The Half Brother

by Lars Saabye Christensen

  Later on I walk through the Christmas streets to find Peder. He’s mended the sign. All our letters are shining again. He’s sitting between two phones and turns around a quarter of an hour after I come in. He shades his eyes. “You look absolutely hellish,” he tells me. “You’re an awfully superficial individual, Peder.” He just shakes his head at me. “Can I tell you something, Barnum?” “Be my guest.” “I couldn’t give a damn if you drink yourself to death as long as you finish The Viking before you do.” “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Peder. You’re too kind.” “Nothing to thank me for. But can you just tell me one small thing?” “What’s that, Peder?” “Are you absolutely sure you’re not dead? And I don’t mean skin-dead. I mean really dead, as in coffin and candles dead?” “I’m not dead, Peder.” He picks up a handkerchief and holds it under his nose. “Are you aware just how long the moment of death can last? Whole weeks, Barnum. Years.” “I’m alive,” I murmur. “And how the hell can you be so sure?” he demands. “Because I’m thirsty,” I reply. One of the phones starts ringing, and an American voice immediately begins speaking on the answering machine — the voice speaks quickly, loudly and briefly. I just catch some of the words — Christmas Day, New Year, Vikings and dollars. Peder looks at me, his face tired and sinking into its double chins. “That was our man in L.A., Barnum. He wants to know how things are going. But how can I know how things are going when you don’t tell me how things are going?” Peder gets up heavily, opens the closet and changes his shirt. “What do you want for Christmas?” I ask him. Peder’s quiet for a moment. Then he sits down again. “I’d like a script and a good friend,” he says softly. I take the parcel from my jacket and put it down in front of him. Peder gives the fat envelope I’ve secured with a red rubber band a long, hard stare. To Peder from Barnum. “What the hell is this? A letter bomb? Your will?” “The one who opens it will see,” I tell him. He’s suspicious and grumpy. “You’re not playing games with me, are you?” “Barnum never plays games,” I reply. And finally Peder pulls out 102 pages comprising The Viking, A Northern — an original filmscript by Barnum Nilsen. “Now I’ve got everything I wanted in one,” he breathes. “Yes, a good script and a bad friend.” Peder gets up and puts his arms around me. “I love you, Barnum.” “Don’t get all American,” I tell him. “Deep inside we’re all American,” he laughs, and kisses me on the brow. And we stand like that holding each other and holding the moment, until his fresh shirt is wet too. “What now?” I inquire. Peder lets go of me. “Now you’re going to go home and rest a bit, Barnum. And I can do some work.” “And that means?” “It means I’ll read, translate and fax the script to Black Ridge in Los Angeles,” Peder says. He sits down by the phone once more. I keep standing where I am, looking at him. Peder’s into his stride now. It’s good to see him like this. We’re on our way. After a while he becomes anxious. He looks up. “Did you say you were thirsty?” he asks. “I meant happy” I tell him. And so I leave him and start off home. But I go a really roundabout way. I just want to be rid of all the other places too. I have to tidy up. I give the tree in Solli Square a last pat, and the hard bark scratches my palms; I hear the music from the dancing school’s record player go quiet in the dust in the innermost grooves of childhood, and the steps on the parquet floor fly to the four winds. I sit at the corner of Palace Park and Wergeland Road and hold a one-minute silence for the Old One, and when I close my eyes I can see the shadow of Fred finally rising from the gutter, putting the shiny comb in his back pocket and going on with her to the Palace. I put the place behind me. I go on over to the summer house in Frogner Park. It isn’t white any longer. The frail walls are all daubed with graffiti. Someone has written I was here. That’s always true. The person who writes I am here is right only for the time it takes to write the words. I spit in the snow and hurry on. I get the last bottle from the kiosk; I’ve hidden it away under the loose floorboard, and this place is now forgotten just as it fled Esther’s memory long ago to become a dream composed of sugar candy and loose change. Then I run over to the Little City, which is nothing more than a small ruin lying in gray and heavy sleet. The Little City’s gone already, and I bury it for good. I wipe it off the globe. Then I go up to Vivian’s. I ring the bell. It’s Mom who opens the door. She lets a bag fall to the floor and looks at me in amazement, just as I look at her with equal surprise. “Vivian’s at the hospital,” she says. I try to appear calm. I’m quite composed, and there’s nothing to get worked up about. “Already?” “They just want to be on the safe side.” “The safe side? There’s nothing wrong?” Mom lets me in. She fills the bag with toiletries and puts in some of Vivian’s clothes. I go after her. “There’s nothing wrong?” I repeat. “Vivian’s so slender,” Mom breathes. That’s all she says. Vivians so slender. And those words fill me with a sense of great and supple strength that make me think of a ladybird crawling along a gently bending stalk of grass. I put my hand on Mom’s shoulder. “It’ll all be fine?” Mom zips up the bag and straightens up. “You can come with me, Barnum.” I turn away and don’t say anything. Mom stands there like that for a bit. “Have you fallen out with Boletta?” she asks all at once. “No, has she said so?” “She hasn’t said anything at all, Barnum. She just lies on the divan moping.” Mom takes the bag and goes over to the door. Her voice is brittle. “I don’t know what’s happened between Vivian and you, nor do I want to know, Barnum.” I take a step toward her and raise my hand. “No, you’d rather not know anything, wouldn’t you?” I shout. She looks at me sharply, and a shadow crosses her eyes. “What do you mean by that?” My hand falls, hangs from my fallen arm. “Tell Vivian I’m here,” I murmur.

  I push a chair under the ceiling window and sit down. The door slides shut. I count Mom’s steps going down the steep staircase till I can hear them no longer, and then I open the bottle. I was right. It still sways. The brandy rocks from side to side like an interior wave. When I look up, the dark window becomes a mirror in which my face trembles and dances. The snow falls and slides away without a sound. I drink slowly. It takes time to be rid of this place, and I take the time required. This is my memorial service. I rehearse my forgetting, and I’m the only one present. Three floors below, Boletta lies moping on the divan. Somewhere else, close by, Mom’s looking after Vivian. I forget the coffin Fred carried up here. I forget the war, the clotheslines and the dead pigeon. Once or twice I hear church bells. And it’s then I remember the fact (so simple and obvious) that there’s just one thing here that’s mine — the ring, the ring I bought and never got to give away but hid in the coal shaft: t for Tale, t for tongue-tied, t for time. I find a knife in the kitchen and begin working away at the whitewashed wall. I hack, I hit, I jab and I dig — I’ll find that goddamn ring. But it’s impossible to get into the aperture; I hammer and I poke about and I get nowhere — there’s just a shower of paint and dust, and it isn’t the church bells I hear now, it’s suddenly the telephone. I don’t know where it is. It’s in the bedroom, and when finally I get to it the person’s hung up. There’s just a single bed there with the cradle in the corner. The place is swaying. I have to sit down, and the moment I do the phone begins ringing again. Slowly I lift the receiver, and as I do so I think to myself that now Bo-letta’s at the switchboard in the Exchange connecting all the calls, and that it’s me she’s discovered amid the electric darkness of the lines. It’s Mom. “Vivian’s had a boy,” she says.

  His name’s to be Thomas.

  The ring remains in the wall, invisible to everyone but myself. Then I go home. There’s a bottle of champagne on the table and a bouquet of twelve roses. On a card Peder’s written To the great little genius. Congratulations. He’s sitting out on the balcony leafing through a script and smoking a cigar. When he sees me there, he gets up, brushes the snow from his shirt and comes in. “Did you break the door down?” I ask him. Peder smiles. “I got the keys from Vivian.” I look down. “Have you been to the hospital?” “Fine boy,” Peder says. “Screamed his head off.” We’re both si
lent for a moment. Peder puts his hand on my shoulder. “The Americans are over the moon, Barnum. They just love you.” I take the script from him. It’s the American translation. Peders suddenly all self-conscious and opens the champagne, fills the glasses. It’s the last one I’ll have for at least seven years. “Who the hell is Bruce Grant?” I ask him. Peder shrugs his shoulders. “Who are you babbling about?” I stab my finger at the front page. “It says here revision by Bruce Grant,” I tell him. “Oh, right, Bruce Grant,” Peder says. “He’s the script doctor at Black Ridge. He’s just embroidered this and that.” “Embroidered?” “Don’t get bogged down by technicalities, Barnum.” I start reading. But Bruce Grant, the script doctor, hasn’t just embroidered here and there. He’s operated on my voice and my words. He’s amputated my imagery. Peder pads back and forth restlessly. “Pacino’s almost a sure thing,” he says. “Not impossible Bacall will come on board herself. And Bente Synt wants an interview.” “But this is abuse,” I exclaim. Peder lays a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t start putting on airs now, Barnum.” “Putting on airs? Bruce Grant’s ruined the entire thing. He’s a fucking quack! The patients dead!” I shake off Peder’s hand. “You know how it is,” he says. “A writer for film ought not to be too good.” I take a step toward him. “Was that an insult or a compliment?” “I’m just trying to say that you’re too good. The Americans need to be a bit more straight and to the point. If you get my drift?” “Straight and to the point? Vikings screwing on fur rugs and crying in alternate scenes!” “Feelings, Barnum.” “One eye doesn’t see the other!” I shout. “He’s even ripped that out as well!” “You’re too good,” Peder says again. I chuck the script at him and collapse on the sofa. “Whose side are you on, Peder Miil?” He gives a deep sigh. “I’m on our side, damn it!” I look up at him. “Now I finally know who it is I’m dealing with,” I tell him. Peder puts the keys on the table between the flowers and the champagne. “Maybe you should go and visit Vivian too,” he says. I can barely speak. “Nothings mine any more,” I whisper. “Nothing.”

  Later I go down to the basement again. This is the last place I have to get rid of. I have a flashlight with me, and I watch the frail beam weakly circling the walls. There’s a pile of stinking, wet clothes by the dryer and an empty bottle rolls over the floor. I kick it for all I’m worth and hear the shattering of glass in the darkness. The silent suitcase is right at the back in the corner. It’s then I become aware of people, swift shadows; and before I can turn around, I’m pinned up against the door as the flashlight drops from my hand and a warm queasiness fills my head and blood runs into my mouth. Then I’m dragged around and a far stronger light blinds my eyes. One of the officers searches my pockets. “Looking for somewhere to sleep tonight?” he demands. “I live here,” I whisper. “Witty little midget,” the other one says. I go mad, break something, and feel only a profound sense of resignation when they pull me out to their car and drive off with me. The neighbor’s on the stairs, her hands full of garbage. And the stars are shining in every window except my own. It is Christmas after all. I start laughing. I fall down. They get me back onto my feet and take me down a corridor. Behind a metal grill I catch sight of Fleming Brant; I thought he was dead, yet it’s like him all right. He stretches out one thin hand and holds a pair of gleaming scissors in his fingers, and it’s the last time I ever see him — the cutter. “Happy Birthday, my friend,” he whispers. I try to tear myself free. Resignation is replaced by fear. They remove my belt, my shoelaces, my watch and my comb. And the door slams with a boom that throws my head backward. I sit in the corner of the padded cell, beside the hole in the floor, and like that disappear before my own eyes.

  The Cormorant

  An island appears like a full stop on the very edge of the ocean. I sit out on deck, wrapped in a blanket. I’ve been here before. This was where I got my name. But when I go ashore on R0st, there’s not a soul who knows who I am. I have my typewriter and a calendar with me. For a moment I stop and take a deep breath, but I feel nothing except the raw wind. I go up to the Fishermen’s Mission. They have a vacant room. A dark girl at the reception asks how long I’ll be staying. “Long enough,” I tell her. She smiles and wants to know my name as well. “Bruce Grant,” I say. “Bruce Grant,” she repeats slowly, and looks up quickly before recording both name and date in a book. Finally I’m given my key. The room’s up on the second floor. The bed’s over by a window discolored by salt. I don’t sleep. I cross off yet another white day. The following evening I do the same. On the morning of the third day, there’s a knock at the door. It’s the dark girl from down at the reception. She’s brought me some breakfast — eggs, bread and jam. I ask her to get me a roll of adhesive tape. She brings me one that evening. She takes the tray and sees I haven’t eaten a thing. I write The Night Man, Sequence 1, and tape the sheet to the wall.

  I try to sleep.

  I hear the birds in the darkness.

  One wet day I go out. The rain comes straight at me, as if the skies have slipped sideways. I bend my head forward and follow the road across the flat island between the fish-drying frames that resemble great fish gardens. But I can’t smell them — there’s nothing; my senses have fallen away, just as the wind rubs these outcrops with its great sheets of sandpaper until their dust sinks into the sea and is gone. I open the door to the graveyard and can’t manage to close it again. A flagpole stands there like a hoop amid the squalls of rain. I have to crawl along in the lee of the stone wall, and finally I discover their names on a tall, black column surrounded by white sand from the sea — evert and aurora. The letters are all but buried under guano. I’m about to wipe it off but at the last minute leave it be. I suddenly remember what the vicar said at Dad’s funeral, that the cormorant shits on the rocks to find its way home.

  When I turn around the wind’s just as strong, a salt storm full in my face. It’s not shyness and modesty that makes everyone look down, it’s just the wind. I come past a shed, a lopsided boathouse, and all at once recognize something — a car under a tarpaulin with a bit of the windshield visible. I look around. There’s no one around. I go in and pull back a bit more of the tarpaulin. It’s the Buick, Dad’s old car — worn, rusty and filled with rain. I shut my eyes. Then I see someone there after all. A stooped man, with a high, white brow above a dark face, is leaning across a broken fridge, saying nothing as he brushes earth off his coverall. I let the tarpaulin fall back into place. “Rare car in these parts,” I observe. “A Roadmaster Cabriolet.” The mans still silent, but doesn’t seem antagonistic. He just looks at me, in the same way that a good tailor measures someone with his eyes. “How did you get hold of it?” I inquire. “At one time there was a fellow who owed us brandy and a gravestone,” the man replies. I nod. “But why don’t you use it?” It’s now he smiles. “We do use it, when the Italians come here.”

  I cross off more days on the calendar.

  That’s all I get written.

  One evening I go down to the cafe, drink apple juice and look at some television along with a number of the other guests — permanent residents — who come here to have some cake or because of the dark girl. These are men who’ve come ashore, and they look at me with gentle curiosity, friendly and silent, as I stare at the flickering, distorted images that have no accompanying sound. It’s as if the antenna’s in the middle of the waves, plugged in to the wind; and I think to myself that these familiar faces that flicker over the salty screen here in the Fishermen’s Mission — the last hotel before the ocean — have just been given their makeup by Vivian. I get up quickly. “What are you doing here, Bruce Grant?” the girl asks when I give her my glass and am on my way back up to my room once more. The others are listening, but not letting on that they are; their forks just pause for a second. “I’m drying out,” I reply. “I think you ought to eat a bit all the same,” she says. Soon I’ll need a new calendar.

  It’s getting lighter.

  One morning I take a different route than usual, not to the gr
aveyard and around the stone wall, but over the knoll and along the shore to the small inlet behind the jetties. Its there I see the house. It isn’t actually a house any longer, a dwelling place for human beings, but just ruins falling slowly to the ground and washing away like driftwood. The coffin door bangs in the wind. In the frail, golden grass there’s the whitewashed skull of a sheep. It’s then it happens. The wind suddenly takes hold of my jacket and billows it into a black sail that lifts me right off the ground. I struggle and do all I can to make myself heavy and unwieldy, but it’s to no avail; I’m nothing more than a little gnat in these gusts of wind that carry me through the air. I shout out and flail my arms wildly, until at last the wind sets me down gently once more beside the narrow path.