And now, dear Bengt, I have a lot to ask you. First, Can anyone hate his own father like I do? I could probably answer you that, yes, you can. You can if your father acts like mine. Then you ask what he’s done wrong. My answer is that he has deceived my mother because she was sick and because he thought she was ugly. I never thought she was ugly. Then you ask why it’s any of my business. After all, she didn’t know about it. To that I say that it doesn’t matter whether she knew or not. The fact remains: she was betrayed. And is there anything worse than to be unfaithful to the person who loves you? And is there anything more horrible than to be betrayed? Someone looks into your eyes, Bengt, and you believe that the other person’s eyes are your mirrors. Yours alone. But now they reflect someone else. There has to be a bottom, Bengt, but a mirror is bottomless. Papa is a mirror. And that’s why I hate him. All that is beautiful can be reflected in him, all that is repulsive and beautiful. And I don’t respect fidelity because it’s beautiful; I respect it because it’s necessary. He who betrays another kills her slowly. Because infidelity makes her sink. Makes her sink down into her shame, which is a deep swamp, and into her hatred, which is even deeper. If Berit cheated on me, I’d never want to see her again. But I would hit her first.
Can anyone hit his own father? Can you answer me that, Bengt? You can need to hate him, you say, but you may not strike him. Maybe we can’t hit anyone? Well, whoever is innocent can hit. Whoever is innocent can do anything to the one who is immoral. Because the one who is innocent is right. He’s the only one in the world who is right. Purity has such terrible power, Bengt. That’s why I want to be pure. If I didn’t want to, I’d punch myself in the face.
I never want to see her. I have seen my mother sleeping. I have walked by her in the dark and heard her sleep. So I don’t want to see the other woman. I have seen my mother dead. She had a wound on her forehead. So I don’t want to see that other woman’s forehead. I never want to see her. But if I ever do happen to see her, I’d strike her across the forehead. Don’t forget that, Bengt!
It’s February now. You know what it’s like in February. It snows and it’s warm. The days are getting a little longer. So the nights are getting shorter. I haven’t seen Berit for a few days. The last time I saw her, I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I hurt her all the same. We were at the cinema, and afterward when we were sitting at a café she started crying over the film. So I thought I’d really give her something to cry about. I told her about Papa and she stopped crying. She didn’t believe it was true, but I wanted her to know it was true. So I said that she was stupid, that she was stupid and immature. Then she started to cry again, but she still didn’t believe it. She never believes anything bad you say about others, yet she believes everything you say about her. She started to get cold. She always gets cold when she cries a lot. Then she gets a headache. So she put her hand on the table so that I could warm it, but I was annoyed and pretended not to see it. But then as we were about to leave, I said to her, Don’t forget your hand, there on the table. I regretted it afterward, but afterward it was too late. I haven’t called her in three days. I know she’s just sitting around and waiting, crying and waiting. But she wouldn’t dare call. And I do love her. But I always get melancholic when I think of her. Eventually, I want to warm her, too. I would never be able to betray her. Besides, she loves me too much.
My studies aren’t going so badly. Not so great either. It’s a little hard for me to concentrate right now. A young girl with glasses sits next to me in class, and just the other day she noticed I was wearing a black armband. She leaned over and looked at it. You’re grieving, she said. Yes, I answered, my mother has passed away. Then she moved away from me as though I had a contagious disease. Later, I got a question that I didn’t really understand. The professor grew impatient and gave it to the near-sighted girl. She can answer everyone else’s questions, and one day she’ll be able to answer her own. She looked at me when she answered, and I noticed that she felt sorry for me. I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me. There’s nothing to feel sorry for, because I know that Mama is dead. Had I gone out that day and gone shopping for her, she’d still be dead. Maybe she wouldn’t have had that cut on her forehead, but that’s all.
I didn’t make it to the exam today. When it was time to go, the telephone rang. I answered but nobody was there. It’s incredibly annoying when the phone rings and no one’s there when you pick up. I stood with the receiver in my hand and felt how terribly cold it was. Just as I was about to hang up, I thought I heard a voice. I listened again, but no one was there. Then something compelled me to go into the other room. I opened the door and froze. You see, I thought Mama was sitting in the armchair behind the table. Then I realized it was just her dress. Her best dress, the one she never got to wear. Papa had taken it out of the closet and spread it over the armchair. I don’t know why. But then when I was about to leave, I couldn’t dare turn my back to it, so I opened all the windows in the apartment and turned on the radio. A steamroller rumbled down the street, and a boat sounded from the Hammarby channel but then went silent. I lay in bed instead of going out. It was about two o’clock. When I woke up the radio was hot, and I closed all the windows. Soon after, Papa came home from work and I was glad when he arrived. It’s easier to lie when you’re happy. I told him that the exam went well, and then he gave me twenty kronor. He had a packet of pea soup and pork with him. I put it in some water and boiled it; it made two plates per person. We didn’t say anything to each other. We’re always silent when we eat, nowadays.
Afterward, I went to my room to catch up on my studying. But then I couldn’t study. I just sat around listening to see whether he’d go out. He walked back and forth in the other room for a while. Finally, he went out and by then it was dark and sleeting. I locked both of my doors, both to the hallway and to his room, but I still couldn’t concentrate. I just waited for him to come back. He never came. Then I opened my window all the way. It was very cold outside. It was windy and snowing. The neon light on the corner was broken and flickered like fire through the snow. I stood for a long time watching it. I thought about the exams. They would be unbearable if everyone sat around feeling sorry for me. Yet I’d still take them, if I wanted to.
There’s no reason to feel sorry for me. But, Bengt! Does a person have to be afraid of the one he once loved? Because I loved her. I really loved her. I did. But I’m not afraid at all. I just miss her. I didn’t at first, since you can’t miss what isn’t there. But now I know she is here. I found that out right before I was to go to class today. It was like a revelation. She is inside me. Because she loved me she is inside me, and that’s where I’ll let her stay. She’s inside Papa, too. Once he realizes it, he will leave that other woman and come back to me. And that’s when I will stop hating him.
He just came home, so I’ll close now and study for a bit. He won’t go out again tonight.
Sincerely
Yours,
Bengt
Prelude to a Dream
WHEN SOMEONE IS DEAD, there is, on the one hand, a big empty hole. But on the other hand, there is a lot left over. You go up to these things and look at them, twisting and turning them. But you don’t really know what to do with them. You start by gently touching them. But after a while, your fingers grow tired. That is why you end up hating them. Dresses are the worst. After that, shoes.