Mom read the opening sentence aloud: The wild boxer — I was born in a taxi and have boxed my whole life, says Fred Nilsen, Oslo’s new hope in the ring. And beneath the picture of the two of us was written: Barnum’s betting on victory in the third round. Mom groaned, gave the newspaper to Boletta, and turned to me. “Did you tell them Fred was born in a taxi, Barnum?” I looked down. Boletta began to read aloud for us instead: When we met Fred at Samsons coffee shop, he had with him his half brother, who bears the rather original name of Barnum. Fred says he’s fighting for his little half brother. Barnum for his part dreams of becoming a cox. “That’s not true!” I exclaimed. “What’s not true?” Boletta demanded. “That I dream of becoming a cox!” Mom was close to tears. “Soon the whole of Norway’s going to know Fred was born in a taxi,” she murmured. “Oh, there aren’t that many who read the afternoon edition of Aftenposten” Boletta assured her. “But why have you shut your eyes in the picture, Barnum?” “So my soul wouldn’t disappear,” I said quietly.
I lay awake waiting for Fred when he came home on the last night before the fight. He lay down with his training things on. I could hear that he wasn’t sleeping either. “Are you mad?” I asked him. “Mad? Why?” “With what Ditlev wrote.” “Haven’t read it,” Fred said. “Won’t read it either. And you keep your mouth shut.” I waited a bit. There was a piping sound from Fred’s nose. “But the picture was pretty good,” I whispered.
It was sunny the day of Fred’s fight. He left before breakfast. He didn’t say a thing. Mom had an appointment at the hairdresser’s. She wanted to look good for the match. I stayed out of school and kept Boletta company; either that or she kept me company. I was edgy. We were uptight and nervous, every one of us. My hands were shaking. I stood by the window and suddenly saw that autumn had come. The city had a different color. The leaves were falling from the Church Road trees. Everything was burning down. It was beautiful, but I didn’t like it. I heard the sound of Boletta’s stick behind me. She took my hand. “You don’t need to be frightened, Barnum.” “I’m not frightened.” “Good. Because it won’t do Fred the least bit of good if we are.” I turned to face her. She’ll soon be as small as me. “You think he’s frightened?” I asked her. She smiled and let go of my hand. “Who knows what’s going on in that boy’s head? No, I think he’s angry.” “Angry with who, though?” Boletta had to sit down on the divan. “Fred’s angry with everyone,” she said. “Us. Himself. He inherited the Old One’s rage.” “Perhaps it’s a punishment,” I breathed. Boletta gave the floor a hard thump with her stick. “A punishment! And who’s to punish us, Barnum?” “No, I don’t know,” I admitted. Boletta sighed. “Perhaps the punishment’s being a human being, when everything’s said and done.” She raked her dry fingers through my curls, even though she knew I disliked it. “It’s a good thing you don’t have your brother’s rage, Barnum.” And it was then Mom came home. She smiled, almost shyly. Boletta got up from the divan. “Yes, yes, today well all do our best for Fred’s sake. But normally I consider boxing to be ridiculous, uncivilized, revolting and tedious.” She went out to the bathroom. I looked at Mom. She clung to her handbag as if it were a railing in front of a cliff. “You look nice,” I told her. “Thank you, Barnum.” “I’m sure Fred’ll like it too,” I said. “Your hairdo, I mean.” “You haven’t heard from him, have you?” I shook my head. “No, he’s got more than enough on his mind,” she sighed. And so we circled each other for the remainder of the day and had no idea how to make the time go a bit faster. Neither did we feel like eating. The only thing we could do was wait. I cut out the interview from the afternoon edition of Aftenposten and hid it in the tear in the wallpaper along with Paturson’s card. And I realized that of all times it’s time spent waiting that’s most difficult to pass. And it struck me as strange. Strange that I should want time to speed up, to go as fast as possible, even though I dreaded what it was I was waiting for. I just wanted it to be over. And I no longer knew which it was I dreaded most — the fight itself or the thought that Vivian would be there.
We got a taxi at six. When the driver heard we were going to the Central Boxing Club he glanced at me and grinned. I was sitting in the front. “Are you the brother of the guy who’s going to beat up the boxer from up north?” “Yes,” I breathed. He thumped his palms against the steering wheel enthusiastically. “Saw the piece in the paper. Born in a taxi too — he can beat up whoever he likes!” Even Mom had to smile. And with that he switched off the meter. He refused to take any payment. It was an honor to drive us. And we could tell Fred the boxer, Fagerborg’s white hope, who’d been born in a taxi — that he could drive free any time he liked. We thanked him and got out on Stor Street. There was a line already. We were let through. Someone patted me on the back. Then we were in, inside the Central Boxing Club. A young boy lay on all fours drying the floor of the ring. An older fellow in a black suit and with almost white hair was checking the ropes. He looked like a vicar. There were chairs arranged around the ring. There was complete silence. The hall was soundless; there were just slow movements and heavy smells. Mom grew anxious again. “I want to see Fred,” she said. Everyone heard her. The old gentleman in black turned around abruptly climbed out of the ring and came down to where we were. He greeted Mom. “I’m the referee for this evening,” he said. “Come with me.” We followed him to the locker rooms. We had to wait there while he went in. It took some time. He emerged once more with the trainer, Willy. Willy whispered something. We bent closer. And Dad’s funeral came to mind, the chapel where everyone had whispered too, as if they were afraid to wake the dead, or that there would be a curse on anyone who dared speak loudly. “Fred can’t be disturbed,” Willy whispered. “Is he all right?” Mom whispered back. Willy smiled. “Oh, he’s all right. He says hello.” But before Willy closed the door I caught a glimpse of Fred inside the locker room. He was lying on a bench between the lockers, under a shining white light. He was staring up into it. He was laughing. I couldn’t hear his laughter. Then I wasn’t able to see him any more. The referee took us back to the ring, and we sat down in the front row, nearest Fred’s corner. “Aren’t you going to save some room for Peder and Vivian?” Mom whispered. I put her gloves down on the seats beside me. We waited. I saw that the ring wasn’t a ring at all but rather a square, as if the boxers wouldn’t have been able to stand being confined in a circle, so that instead they’d fitted it with sharp corners, corners to rest in — for who can find rest in a circle? People started coming. Ditlev and the photographer and Esther from the kiosk; Aslak, Preben and Hamster — everyone wanted to see Fred box, whether he won or lost. Not least Bang the caretaker came — he’d had his name in the paper, in the afternoon edition of Aftenposten — the triple jumper with the limp who’d never made it to the podium, the role model. Me and Fitzsimmons, he said to those on duty, and got in for free that night. The air was crackling; there was a fever in everyone, and Fred would box it out of us, cool us with his inexorable blows. Then Asle Bråten’s supporters came in and sat down closest to his corner. They’d traveled far enough, all the way from a place called Melhus. Suddenly there were shouts from behind. “Smell the silage!” came the cry. It was Tenner and his gang. Tommy shouted loudest. “Smell the silage!” Asle Bråten’s supporters got up. Perhaps they were his brothers. They weighed at least two hundred pounds each and had red hair. Stillness fell behind me. And finally Peder and Vivian came in. It was twenty-five past seven. They slipped in between the seats and sat down. Vivian gave my hand a quick squeeze. Mom saw and smiled. Peder just shook his head. “Welcome to the Colosseum,” he said. “The gladiators are prepared.” Now we were ready. I was exhausted already. The referee climbed into the ring. He’d taken off his jacket. The shirt underneath must once have been white. Now it was all but yellow, stained as if the sweat from every fight he’d refereed had steeped into the stiff fabric. The crowd applauded and stamped their feet. The seats were shaking. Peder leaned closer to me. “The lions are hungry Barnum.” The refer
ee raised both arms, and quiet fell over the place. First Talent was to fight a pale southpaw from L0renskog. They ran along the edge of the ropes and poked each other. Some whistling began. Talent, who’d lost his nerve over the course of the summer, narrowly won on points. It was a victory that was forgotten already. “But that went really nicely,” Mom breathed, and seemed relieved. “They didn’t have the guts to box each other,” Boletta said loudly and thumped her stick on the floor. Then Asle Bråten came out with his trainer; Asle Bråten, the Trondheim county champ, undefeated in his last nine fights. Everyone in his corner got to their feet and roared. Asle Bråten himself was broad and heavy. He almost came across as shy He looked down when the photographer from the afternoon edition of Aftenposten took a picture, and sat down on his stool in the corner, resting his arms on the ropes. The trainer massaged his shoulders. Fred was to go three rounds with him; the first two of three minutes each and the final round of four — with a sixty-second time-out between each round. Queensberry’s Rules applied. The referee had total charge of things. He could add a minute round if things weren’t conclusive after normal time. Now the referee was looking at his watch. But there was no sign of Fred. We waited. The referee spoke to Asle Bråten’s trainer. Asle Bråten got up and began warming up. We looked over in the direction of the locker rooms. Time was dragging. I thought to myself, not without a certain feeling of relief — yes, relief and triumph, that Fred had just gone off. Because that would have been just like him to go out the back and leave us in the lurch, let Asle Bråten from Melhus win without so much as throwing a single punch — to make the afternoon edition of Aftenposten, the Central Boxing Club, Willy, Tenner, Tommy, the twins and myself all look really silly Then the door opened after all. Fred came out from the locker rooms. He was shining. It was as if the bright light I’d seen in there had fastened itself to him. Willy followed, carrying a towel, a box and a sponge. We cheered. We shouted. Vivian clapped and couldn’t keep still. Fred went calmly forward to the ring, slipped through the ropes, and just stared at Asle Bråten. The referee inspected their gloves. The referee spoke into a microphone. A loudspeaker crackled behind us. He announced their names. Fred raised his arms and stared at Asle Bråten. Asle Bråten raised his arms and stared at Fred. They were like two mirrors, reflecting each other’s dread and strength, the sweat that quickly poured from their skin, mingling with their muscles to create a single quivering surface. The one who stares the longest has won. He who flinches has lost. The first weakness is to be found in the eyes. A rattlesnake entraps its prey with its eyes. Fred tried to paralyze Asle Bråten before the fight started. But Asle Bråten didn’t crumble. He just bowed. Then it was underway. “Hit him!” Boletta shouted. But it was Asle Bråten who got there first. The punch came slowly, unfolding from the shoulder. Fred danced away. Asle Bråten missed, but his hook caused the very air between the ropes to tremble. A sigh went through the crowd. No one, except for Asle Bråten’s brothers, would allow anyone to get in the way of the glove on his right hand. It was said that he delivered just one punch in each fight. That tended to be sufficient. But not this time. Fred was too quick. Asle Bråten threw his second punch. Fred wasn’t there. Fred hit him in the ear. Asle Bråten just gave his head a shake, as if a fly was bothering him a moment. And then the two of them calmed down. They’d seen each other. They butted each other a bit. They circled around, their guard high and their chins low. And so the first round was over, and each went back to his respective corner. Willy said a whole lot to Fred we couldn’t hear. The second round continued in similar fashion. They waited. They scowled. They jabbed. The cigarette smoke built up beneath the ceiling. It clouded over in the Central Boxing Club. Boletta grew impatient. “I’m going if nothing happens soon!” she exclaimed. Mom tried to tell her to be quiet, but Boletta wasn’t going to be muzzled. “I’ve seen better boxing than this at the North Pole!” Fred punched. It came suddenly; his arm found a gap in Asle Bråten’s visor. Glove against brow, the head tilted backward, and Asle Bråten was shaken. Fred punched a second time — a left hook — which started somewhere down in his Achilles’ tendon and hit Asle Bråten’s broad chin that was like a drawer full of teeth. But Asle Bråten threw himself bodily on Fred and shoved him against the ropes, and they were one bundle of flesh, glued together in an embrace that was both rough and utterly unloving, until the referee had to separate them at last and the second round was over and it was Fred’s. We roared. We were captivated. We were carried away. Peder got up on his seat. Vivian was standing. Even Mom applauded, and Boletta shouted as she hammered with her stick. “Well done, Fred! Get him, Fred!” And Willy dried his face with the damp sponge as if he were carefully wiping away words on a blackboard. Then the last round had begun. Asle Bråten was on the offensive from the start. He launched heavy punches at Fred — at his chest, his stomach, his shoulders — he wanted to tire him out, physically exhaust him. But the punches didn’t get through — Fred was a shadow — and we just heard the hiss of the glove as it sliced right past his ear. Asle Bråten was exhausting himself, and amid this fog, Asle Bråten’s fog, Fred got in a punch, a quick combination. No one saw it, at least not Asle Bråten — we only saw the result. His knees buckled, his body went to the floor in a thunder, and the referee bent down and began counting, his fingers spread wide, one number after the next. The silence after each — one, two, three, four — Fred went over toward his corner, and Willy closed his eyes. Five, six — the referee counted — the only numbers there were in the world, and at eight Asle Bråten, the champion from Melhus, got to his feet. He stood up slowly, wobbled, but kept upright. The referee took a closer look at his eyes, exchanged some words with the trainer, and restarted the fight. There was quiet. Just thirty seconds remained. It was only a case of Fred keeping on his feet, keeping away from Asle Bråten, keeping going — because he’d won, he was half a minute from victory. And then I notice that Fred lets his arms drop — as if he’s utterly exhausted or simply can’t take any more — he lowers his guard, he leaves himself exposed. He stands there naked — for not more than a moment, but that’s sufficient. Asle Bråten sees it too, but he hesitates as if he’s equally surprised, finds it difficult to believe that Fred has lowered his gloves and is giving him an open road. His thoughts are slower than his body, and Fred takes a step forward, naked, exposed — and a gasp goes through the hall. Then Asle Bråten punches. It’s a mighty, wild punch to the face and it sends up a cloud of sweat around Fred’s head — a wet, shining powder like a shining halo. Fred is shaken but keeps his feet. Asle Bråten punches again. He hits equally hard, Freds jaw this time, and there’s a grating sound of something breaking. Mom buries her face in her hands and moans. Boletta cries out but has no voice. Vivian holds my hand. Peder just turns to look at me, sorrowful. And as for me I can’t feel the pain now; I try to, but I’m outside Fred’s pain. It isn’t mine; he’s alone right inside this pain, and all I can feel is shame, and I feel deeply ashamed of this shame. Fred sinks to his knees. The blood drips from his mouth and runs from his eyes. Willy leans against the ropes. The referee stops the fight. Asle Bråten’s won. The referee raises his arms aloft. But it’s no triumph. The defeat is greater than the victory. The defeat puts the victory in the shadows. And so I was right after all. Fred decided the fight in the third and final round.
The Half Brother Page 57
