stayed and burned impatiently. But he was able to put it out with saliva this time. The burning thought: you weren’t meant to wear it anyway.
Now he remembers the thought. He can never forget it because it’s such a dangerous thought. On Christmas, he had filled his mouth with spit and put it out. But it came back the day after Christmas. They were invited to Mälarhöjden at five that evening, so Alma got up at five that morning. When he asked why she was up so early, she answered, I’m going to try to let out the dress so I can wear it tonight. Then he pulled her back into bed. Don’t do that, he said. Why not? she asked. Then he told her he wanted to exchange it the next day for a larger size. The next day was Sunday. He knew that. But she had forgotten. Nevertheless, she went back to bed. Suddenly, she took his hand and placed it on her left breast. Then, as soon as she let his hand go, he pulled it away. He put it over his mouth instead, as if to suppress a yawn. But it wasn’t a yawn. It was a glowing stone that wanted out of his mouth. Something wanted him to spit it out. Something tried to force him to say, I didn’t mean for you to have the dress. But I bought it anyway.
But ever since that first night when he took out the red dress and laid it on the table, he has known that the most horrible thing about the thought was not the words he already knew. The most horrible thing is that the words continued. Nobody had forced him to think the words that followed. Or to say them. Yet he knows them like one knows what is said behind a closed door without being able to make out a single word. The knowledge of these lingering words was what had made him so certain that day when the blaring ambulance came closer, block by block—so sure of himself that before it stopped he had already wiped the shaving cream from his face with a towel and put on his jacket. And when they came running up the stairs to get him, it was this knowledge that had made certain he was already ready to go.
Before the fifth night, nobody had forced him to reveal what the rest of the words were. But on the fifth night he is forced. As he fondles the delicate shoulders of the red dress, he hears a faint yet terrifying sound behind him, the sound of something light falling by the son’s door. When he turns around, Alma’s hat is lying on the floor. It was hanging on the doorknob before it fell. Someone must have turned the knob for it to have been able to fall. Dreadful is the eye now watching him through the naked keyhole. And it’s an ugly eye because it’s so naked, because it’s so merciless, because it’s so terrifyingly young. There is nothing more terrifying to a hardened conscience than a young, naked eye. It knows nothing. And therefore understands everything.
But he isn’t afraid of his son because he understands everything. He’s afraid of him because of what the son’s eye forces him to do. For it is terrible. It makes him grab the red dress, which suddenly doesn’t have a loop that isn’t burning, makes him pick it up from the table, and makes him take it to the armchair. It makes him slowly spread it out into a woman and then makes him bend over the woman who has suddenly appeared out of nowhere. As he hunches over her, it forces him to think so loudly that it drowns out everything inside him as well as everything outside of him: you were never meant to wear this dress, Alma. I didn’t buy it for you. I bought it because I knew you were going to die.
Afterward, he is no longer afraid of the son. But he is so terribly afraid of what he has been forced to think that he can’t even be in the same room with such a thought. So he leaves the room with all its bright lights. From the kitchen, he rushes out to the entrance. He carries the worn-out shoes downstairs with him. But he forgets to turn on the light before he ventures across the yard to the garbage container. He’s afraid that the stairwell light will go out before he can get back. So he flings the shoes into the snow-covered yard and runs through the front door and out to the street. From the street, he looks up at the windows. The son is looking out the father’s window. So he walks farther down the street. When he looks back at the window, the son is gone. Then the light goes out in the father’s room. And when he reaches the corner, the light goes out in the son’s room, too. By the time he comes back, it has snowed a lot. The entire building is draped in darkness. He turns on the yard light and starts looking for the shoes. They are covered in snow, and he can’t find them. Then a shift worker arrives on his bicycle. He asks the widower what he’s looking for. The widower tells him that he’s looking for his key. Then, on the way to the bicycle storage shed the worker rides over the shoes. He picks them up, and brushing off the snow, he says: