This is why the son is happy when the father comes home early that evening. And to make the father happy, too, he makes some coffee. As they drink it, he tells him about a funny thing that happened at the lecture. The father laughs loudly at the son’s story. But he isn’t happy, nor does he pull out his wallet. Then the son calls the dog because the father likes it when he pets it. When the dog comes, the son notices it has a brand-new shiny silver collar. It didn’t have it two hours ago. It had a leather one, brown and chewed up. He fondles the new collar for a while, and then, with a clenched fist, he hits the dog under its nose so that it yelps and scurries off to the father. The father slams his coffee cup on the table—since they always drink coffee without a saucer nowadays—and asks him what he’s doing.
Hector has a new collar, the son replies.
The son raises his cup and takes a sip, even though the cup is empty. Because it’s easier to really study a person when one is drinking. The father looks briefly into the son’s eyes. The funeral eyes. He thinks they are ugly, and he doesn’t like anything ugly. But there is something about ugliness that he fears. Therefore, it isn’t his son that he fears. It’s the ugliness inside him. And the ugliness inside him is so hideously similar to the dead wife that he immediately has to look at something else. So he looks at the dog. It doesn’t have beautiful eyes either, but at least they don’t frighten him. He also looks at the collar. The son has smudged its shiny surface. Otherwise, it’s smart and cold to the touch.
I got a good deal for it, he says, squeezing it firmly like a hand. I bought it at the pet shop on Södermannagatan.
Then the son says that there is no pet shop on that street.
This is when the father forgets that he has been deceived. He probably hasn’t forgotten for good, but he at least forgets in that moment. However, he who is exposed must defend himself. And to do so, the deceiver must convince the deceived that he is wrong. But if it’s a fellow deceiver he must convince, then it is easier if this fellow deceiver doesn’t realize that he himself is exposed. This allows him to be convinced more easily. Besides, he’ll be pleased since it can be gratifying to gain false trust when he himself only has deceit to offer. And once the son has been pleased, the father is, too, because our emotions are as cunning as serpents. They are also as deceitful as serpents are said to be. Of course, the son is glad that the father tells him about his long evening promenades with the dog, but when the dog suddenly walks past him on the way to its place in the hallway, he is still skeptical about the collar. But the father—who has no collar to look at but only something he has said to believe in—is not skeptical. Instead, he is only frightened when he notices the son’s suspicion. He knows that he has to keep the son’s happiness alive. Or else his own happiness will die out. So he goes to fetch the liquor.
As he searches the cupboard, he asks the son to pull down the shades. Because a father shouldn’t drink with his son. But if he does, then the shades have to be drawn. The son lowers them slowly. Slowly, because he’s gazing out the window. It’s dark outside, but the darkness is bright as it always is in March, mingled with falling rain and the soft glow of streetlights. Over the butcher shop, the bull’s head glistens in the dampness. In the springtime it looks soft, almost like flesh. It’s only in winter that it looks hard and cold. After the snow melted away and the spruce garlands were taken down, they started to shop there again—when they shop at all, of course. And most of it is for the dog. But it’s a strange dog because it’s only hungry in the mornings and never wants anything at night.
The father was making noise with the glasses and had already poured them by the time the son sits down. He has filled his own shot glass to the brim but put five drops too many in the son’s, so it has spilled over. When they toast the first time, their hands are slightly tremulous. But when they toast the second time, they are much steadier. But the third time, they look each other in the eye, and their eyes are beautiful. In fact, it’s not until their eyes are beautiful that they dare begin to speak about what they are too afraid to mention. They also sit closer to each other, as if they felt safer that way. The father wraps his arm around the son’s shoulder. The arm is soft and warm, and the shoulder is, too.
Do you miss Mama a lot? the father asks.
Yes, the son says, I miss her.
Then the father notices that the son didn’t say “a lot.” So he asks again.
Doesn’t it feel a little empty? he asks.
Yes, the son says, it does feel a little empty.
I want to do something for you, my boy, the father says. Because they are drunk and quite near each other, the son cannot say what he wants to say, so he says something else. But when he says this other thing, he realizes that it’s also true.
If I didn’t have you, he says, it would seem much, much emptier. My son, the father says.
Quite suddenly, he is moved. And he sees that the son is moved, too. To keep their emotions alive, the father pours them both another shot. He doesn’t want to make the son drunk. He just wants to make him beautiful. And anyone who is moved is beautiful. He is already beautiful. He has beautiful moist eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are silky. And when they toasted the fourth time, he is even gentler. And when he speaks, he speaks so beautifully.
Inside every intoxicated person is a sober will, and anything he does is not what his sober will desires but what his drunken will desires, because it’s much stronger. He puts his hands on the table and studies them carefully. Then the father puts his hands next to his and they gaze at each other’s hands. They both find the other’s hands very beautiful, and they cannot resist squeezing them. Like two sleeping lovers, their hands fuse together on the table. Then the son says what his sober will has not allowed.
Well, whoever is dead is dead, he says.
After he says this, the kitchen becomes terribly silent and terribly still. After a long period of stillness, their hands awaken. Their bodies stretch out in their slumber, and they have dreams before they wake. Once they are fully awake, they look at each other and are surprised they are together. Then they are glad and they embrace, sinking into each other’s tenderness. They part slowly, each going in the opposite direction yet longing for the other the whole time. It can be seen in their fingers. Once their hands are finally separated again, the father says, quietly:
Yes, whoever is dead is dead.
It hasn’t really been true until now. Not until now does the sober person, who is sitting on a chair inside the son’s inebriation and telling him what is happening in the sober world, comprehend how terribly true it is. He immediately snaps out of his drunkenness, and for a second he is struck with fear as he perceives the depth of the abyss. But his intoxication bursts like a mist and soon it is dense again. Meanwhile, the father hasn’t noticed a thing, and the son has hardly noticed anything himself. With clasped hands, the father says:
Yes, Alma was sweet.
Now the son’s drunken will is infinitely stronger than his other will because even though he really wants to say something else, he says: Yes, Alma was sweet enough.
Now, the father is not so drunk that he fails to notice the son has said “Alma.” Or that he has said “enough.” At once, he moves even closer to him. He does it because he feels he has to. And because he feels he has to, he also puts his arm around the son’s shoulder again. The shoulder and arm are still tender, but the father is silent, silent because he immediately realizes that one day the son will say, Yes, Knut was nice enough, exactly as he just said it about Alma. And because he realizes it so quickly, he doesn’t sit quietly for long. He is a rather lonely man. He doesn’t always feel it, but in the very moment he caused the son to betray his own mother with those words, a shiver of such chilling loneliness shoots through him that not even the son’s heat is enough to warm him. No, for a moment the son’s warmth even makes him cold. So he pours himself another shot of aquavit. He doesn’t pour anything for the son. Afterward, it’s almost nice and the shivers are gone. Now there is just a little snow falling through his soul, and once the snow has melted, there is nothing left, not even the cold.