The Half Brother

by Lars Saabye Christensen

  Arnold steals over to the wagon where the Chocolate Girl’s sleeping. He awakens her. “I need something,” Arnold tells her. She sits up smiling. “What is it, Arnold?” she asks. “Paturson isn’t eight feet eleven and a half inches.” The Chocolate Girl’s smile vanishes. “What was that you said, Arnold?” “He’s only six feet eight and a quarter inches. I’ve measured him!” The Chocolate Girl takes hold of Arnold and lays one finger hard on his lips. “Paturson is six feet eight and a quarter inches in length when he’s lying down,” she tells him. “And when he stands up he’s eight feet eleven and a half inches! Mundus decides how tall Paturson is. Do you understand?” But the wheels in Arnold’s head are turning rather slowly now and not getting very far. “How old are you?” the Chocolate Girl asks instead. And suddenly Arnold notices that she’s almost naked. “Sixteen,” he answers quickly She laughs. “Sixteen? And how old are you when you’re lying down?” The Chocolate Girl pulls Arnold down beside her and puts her arms around him. Arnold grows in her arms, and she explains just about everything to him.

  Now he knows what the elephant’s hair is.

  Next morning Arnold presents himself in Mundus’ own wagon, the biggest of all the circus vehicles, with its own staircase, curtains and chimney; Mundus himself is sitting up eating breakfast in a four-poster bed. He’s wearing a burgundy bathrobe and his mustache is behind a protective leather cover under his nose. He wipes egg yolk from the corners of his mouth with the end of a white napkin. “Where are you from?” Mundus asks. “Nowhere in particular,” Arnold answers. Mundus looks at him. “Nowhere in particular? Everyone comes from somewhere, Arnold.” “Not me.” “Then perhaps you’re a little angel who’s landed among us?” Arnold says nothing. Why not, though? He could well be an angel. Mundus gives a sigh, puts his breakfast tray to one side and reaches for a cigar. “We don’t want the police on our backs now, do we?” “The vicar knows who I am,” Arnold says. “I’ve told him everything.”

  At that moment he hears heavy footsteps outside. He turns toward the window and sees Paturson going past with the Chocolate Girl, who throws a large tarpaulin over him once they’re in the vicinity of the ornate portals. Mundus gets up from his bed and stands beside Arnold. “We don’t want anyone in the town to see him for free,” he says, and lights his cigar with a long match. Arnold watches the world’s tallest man going for a walk under a tarpaulin and the sight affects him. “Have you heard of Barnum?” Mundus suddenly asks him. Arnold shakes his head and can barely see Mundus for the smoke. “Barnum was king of America, Arnold. He was mightier than Alexander the Great and Napoleon put together!” Arnold steps closer. “Bigger than Paturson too?” Mundus laughs, coughing. “Yes, bigger than Paturson! Because Barnum made the world his circus! The earth was his big top, and heaven itself the tent he pitched above us!” Mundus was moved by his own tale. “Barnum wanted to make people happy,” he breathed. “He wanted to make them laugh, tremble, gasp and dance! And could one individual possess any nobler ambition?” The Chocolate Girl comes back with Paturson. She gives Arnold a wave. Mundus lays a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know what Mundus vult decipi means?” he asks. Arnold smiles. He knows almost everything now. “The world will be taken in,” he replies. Mundus is stunned. “Ah, but can you tell me what Ergo decipiatur means?” “Thus it is deceived,” Arnold tells him. Mundus has to put down his cigar. “All right, can you tell me lastly what’s bigger than Paturson from Iceland?” Arnold thinks about it. “God?” he suggests. Mundus shakes his head. “Oh, no, God’s two inches smaller than Paturson.” “Barnum?” Arnold suggests. Mundus bends right down to his level. “Imagination, Arnold! Imagination is the greatest thing there is! It’s not what you see that counts first and foremost. It’s what you think you see! Always remember that.” Mundus sits down on the bed, but doesn’t take his eyes off Arnold. “Turn around,” he tells him. Arnold turns around and stands with his back to Mundus. “All the way around!” Mundus thunders. Arnold turns the whole way around, and now Mundus has put on a pair of glasses. “Well, well, my small friend. So tell me what you can do!” “I can be a wheel,” Arnold replies, and he circles over the floor and gets up again. Mundus isn’t impressed. “We’ve got enough wheels, Arnold.” “I’ve only got nine fingers,” Arnold says, and holds both hands in the air. Mundus shrugs his shoulders and couldn’t care less. “I have worse monsters than you to rely on.” “I can be skin-dead,” Arnold suggests. “Being skin-dead’s far too old a trick. The public is fed up with that one.” “I’m well-equipped,” Arnold finally whispers. “Well-equipped? Who told you that?” Arnold looks down. “The doctor himself. And the Chocolate Girl,” he quickly puts in. Mundus dismisses this with a wave of the hand. “Leave me in peace,” he says. “Mundus has to think.”

  Dutifully, Arnold goes out. He looks around him. It’s still morning, and he notices that everyone has their place to go to. He sees that all of them are performing their own tasks and working together. The animal tamers, the carpenters, the musicians, the clowns, the cooks and the acrobats are working away — rehearsing and preparing for the evening performance. And Arnold realizes that he has to find his niche, his place among them, in the sweat and the song.

  But then he notices something else. It’s the Chocolate Girl. She’s standing with her back to him stretching up to the clothesline extended between two wagons. She’s hanging up Der Rote Teufel’s costume with its gold embroidery, and it gleams brightly in the sun. Arnold’s about to go over to her when Der Rote Teufel himself appears. He puts his arm around the Chocolate Girl and kisses her neck. She protests, but rather weakly, and begins to laugh instead. Der Rote Teufel kisses her all the more and pulls her into the shadows by the tent. Arnold hears the laughter disappearing in more laughter. Arnold shrinks. Arnold becomes smaller still. The elephants are bald. His happiness has run out. And he considers that laughter’s ways are inscrutable — laughter is always unique and never the same twice itself. And he decides that he’ll compile a list of different kinds of laughter. At the top of that list will be his mother’s — his mother’s careful laughter as she stood outside in the wind, as if the salty wind was tickling her. But he doesn’t know who should be second on the list, for it occurs to him that he never heard his father laugh.

  Arnold sneaks over to the clothesline. Der Rote Teufel’s costume has been mended; it has a large leather patch on the back. Arnold holds his breath. Quickly he raises his hand, pulls a thread loose, and unravels it.

  That evening Mundus stands in the center of the big top beside a broad, black silk curtain, and there is absolute silence in the tent, for everyone knows that now he will display his renowned chamber of horrors. His voice is quiet, but everyone can hear him all the same. “I would now ask children, those of a delicate disposition, those who are with child, seasick, with a tendency to hypochondria or a fear of the dark to leave the big top forthwith, and instead to keep up their strength in the company of the charming and bounteous Chocolate Girl at the Wheel of Fortune!” There is disquiet in the audience; mothers put their arms around their little ones, fathers put their arms around mothers, and even the hardiest sea salts on the back row are seized by the gravity of the moment. But everyone remains sitting where they are, just a bit closer in to their neighbors, and a deep sigh passes through the place as the light sinks to a shadowy blue and the orchestra saws silence from their instruments. Arnold stands behind the big top and sees everything. And later he subtracts things and he adds things; he exaggerates and he misses out, he’s clear-sighted and he smudges things, he makes an amalgam of all of them — Mundus, Der Rote Teufel, Arnardo, the dwarfs, the world’s tallest man, the Chocolate Girl, the elephants, the sky and the sawdust. For this is Arnold Nilsen’s first circus, and it’s here his lies begin. But this is true, this is what happens now — Mundus has laid his hand on the silk curtain out there, and he says in a dark, controlled voice: “Ladies and gentlemen. I will now reveal to you Gods misunderstandings. And if there should happen still to be any among yo
u who are not able to look with their own eyes at creation’s rejects, I may be of assistance with smelling salts and other preparations.” Mundus then extends a brown bottle, and proceeds to unscrew the lid and let those in the front row get a whiff of the contents. Then he puts the bottle back in his pocket and waits a few more seconds, in silence, as if for a moment he’s considering sparing the onlookers the mad horror of the sights he’s about to reveal. The wind brushes against the tent, and the heavy silk curtain in the big top trembles. A woman shrieks, but her nearest and dearest take her hand. Mundus gives a bow, and at last he draws the curtain quickly to one side. An Egyptian mummy grins at the crowd with 5,000-year-old teeth. The skeleton of a bloodthirsty Viking rises from his grave and slowly swings a rusty sword through the air. The front row gasps and reels backward to meet the bench behind. Mundus conjures up calm once more. For this is only the start. He raises both hands. “History speaks sorrowfully to us through these dead witnesses,” he murmurs. “Do not forget them in your prayers tonight.” He falls silent and lets the corpses speak for themselves a little longer. Then he draws closer to the onlookers, for he senses a certain impatience — perhaps some have even seen these apparitions before. “You will now behold,” he says, his voice lower still, “you will now behold Gods condemned creation, the abandoned riddle of the angels or the devils own twisted mischief. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Adrian Jefficheff from the Caucasus, our terrifying and tongueless relative, the monster caught between monkey and man — the missing link! Don’t annoy him!” A new set is revealed and the crowd screams. And Adrian Jefficheff from the Caucasus stands there stuffed and unwavering, looking emptily at the still shrieking crowd, for his face is covered in thick hair, a dark fur that all but hides his eyes and mouth. His hands are just as hairy and his nails long and black, and when Mundus unbuttons his shirt everyone can see that Jefficheff is a mass of hair from throat to waistband. “Is he related to the former vicar?” the shout goes up from the back. “He had tons of hair on his chest too!” The tent is filled with a liberating thunder of laughter, a moments delicious release of tension. Mundus swears under his breath and quickly bundles Jefficheff from the Caucasus away again, and then conjures a chair from the darkness. Someone’s sitting there, hidden beneath a red blanket, only one bare thigh just visible. The tipsy fishermen fall silent and mothers put their hands over their sons’ wide eyes. “May I present,” Mundus says, “may I present Miss Donkey-head, born in New Orleans, and of all things christened Grace — voted the worlds ugliest woman in 1911! When you look at her, you will thank the Good Lord each morning and each evening, and I daresay each noontime too, that you don’t have to wear such a face!” Mundus pulls away the blanket and the inebriated fishermen don’t just fall silent, they also become stone-cold sober, for a worse-looking dame they haven’t seen on the surface of the earth — she’s uglier than the inside of a catfish’s mouth. The women in the big top emit shrieks of terror and cast themselves on their menfolk, who want, but can’t manage, to take their eyes off Miss Donkey-head, christened Grace, from New Orleans. Her face is like raw meat. Her cheeks are like great bags and push down her massive, leaking nose so that it encompasses her entire face. It looks as though she’s actually in the process of eating her own nose, and her eyes are sunk deep and close in her head between folds of dark-red skin. The atmosphere is at the breaking point. Arnold feels it there where he’s standing looking into the tent — it’s as if a string is being drawn more and more tightly, and the whole assembly is fastened to it. But Mundus doesn’t let it go yet — no, he keeps it up, he goes on tightening and squeezing the string, and uniting the audience in delicious pain. He produces a scalpel and raises it as the light intensifies, and says in the deepest of voices, “Shall we leave it at that or shall we reveal the very heart of this poor woman’s composition?” He doesn’t wait for a response. He makes a cut with the scalpel from her belly up between her breasts, folds the skin to one side, shoves in his hand and brings out a fetus with two heads, four arms, four feet and two necks, all in one shriveled knot of flesh. At this point five ladies and one gentleman faint and Arnold has to turn away himself, for it’s just like out on the water — he feels the swell inside, he’s in the middle of a wave and becomes the very wave that’s making him sick. He thinks he can hear the approach of Paturson’s heavy tread; perhaps that’s what the cause of the swell is. Arnold tries to keep himself together, but he loses the battle and sinks down on the filthy floor and vomits his guts up. All the chocolate he consumed in the course of the night comes up, but suddenly he feels someone lifting him. It’s the seamstress, and she says something but he doesn’t get the words — her mouth is full of needles and she looks like a sea urchin. She washes his face and around his mouth with hard hands; she takes his old clothes off and puts new ones on him, and she does something with his lips. The horrors have gone and finally he can hear what she’s saying. “Now it’s your turn, Arnold.” “My turn?” he breathes. The seamstress puts a mirror with a long crack down it in front of him, and Arnold sees that he’s dressed like a girl, with a dress, stockings and slim white shoes, and on his lips he has something dark-red and solid. On his head they’ve put a stiff wig that scratches his forehead. Arnold doesn’t recognize himself. He’s struck by a strange thought. I cant go any farther, he thinks. I couldn’t go any farther. And right behind the distorted mirror is Der Rote Teufel laughing, throwing back his red forelocks and pouting. But there isn’t a chance for Arnold to see any more, for suddenly everyone’s scurrying around and they shove him in the direction of the curtain and on into the big top, where Mundus immediately gathers him and a breathless sigh passes through the crowd. “Don’t say a word,” Mundus hisses. “For the time being you’re Paturson’s dumb daughter!” Then Mundus straightens up, folds his hands and takes in his audience. “My dear ladies and gentlemen. A wondrous thing has happened. Paturson’s handicapped daughter has sailed across the ocean to be reunited with him again! She has but nine fingers and no voice with which to speak, but all the bigger is the heart that beats within her!” Only now does Arnold see Paturson right beside them, and the gaze of the world’s tallest man ranges between hunger and bewilderment. Mundus takes hold of Paturson’s hand, whispers something to him, and when Paturson bends right down to enfold Arnold, the audience’s sigh melts into tears. Paturson says something Arnold alone hears and that he doesn’t understand; they’re just heavy sounds in his ear, but he doesn’t forget them all the same — never will he forget them, those words that Paturson speaks to him and that he doesn’t understand. I spread the dust of stories and let it blossom in the mouths of all as bouquets of the most beautiful lies. Instead Arnold curtsies; Arnold curtsies like a grateful, disabled daughter and shows off the missing finger, and sniffs become sobbing as Mundus himself wipes away a tear from his smile. “Sell cards and shut up!” he hisses. And Arnold gets the whole pile and goes from seat to seat, from lap to lap, and everyone buys them. For Arnold looks so shabby and dejected that they’ve never felt more sympathy for anyone in their lives before. He sells each and every card; they have a color picture of Paturson on them and a wiggly signature from the medical congress in Copenhagen from the occasion of the measuring of the giant (the figure being recorded in feet, inches, centimeters, and ells). Arnold is laden down with coins that he carries back to Mundus, who wipes away yet another tear. Paturson, still as bewildered and hungry, embraces Arnold once more, as the audience applauds father and daughter, themselves and their own generosity, and Gods grace. And the orchestra plays a fanfare for Arnold and Arnold alone; he bows — no, he curtsies, because that’s what daughters do. He curtsies, and this is Arnold Nilsen’s first masquerade, as daughter to the world’s tallest man, and he curtsies once more, in triumph and amazement. And finally it’s Der Rote Teufel’s turn. He climbs up onto the trapeze and throws himself out in dizzying spins — for he will avenge himself, rub out the previous day’s blunder and consign it to history by surpassing himself. He will have his
revenge, and daring is his weapon. Der Rote Teufel (who is in reality Halvorsen and comes from Halden) has made up his mind to be a bird that night. Halvorsen is an eagle flying in the light. But when he folds himself up and peers out between his legs way up there, it’s not the hammer of hearts he hears, neither is it a breathless hush — rather it’s the sound of laughter. The crowd is laughing. Halvorsen can’t comprehend it. They’re laughing, and for an instant he imagines he must have been hearing things. But no, there’s nothing wrong with his hearing. Even Mundus is bewildered. Something isn’t right. This isn’t the funny number. This is the back-breaking acrobat who arouses fear, awe and ultimately that blessed sigh of relief that renders us all equally immortal for one heedless moment. Halvorsen is a bird who scorns and defies death and plays with it. That evening he will conquer death itself and create eternal life. But the audience is laughing. And Arnold realizes at once what they’re laughing at. They’re waiting for Halvorsen’s costume to tear again. That’s what they’re looking forward to. For the story of the devil’s torn bottom has made the rounds. That’s why they’re laughing. And Arnold prays silently, Forgive me, Lord, forgive me, and can feel the thread from the gold-embroidered costume between his fingers. Halvorsen crosses his feet above his head and hangs there doubled up, on the edge of the impossible, and the public just laughs. And it’s this laughter that bewilders Halvorsen and that for a moment makes him careless. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. For in death there’s no such thing as overtime. Der Rote Teufel loses his hold and falls, and in that moment the laughter vanishes, but too late. He falls through the big top like a broken bird and lands on his back. A hair from the elephant’s tail is of no use now. Not even a whole elephant can bring Halvorsen back. His name’s been wiped from the list of performers. His number is hereafter canceled. He’s dead. And Arnold hides behind Paturson, the world’s tallest man. “It wasn’t my fault,” he says. But Paturson doesn’t understand what he means. “It wasn’t my fault,” Arnold says again. “He fell before his costume ripped.”