The Half Brother: A Novel

by Christensen, Lars Saabye

  Vera slowly followed her into the kitchen and once there they ironed the dresses and Vera put on the green one, Boletta’s. It was far too big for her, but the Old One brought it in at the waist by pinning each side and then together they stood in front of the tall mirror in the hall. Vera looked down. Vera looked away. She refused to meet her own gaze. The Old One put her arm around her. “Look,” she told her, “you’ve caught up with me. I’ve begun to grow down instead. I’ll soon be standing with my head in the ground.” And they were still standing like that in their finery in front of the mirror when Boletta arrived home, white and perturbed. She got no farther than the door and stared at them amazed — for a moment almost relieved. “You look lovely, Vera,” she breathed. And Vera lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried back into the dining room. Boletta watched her go. “Has she said anything?” “We have to clean the windows,” the Old One said. “Before long the sunlight won’t get through.” Boletta gripped her mother’s arm. “Has she spoken? Has she said anything?” The Old One looked in the mirror again. “My time’s over,” she grumbled. “I look like a lonely circus.” Boletta was at the breaking point. “Could you stop talking like a whole circus too?” The Old One sighed. “Your headache’s back. You should have a nap instead of shouting.” Boletta closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Can you answer my question?” “Did you bring anything nice with you? I’d love hot chocolate with butter!” Boletta had to support herself against the wall. “What has she said? Do I need to drag it out of you?” The Old One sighed again, but even more deeply now. “She hasn’t said a word, Boletta. But she’s combed my hair, if you hadn’t noticed. And there’s another thing, I feel we should hoist the flag on the balcony. We seem to be the only ones who don’t have a flag flying today.” Boletta wanted to go after Vera. But the Old One stopped her. “Let Vera have a bit of peace.” Boletta stood there and smoothed her brow. “Are you sure we shouldn’t call the doctor?” “Be quiet!” the Old One hissed. “I’ve called the idiot already.”

  And Dr. Schultz arrived when they were drinking coffee. And when Dr. Schultz was approaching, the world was aware of it. He bore his black bag on a perfectly angled arm, his hat was soft and broad-brimmed, and he wore shining black galoshes from September 1 to May 17, whatever the weather. His face was gaunt and ruddy, and his nose was positioned like an exclamation point between his forehead and his mouth. From this prominent feature hung that famous drop that had frozen fast when Dr. Schultz skied from Mylla during the winter of 1939 — the last time he got fresh air. Now he preferred sitting at home in Bislet trying to wipe it away. This particular evening he required the entire sidewalk and a portion of the street to get where he was going. He weaved about like a black crab and the youngest of the boys from Jessenl0kken followed him over Ullevål Road giving encouraging shouts and ringing their bicycle bells every time he stepped into the gutter. Now and again someone had to venture close enough to get him going in the right direction again, since occasionally he veered off toward Nordmarka instead, as if some gigantic magnet was positioned high up there, drawing him inexorably closer. In other words, it was no great secret when Dr. Schultz stopped at the corner outside Number 127 and rang the bell. And I’ve often wondered if everything would have been different if Dr. Schultz hadn’t drained the day’s fifth whiskey and soda (to say nothing of the sixth), if his hands had been steady, his head clear and his vision sharp. If so he might have noticed something that would have changed our story and perhaps stopped it altogether. I say this now and I always will — Fred lived vicariously even before he was born. It’s thoughts like these that can still keep me sleepless and afraid, for we hang by a thin thread, a thread composed of chances shadow. I can see him now, that pathetic doctor from Bislet — should I love him or despise him I don’t rightly know. I see him there leaning against the door so that when Boletta opens it he almost tumbles into the hall. And the whispers go from door to door that the pickled Dr. Schultz has come to see the single women in G0rbitz Street, the strange women whom no one can quite fathom. Now it’s ringing out at the building’s telephone exchange, and down by the shed in the yard the caretaker is connecting the rumors to lengthy tales that I myself can rely on when my time comes.

  Boletta gets Dr. Schultz into a chair and he gathers himself while they help him remove hat, galoshes and cape. “What is it that ails the patient?” he asks. The Old One giggles. “That’s what we’d like to know. That’s why you’re here, if you didn’t realize that.” Boletta offers him a cup of coffee. “She has suffered terrific bleeding,” she tells him quickly. “I found her up in the loft. Perhaps she fell.” Dr. Schultz’s hands shake so badly he has to drink from the saucer and his voice is in an equally bad state. “Well, well. All she needs is some good fresh air. After all these years of being shut in.” The Old One all but flies at him and Boletta has to stand in the way. “Vera’s lying down in the bedroom,” she tells him. “I think she’s had a shock.” Dr. Schultz manages to get onto his feet after a struggle and knots and unknots his fingers. “Well, well, but what does she say herself?” Boletta looks down. “She’ll say nothing. She hasn’t spoken since I found her yesterday.” “Hasn’t spoken? Well, well, I’d better take a look at her. And I would prefer to be alone with the patient.”

  Dr. Schultz takes his black bag, goes in to see Vera and shuts the door behind him. He remains there for nineteen minutes. The Old One and Boletta wait outside and don’t hear a sound. But when Dr. Schultz reemerges he seems more sober than in a long while. He sits down in the same chair and is silent.

  The Old One can’t stand it any longer. “Would you be so kind as to tell us something? What’s wrong with her?” Dr. Schultz looks at Boletta instead. “You are indeed right. She is in a type of shock. Or may I call it psychosis.” Boletta has to sit down herself. “Psychosis?” “Or call it a condition, if you will. If you feel that sounds more helpful.” The Old One leans forward and waves her fist. “Would you tell us now what it is that’s wrong with her and not bamboozle us with words! And don’t dare mention fresh air again!” Dr. Schultz wipes a handkerchief over his high forehead. The drop under his nose wobbles. “She has lost a considerable amount of blood and is very weak. It’s likely that she’s fallen and suffered concussion. She needs all the rest she can get. I’ve given her a tranquillizer.” “But she’s never bled like this before,” Boletta quietly tells him. “These are strange times that we’re experiencing,” he answers.

  Dr. Schultz gets up and they follow him out to the door. While Boletta searches for two banknotes from the drawer under the buffet, the Old One draws him to one side. “What’s your opinion of the mark on Vera’s neck?” Dr. Schultz considers the question a moment. “The mark on her neck? It’s probably just an insect bite. One she’s scratched afterward.” He pulls his cape around his shoulders impatiently. But the Old One won’t let him go so easily “Did you examine her womanhood?” she asks in a low voice. Dr. Schultz snaps his bag shut. “I beg your pardon?” “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about! Is she intact?” At that moment Boletta returns with the money. He stuffs the notes quickly into his pocket and just as quickly wipes his nose with one finger, but the drop remains there. “I can’t detect anything wrong with Vera other than that she’s suffered severe bleeding and as a natural result has been left weak and anxious. Give her an iron tablet morning and evening.” Boletta grasps his arm. “But why won’t she talk?” she quizzes him.

  Dr. Schultz searches a long time for the right words. “The motor function responsible for speech is currently out of operation. This could have been the result of a blood clot. I mean concussion. When the pressure inside her is raised she will talk normally again.” The Old One was becoming impatient again. “And when will this pressure be raised?” “It could be tomorrow or it might take longer. Time is the great healer.”

  Boletta opens the door and Dr. Schultz goes out onto the land- ing. He gives his hat a half turn. “Well, well, call me again. If she doesn’t pick up in the
course of the summer.” He takes a firm hold of the banister and guides himself down the stairs. He chases away with his stick the children who are still hanging about at the bottom, and weaves his way slowly home where not a soul has telephoned to ask him to assist with first aid in the death rattles of the war. The Old One bangs shut the door, locks it and turns to Boletta. “What did I tell you? He’s still an idiot. In the past it was fresh air. Now time’s the solution!”

  Then they go in to have a look at Vera. She’s sleeping, and they don’t disturb her rest. Afterward they fetch the little flag they bring out each May 17 and on King Haakon’s birthday, and they put it in the empty flowerbox on the balcony. It’s still not dark. The skies stretch high and taut over the city. There is still a glow at the heart of a bonfire of blackout curtains, and in the middle of Church Road there’s a top hat being blown along by the balmy wind from the fjord. And all at once Vera’s standing there in the living room. They turn around suddenly to see her and cry out either in terror or sheer joy; perhaps they imagine she’ll say something, that she’s herself again. But right there and then she raises her camera and takes a picture of them, out there on the narrow balcony in front of that little Norwegian flag. Boletta is in her brown outfit and her broad hips are showing; her mouth is open and one hand is on its way to her face as if she wants to hide. The Old One is in her long yellow dress and her hair is billowing from her head; the right hand has suddenly closed into a fist, except for the thumb and little finger, extended in the sign of the devil. She’s all hunched and bent over, yet she looks right at me nonetheless, as I attempt to put the colors into this photograph with my awkward words. Because it was me who developed this picture; I discovered the film once upon a time when I was sorting through Mom’s things. It had been forgotten, and I imagine somehow that I can see her too in this picture, the one that she herself took — our mother, as if on that unclear May evening there had been a mirror behind the two women on the balcony in which the shadow of Vera is reflected like a dark sorrow, a pain I have never seen before, in that which I call the slow exposure of memory.

  Spring

  On the day King Haakon was to come back to Norway the Old One got up early put the Danish flag beside the Norwegian one in the flowerbox, and hurried into town before seven to be sure of a good seat in the front row along Karl Johan, putting the fear of death into any who dared block her view when her monarch drove past. Boletta was on night shift at the Exchange and still hadn’t come home. That left Vera on her own in the apartment when she woke in the double bed. She threw on some clothes and didn’t bother looking at herself in the mirror. Nor did she bother doing her hair. It didn’t matter. She borrowed the Old One’s slippers and went down the kitchen stairs and out over the backyard. All was so still. The windows were open. She stopped outside Rakel’s stairway A white cat padded between the flowers and the gravel by the garbage cans. She stole up to the third floor. She listened at the door. And suddenly she felt a shock of joy in her heart, for she could hear voices inside. She rang the bell, but no one answered. Then she realized the door was open. She pushed it and went inside. The kitchen was empty. The cupboards had been cleared. Not a glass, neither a cup nor a bowl, remained. It had been cleared. Everything had been cleared out. She could just catch the scent of the strange dishes Rakel’s mother used to prepare, especially on Sundays — with vanilla and spice. Even scents disappeared; the scents Rakel had lived in were all but gone. Vera could hear nothing now. Perhaps she’d been mistaken? She went on deeper into the apartment. She opened the door of Rakel’s room. The curtains had been taken down. Her bed and her desk were gone. A coat hanger lay on the floor. In the living room an empty flowerpot was standing on the windowsill. But that was all. The walls were bare. She could catch the light patches on the wallpaper where paintings had hung. And then she heard someone just the same. Someone came in. She was happy again, both happy and anxious at one and the same time, but mostly happy She ran through the living room but was brought to an abrupt halt in the entrance hall. Two men in overalls were hauling a piano up the stairs; the sweat poured from them and they swore loudly on every second step — then the man at the back caught sight of Vera. “Out of the way girl!” he shouted. Vera glued herself to the door frame as they bore the piano into the living room and put it down beside the fireplace. The two moving men put the straps of their overalls over their shoulders and one of them lit a cigarette. Now and then they looked over at Vera and smiled. The smaller of the two brushed back his hair and scratched his red bangs. “Are you going to be the maid for the posh folks who’re coming here?” he asked. The other one lit a cigarette himself and fought free of the strap that hung like a noose around his neck. “’Cause your hair needs a good comb, girl! That’s a birds nest you’ve got on your head!” They both began to laugh. “You’re welcome to borrow my comb,” the red-haired one said.

  Vera hurried down the steps. The men gazed at her disappearing form, none the wiser. Outside a truck was parked, and the ground was covered in furniture. The caretaker was standing there in his dark suit talking to a lady with a green feather in her hat wearing pale gloves. Vera had never seen her before. She must have been a good deal over thirty and she was pregnant; her coat was tied tightly over her stomach, and she had her hands on her back and was pushing out her stomach as if she wanted to show the whole neighborhood just how pregnant she was. Vera stood and stared at her. In the end the newcomer became uneasy and pointed toward Vera, and the caretaker turned and saw her on the steps. He shook his head and at the same time smiled and started walking toward her. The movers emerged from the stairway. Vera began to run, she ran around the corner, and as she did so she imagined that Rakel had just moved somewhere else, to another apartment, one that was smaller — perhaps in the wake of all that had happened they could no longer afford such a substantial property, nor one that contained a separate room for their daughter. That was what she thought, over and over again — she held on to that thought. She had to go through the cellar to get to the backyard and the kitchen steps again; as she went she thought to herself that everything would be as before. Everything would be as before — the words were within her, she could hear them clearly and strongly, but she couldn’t utter them, she couldn’t even talk out loud to herself, as if it was silence that chose her now. She went up to the apartment. No one was home yet. She went into the bathroom, undressed, found the scissors in the cupboard and put them into her mouth. She held the scissors in both hands and pressed the blades against her tongue. She closed her eyes, and pain was another language she did not need to speak — it was just a scream that sank deep inside her. She felt the point of the scissors passing through the soft flesh of her tongue and blood flowed into her mouth. She took out a fresh towel and soaked it in blood, then put it into the linen basket. She wiped up the blood on the floor and in the sink, and put another towel in between her legs, went into the bedroom and lay down. Vera smiled. Her tongue no longer felt strange in her face. She had made it part of her. Now I have enough blood for each and every month. She heard Boletta coming back. Boletta slammed the door behind her and came heavily through the apartment and out onto the balcony. Immediately afterward she was in the bedroom with Vera. She pretended to be asleep. But she could see her mother nonetheless, as if her eyelashes were see-through. She had a Danish flag in her hand and looked pale and at the end of her tether. Silently she went around the side of the bed and picked up the Telegraph Service Handbook, which was lying on her bedside table. And Vera could hear her reading aloud from it. Boletta sat in the living room and read aloud the rules for sending telegrams and the various rates that applied; she read aloud as if she had to listen to her own words in order to understand them completely. It sounded like wailing and cursing. It was like both prayer and complaint.

  Calculating words. For the first word rendered in normal written form the number of letters permitted is fifteen. In code and cryptographic word or words, up to five letters or ciphers are permitted. The ung
rammatical creation of compound words is not permitted. The names of individual locations, places, streets and ships may be written as single words and accounted for as such, as long as the total tally of letters does not exceed fifteen. Vera heard each and every word, and Boletta read them over and over again. There was something threatening about the language and the names — it was like the war. Coded telegrams, express telegrams, radio telegrams. The only one that sounded beautiful was the congratulations telegram. Sent to Norwegian, Swedish, Danish and Icelandic stations together with Great Britain and Northern Ireland with a charge of fifty øre levied on attached forms. Vera dreamed that a message boy in uniform, perhaps a blue uniform — yes, it had to be blue — with shiny buttons, would stand at the door with a telegram like that for them. Then it would have to signify good news, because otherwise he wouldn’t have come, and this telegram, this attached form for fifty 0re, would turn all that was bad to good. It could be in the form of a greeting from Rakel, who wrote in short sentences (for otherwise it would be too expensive) that she’d be coming home soon. Or it could be that someone had found Wilhelm deep in the ice and cold, and that at last the Old One would have a grave to visit. Or perhaps it would just bear the words Everything that has happened has just been a dream. But it was no message boy that came, it was the Old One, and she slammed the doors too. “Where’s my flag?” she shouted. “Where’s my Danish flag?” Vera noticed what a time Boletta took to close her book and get up. “I’ve taken the flag away, Mother. You’re showing us up in front of the whole city.” The Old One stamped the floor. “What rubbish! King Haakon is Danish!” Now it was Boletta’s turn to shout. Vera dragged the quilt over her head and could have laughed out loud. “King Haakon is Norwegian! That’s the end of it!” “Maybe he’s the King of Norway, but he’s my Danish prince! Aren’t I allowed to have a Danish flag in my own flowerbox?” “I refuse to listen to you when you talk like that.” The Old One snorted. “It’s that wretched book that has put such nonsense into you. Your head’s gone completely telegraphic!” Now Boletta stamped too, or maybe they both did as they screamed at each other. “And you left Vera on her own at home! Have you no sense whatsoever, you old witch!”