Not that I’m a Don Juan. It was just an observation, nebenbei, so to speak. Of course, I eventually realized that Berit was faithful to me. It was just tragic, or more precisely, tragicomical. So I burned up all my letters from the girl and asked her to burn all of mine. Unfortunately, I must have forgotten one in my coat, but that kind of thing happens, as you know. Yes, it was too bad that Gun happened to read it, but the fact is that no one asked her to. To make it up to her, I bought her that bracelet I showed you before I left. It was rather expensive, but it’s worth the price if it can restore peace to our family. Don’t you think?
Well, I’ve explained my point of view the best I could. If you speak with Gun about my letter, you can mention my explanation for my trivial relationship with that girl. It really doesn’t concern her, but it might make her feel a little less offended for Berit’s sake.
Wishing you a Merry Christmas
(what’s left of it) and a
Happy New Year
from your son Bengt
P.S. Berit and her parents send their warm wishes.
Three O’Clock
BERIT IS EVEN AFRAID OF THE ICE. Not just the ice that has formed overnight, but also the solid ice that has been freezing all winter. This is why she is so anxious as they travel across the ice to the island. She is sitting on the kicksled and Bengt is pushing her. She fears the whole time that the ice will give way. But it does not. It only creaks. The runners are screeching, and Gun is singing. She is sitting on the father’s sled with a bag in her lap. She is wearing short white boots. Berit has high black ones that she has borrowed. But they are too big, so she wobbles when she walks.
Sunday morning is white and clear and three degrees Fahrenheit. A sheet of frost covers the ice, and tiny spruce trees are scattered about. A car rolls in slowly from across the frozen sea, and its snow chains rattle with fear, like chattering teeth. Farther out, a ship is frozen in the water; it looks like it’s lying flat on the ice. Its contours are sharp and precise. The smoke rising from the funnel is thin and frigid. And large ivory spider webs seem to be hanging between the masts. The islands look a lot different from how they did in summer. The long, low island has sunk into the ice and snow. A single ski track goes into it but doesn’t come back out. And the tall island is no longer as high as it was in the summer. The frozen crowns of the pine trees glisten in the sun. Gun puts on her sunglasses, the same ones from last summer. And Berit covers her eyes with one hand. Partly because of the sun and the ice, and partly because she is imagining things.
Bengt is also imagining things. They all are, for that matter. Gun stops singing. So now only the runners are singing. Up ahead, the ice is black, and they cross a stream. There, Bengt doesn’t dare dig his spike too deep in the ice, so the father is able to catch up to him and even pass him. Then Gun leans to the side and looks back. Her stepson returns her glance. Neither of them smiles, but Bengt steers in behind the father. This relieves Berit, although she won’t be truly at ease until they arrive.
The cliffs are covered by a deep layer of snow, and ice towers over all the rocks like little white volcanoes. An animal has apparently trudged across the island; the tracks could be from a dog. They leave the sleds on the ice and plod up to the house. But Bengt takes a different route. He climbs over the cleft, where the wind has packed the snow into solid drifts. He hardly leaves any tracks behind him. But in the hidden hollow, he sinks down to his knees. Then he stands up for a while, takes off his gloves, and fills his hands with snow. When he tastes it, it tastes like salt. Then someone calls out to him and he goes back.
Where have you been? the father asks.
Out, he says curtly.
The fire is burning on the hearth. The father has taken off his shoes and socks. Now his feet are propped up on the edge of the fireplace. They are not very clean.
What time is it? the son asks.
Ten, the father says as he curls his toes in a hideous way. They eat at eleven. And even though it’s warm inside, Berit is cold.
It is four below zero outside. A skater on sails swooshes across the bay in a flash, like a darting mouse. They drink tea with rum after they eat. Gun lights a candle that she happens to have with her and places it in the center of the table. Then Bengt goes outside for a while and sits down on the steps and smokes. Berit comes out and sits next to him, doodling in the snow with the tips of her boots. The father and stepmother eventually come out, too. Gun is standing at the foot of the stairs and squinting into the sun. She wants to take some photographs. Bengt steps out of the frame.
Why? Gun asks as he takes the camera from her.
He doesn’t answer; he just takes it. He has them stand on the steps and has them look straight ahead for a very long time, but it never turns out well. They are standing either too high or too low. But mostly they stand too far apart from each other.
Squeeze closer together, he says.
His voice is tense, so he can barely say it. But hiding behind the camera, he is able to see how Gun’s eyes try to watch him. For the first time in a long time, she wants to look at him. The camera shakes and he never gets a good shot.
Closer, he says.
Then she puts her arm around the father’s body, around his new dark blue coat. The father puts his around Berit’s black coat. That’s good, Gun whispers.
But it’s not good for her. It’s good enough for Bengt, even though he is shaking. Behind the camera, his eyes are pleased, but he doesn’t want anyone to notice.
Smile, he whispers.
They all hear him, but he said it only to Gun.
Afterward, only the father is smiling. The newlyweds go inside. They have been married for two weeks, and for fifteen days Bengt has been living with Berit. The back of the sofa is fixed, but they still aren’t happy. They were especially unhappy the night the father got married. It was a small wedding, smaller than the father had anticipated. None of his friends came. They must have remembered that the first year of mourning hadn’t quite passed, that there were more than fourteen days left. Fourteen days can be quite a lot of time for acquaintances; besides, it was a Thursday. Only the bridegroom’s sisters came, dressed in Alma’s clothes. They made coffee before the wedding and helped him with his shirt. But Berit was the only one who helped Gun with her dress. They took only one car to and from the courthouse. They ate dinner at the same restaurant, not in a private room though pretty close to the music. The sisters left first; they didn’t have an appetite. Nor did they laugh a single time. They had merely been curious. Actually, the ugly sister did laugh once when the bridegroom dropped the ring as he was putting it on Gun’s finger. She laughed then, but into her glove. The only time she laughs is at the mishaps of others. The only time she’s alive is when someone else dies.