Now I can hear that Papa’s asleep. I’m going to sleep, too. See you soon.
Your friend, Bengt
P.S. Papa gave the dog back. He claimed that I wasn’t nice to it, which is a lie, so he sold it to his fiancée. I saw through his trick, but I let him keep thinking he’s an exceptionally shrewd person. It won’t hurt him to believe that. Besides, his sisters think the same thing about themselves. They haven’t visited us since they raided the closet, although they have called us a few times. The last time, after they found out that she had visited us, they said, Forgetting Alma already!
As if I was the one who invited her! As if I could ever forget Alma!
Underwater Footprints
THEY ARE AT SEA FOR THREE DAYS. At sea, they say playfully. That sounds like living on a boat. In reality, however, they are not on a boat but an island or, more precisely, two small islands connected by a funny little wooden arch, which they jokingly call a bridge. The open sea encircles them, and the coast disappears into the dark water, which blackens as the night approaches. To the west, the sun has just set behind a glimmering strip of land. Looking at it, they think, Look how dark the sea is out there, far back, by the lighthouse. The lighthouse, of course, is a church tower during the day. And when they hear sounds from the mainland at night, a honking car or a roaring train, it’s only natural for them to say, Did you hear that big ship? Now, that was a torrent! Therefore, at night they really are on the sea, not in it and definitely not by it. They are in a boat, in a little boat on a very large sea.
Something strange happens when people are in a small boat, something that rarely happens with people in a car or an elevator, on a train or even a boat large enough to say that you are on it instead of in it. What they experience is the sense of solitude. There are only a few thin boards keeping them from being totally engulfed by the surrounding deep sea. They are lonely, but it’s not an isolated loneliness, because they feel lonesome together, together with the others in the boat. This is why a temporary bond forms between people in a small boat. They only have each other, the deep sea is frightening, and small boats are very fragile. Therefore, each one of them becomes the other’s lifebuoy. If you’re not afraid, then neither am I, so we shouldn’t scare each other, and we ought to be nice to each other as long as the water surrounds us.
It’s a Saturday evening when they row away from the large pier, which they had reached by bus. Almost silently, because they aren’t in the boat yet, they put their baskets, bags, and small pieces of luggage on board. The father wants to row first. Bengt and Berit sit in the stern, but Gun sits in the prow behind the father. Berit is gazing at the sea, which glistens black under the drifting clouds. At first, she is afraid because it is so still. She is always afraid of water and even small boats. And the black water makes her think of death. But, then, when the swell comes and gently rocks them, she becomes even more terrified and immediately thinks the boat is going to capsize. So she grabs Bengt’s hand, which is lying wet and cold between them, and places it on her coat, a black coat that Bengt didn’t like. That’s why, when they were still in the bus, he said, Are you going to a funeral? She also owns a blue coat that is lighter and better suited for Midsummer, but she didn’t want to wear it. Nor did she want to come along, but Bengt had practically forced her, saying that she ought to come—if for nothing else than for the sake of his mother. So she gave in, and this is also why she’s wearing the black coat.
Bengt likes the sea, especially when it’s vast and dark. He likes thunderstorms the same way, which explains why he is curiously exhilarated when lightning suddenly blazes forth in the north sky. Out of nowhere, it suddenly leaps to life over the luminous horizon and slithers down into the sea like a fiery snake, almost hissing before dying out. Bengt is sitting on the ledge and smoking. And the tobacco tastes acrid because his fingers are wet. Earlier, they had to bail out the boat, which had been half-submerged in the water for a long time. He has been morose and defiant the whole day, has hardly responded to anyone, and has refused to do what anyone asked him. In fact, he did the opposite. As soon as they boarded the bus and Bengt pretended to drop the case of alcohol, the father yelled, If you don’t want to come, then just stay home! Yes, let’s just stay, Berit wanted to say, but Gun beat her to it. Everything will be fine once we get off, she had said and smiled. So Bengt stayed. But he didn’t smile back at her.
Now he is sitting and watching the father, who is rowing and who has unbuttoned his jacket. So he can see how his chest heaves underneath his red silk shirt with every movement. But the oars are splashing against the sea very choppily, and no matter how much he strains himself, it is sloppy rowing. Sometimes water splashes up and spatters inside the boat, so he makes excuses: If it weren’t so damn windy! In reality, however, it’s perfectly calm. The swell is mere child’s play and a sailboat is adrift. The flag is not even moving. The three who are not rowing simply smile.
Bengt isn’t smiling at the rowing. Nor is he merely smiling at the silk shirt. Nowadays the father only buys silk—silk underwear and silk sweaters and silk shirts. He never did before; he never bought anything, for that matter. Before it was always Alma, and she bought Doctor Lahman’s tricot. But the son isn’t smiling at this alone. He is smiling because he is happy. He has been happy the whole day—he just didn’t want to show it. It’s part of his plan to show displeasure at first, to pretend to join them reluctantly. He won’t be happy until they arrive, and then they will be pleased with him. For two and a half days they will be nothing but pleased with him. After that, the attack will come, just like lightning from a joyous sky. But during the attack he will continue to be happy, for what can arouse more pleasure than taking revenge for the sake of purity?
There’s a can of drinking water between Bengt’s legs. It’s a 50-liter milk can that was difficult to get into the boat. Without a thought, he suddenly lets go of the fiancée’s hand and starts drumming lightheartedly on the tin. They are already far out now, almost halfway. He spits his cigarette into the sea and starts whistling, quietly and softly. Then the father raises the oars into the boat. One of the blades ends up on Berit’s lap, so she gets cold but doesn’t dare move it away. Berit is almost like a small lake. For every cloud that drifts over her, she becomes dark, not just on the surface but at the bottom, too. Now she is dark because of the oar and Bengt’s whistling. She doesn’t like that he is happy. She doesn’t like it right now, anyway. Now it only makes her want to cry.
But the father likes it. He thinks the son whistles beautifully, and he likes beautiful whistling. The drumming is beautiful, too. Otherwise the evening is perfectly serene and the sea is perfectly silent, only the seashore can be heard sighing as it slowly dims. They have rowed so far out that they are nearly alone. The sailboat is now lying askew at the end of the curving disk, and when its sails are taken in for the night, it resembles a tiny skerry with a solitary tree on it. The coastline sinks lower and lower, and eventually the water is up to the gunwales. And from their tranquil, drifting boat they also see two islands. The one to the left is a narrow and high cliff, blanketed with low trees. A bird is squawking above it. The one to the right is a long and low island with luminous white rocks along the water’s edge. But straight ahead, only a half-hour’s row away, is their island, so small and low that it nearly disappears when the swell comes. The water surrounding them is getting imperceptibly murky even though the sky is still shining above. Is it strange that the rower is happy?