A Burnt Child: A Novel

When the Desert Blooms

208 WHEN THE DESERT BLOOMS you wake up happily, feel the wound aching mildly, and remember . You tug at the bandage and smile in the darkness at the unimaginable. It doesn’t hurt, and you are glad. You are brave, too, daring to turn on the light with your good hand. This time, you aren’t afraid when you look into your own eyes; there was never a time before when this didn’t frighten you. Your suicide note is on the desk, ripped to shreds. And when you turn out the light, the pieces continue to glow. You also manage to keep looking at yourself without becoming afraid. Brave and serene, you rest in the arms of the world. And little by little, you are infused with a warm certainty: you didn’t do it to die or to be saved either—but to have peace. Peace with everything inside of you that wanted to die, peace with everything outside of you that pressured you to live. Otherwise , nothing has happened, nothing but some loss of blood and the fact that you have become a little older. You also understand that in order to begin to live, you must have already begun to die. The father comes in early, turns on the light, pulls a chair up to his bed—sitting down gently as one does at a sick person’s bedside —and says nothing. The son is awakened by his silence. He rouses gently and quietly. They look at each other in prolonged si- 209 When the Desert Blooms lence. At first, the silence is frigid but then it starts to thaw out. At first, they are both alone, alone as they have always been in each other’s company. The father sits there and plays with his yardstick: pulling it out, folding it up, measuring the loneliness and the silence . They hear Berit wake up in the kitchen, and the alarm clock rings in the other room. My boy, the father whispers. Then the unimaginable happens. A wave of warmth gushes through the room. The father drops his yardstick, holds the son’s unwounded hand in his, and brushes the hair from his forehead. My boy, he says once again. And those words contain everything—all questions, all answers , all affection, and all worries. They infect each other with their joy, and the warmth turns into heat. But the hotter it becomes, the deeper the silence becomes. Words can no longer express what they are feeling. Only their eyes and their hands, which are in a tranquil embrace. Before the father leaves, he tucks the son in, wrapping the blanket tightly around his body. He has always wanted to do that, longed to be allowed to do it, but never dared. Then he turns out the light and walks out. It’s twenty-two below, he whispers in the darkness. The yardstick clicks. The door closes. It’s only fifteen below, but he is overjoyed. When Berit sits down on his bed, he spreads the blanket over her lap. It makes her knees softer and even warms them up. She hasn’t slept much, and she had absurd dreams. She doesn’t ask him why. Nor does he tell her why. But a knot has come undone, so he asks her to retie it. As she ties it, he feels how cold her hands are, so he puts them underneath his blanket. They rest there like cold stones. Once they are warm, he pulls her up to him. Her body is tepid, like the masonry heater early in the morning. Poor Berit, he says. She starts to cry. It’s good for her to cry because the tears release her joy. She starts to warm up once she finished crying, bashfully caressing him as the heat returns to her. I’m going to buy some grapes for tonight, she whispers, a big cluster. 210 When the Desert Blooms Then she gently parts from him. He strokes her thighs, which are now softer than they have ever been before. He also fondles her breasts, and they swell up. Don’t be afraid, he whispers. And don’t be cold. It’s only five below outside. That’s what Papa said. It’s already light by the time Gun comes. The air is crisp and clear, and the window is covered with roses. It’s very warm...