The Half Brother: A Novel

by Christensen, Lars Saabye

  That same evening they begin to pack up. They can’t stay. One accident always brings others in its wake. That’s fate. It’s like an infection, and they’re infected. They have to get away. They have to be out on the road and leave the accident behind them. Everything in the tent is moved. Electricians dismantle the lights. Carpenters fold up the tiers of seats and bring down the curtain. The Chocolate Girl weeps and is busy herself. And finally the big top is lowered — the great tent itself — and the sun, which has barely set, rises already across the blue fjord. Mundus has been taking medication all night to keep awake and his eyes are red and transparent, like balls of colored glass. Death is a bad advertisement for any circus. He’s spoken to the police and the doctor, and has sent a telegram to Halvorson’s family in Halden. Now he comes over to Arnold, who rid himself of the girl’s costume ages ago. “Help the men with the tent,” he says, impatient and restless. Arnold takes up position beside the men in charge of the big top. The workers are standing in a circle lowering the huge canvas, which descends like a balloon — all of them have their own special positions and duties. They shout to one another, and there’s almost no interval between their cries, so it sounds like they’re singing. “What should I do?” Arnold asks. The man in charge looks down at him. “You can fetch Halvorsen’s shoe,” he says, pointing. Arnold sees that one of Der Rote Teufel’s shoes, more like a thin slipper than anything else, is still lying out there. He’s about to race off for it, but the man stops him. “Take this.” He gives Arnold a knife, and Arnold grasps it as he hurries off to fetch Halvorsen’s acrobatic shoe, though he doesn’t quite know why he should have a knife to accomplish this. But he notices that all the others are carrying knives too, and so he doesn’t question it; that much he’s learned, not to ask needless questions. Instead he thinks to himself, That’s all that’s left of Der Rote Teufel — one lonely shoe. But when he reaches down to pick it up, something else happens. He hears the men giving a roar, and it’s just as if a great gust of wind upends him, and he’s pressed against the ground. For there’s been one accident already, and accidents seldom come in ones. Two ropes have given and the whole circus tent topples down on Arnold’s head. And those who are standing around that morning, on the outside, can see the canvas moving — a tiny, shifting bulge — and perhaps some of them think it’s a cat that’s wandered in there, but it’s Arnold Nilsen. He scrambles about on all fours in a strange transparent darkness; he can’t get out of that darkness under the heavy, damp canvas — it’s as if it has solidified above him. The voices on the outside sound annoyed now; the man in charge of the tent gives orders and Mundus is shouting his name, but they can’t help him now. And Arnold knows what he’ll do with the knife; he grips it in both hands and digs it into the ground with all his might so dirt flies up into his eyes. He realizes he’s lying the wrong way around and he raises the knife toward the clouds that scud above him. Soon he won’t be able to breathe and he rips the canvas with the blade of the knife. He cuts himself free, he hacks his way out, he rises and sticks his head up through the gash he’s made and into the light, into the sun, and the men lift him up into this world where he belongs.

  Later that day they take the ferry over Vestfjorden to Bod0. Arnold stands on deck beside the lifeboats, watching the hills sink in blue wind. Right out there, where sky and sea become one, he glimpses the islands he hails from and that now he has left — they lie like full stops made of stone between the waves. Arnold smiles. He isn’t seasick. He feels strong. He raises his four-fingered hand and waves. Then he goes inside to join the others in the cafeteria. No one says anything. They have enough to brood on without talking. Halvorsen’s body has been stored in the refrigeration chamber below the cabins, but he won’t ever make it back to Halden because the weather’s getting warmer, the ice is melting, and soon hell start to decompose.

  Arnold sits at Mundus’ table. He has on his lap a large suitcase with string around it. “What’s in there?” Arnold asks. Mundus turns and looks at him with bloodshot eyes. “You’d really like to know, wouldn’t you, Arnold?” And Arnold regrets having asked. But Mundus puts his hand on the lid and leans closer to Arnold. “In this,” he whispers, “in this I’ve packed all the applause. You’re welcome to take care of it for me.”

  At Bod0 the circus goes ashore. They bury Der Rote Teufel in the graveyard closest to the sea, in a narrow strip of land between the gate and the stone wall. So narrow is the grave that he has to fold himself up into his final, farthest jump. Arnold never sees the Chocolate Girl again. Once more he vanishes from our sight. He’s stood on the ocean floor. He has been skin-dead. He’s lain beneath the circus tent. Now at last he’s reached his dark mainland. He carries with him a suitcase of applause, and he disappears around the corner.

  The Laughter

  Incidentally; I found something Dad had written when we had to sort out his things, after what we called the accident. He got a discus right in the head and died. I didn’t perhaps quite understand then what it meant, what he’d written, on a leaf of paper he must have torn out of a Bible, one night when he was lying sleepless in a cheap hotel somewhere out in the wide world. The leaf of paper was in the pocket of the pale linen suit that had grown far too small for him ages before. I kept it. I still have it. His handwriting is childish; he uses only capital letters, and I imagine he was writing extremely slowly, at the same speed as his thoughts gathered and flowed out in blue ink. Or perhaps his writing was like that because he was missing a finger and didn’t have a proper grip on the pen. It’s a sort of list, a list of different kinds of laughter. Auroras laughter: shy. Father’s laughter: silent. Hoist the teacher’s laughter: evil The vicars laughter: sorrowful. Doctor Paulsens laughter: drunken. Mundus’ laughter: black. The public’s laughter: malicious. Through the last word, malicious, he’s put a line, as if he regretted using it, and instead he’s written helpless. At the bottom he’s added something — probably a long time afterward, perhaps when he found this list again in his pocket much later after he’d forgotten all about it, one summer day when he was sitting on a bench in a park in some strange city. And then he was struck by a new thought, a question to which he has no answer but which is important for him to record. And his handwriting looks even worse now, and for that reason I figure it must have been after he damaged the rest of his hand, and that meant he had to manuever the pen with just half a thumb. And the clumsy letters scratch out over the thin, porous paper: Is there such a thing as compassionate laughter?

  Mom used to say to us, I took him because he made me laugh. And the next time Arnold Nilsen appears in our story, from out of his dark mainland, he’s driving down Church Road in a polished yellow Buick Roadmaster Cabriolet. It’s the spring of 1949 and almost May; the sun is shining from the renowned skies over Marienlyst and there’s barely a shadow to be seen. Everyone who’s out that afternoon stops in their tracks and stares at the car, except for Vera. They stare at this car with its convertible top and red leather seats as it slowly glides past, for no one has seen a car like it in these parts before. Mrs. Arnesen stands right in the middle of the crossroads while her spoiled son pulls at her arm and wants to run after the car; the vicar hesitates for a moment at the sight by the church steps, and Bang the caretaker, who’s sweeping the sidewalk for Liberation Day, drops his push broom in sheer consternation. Even Esther leans out of her little window, squinting in the fierce sunlight, and she can see the small man behind the wheel who has to sit on a fat pillow to be sufficiently high. She can see his black hair like a shining helmet on his head, and the crooked nose in that broad face. He’s dressed in a striped suit and is wearing white gloves, his summer gloves, and he looks like a foreigner who’s gotten lost. But Vera, our mother, won’t be distracted. She’s carrying heavy net bags, having been shopping at Butter Petersen’s, and it would take more than an open-top American car to disconcert her. She walks slowly and with her eyes cast down, looking at the dust and at her own steps — it’s a habit she’s gotten into. She me
ets no one’s gaze, for the looks she gets are unpleasant and patronizing; or else people turn away and let her pass by in the sudden silence between smiles. She knows what they’re thinking. Like the vicar, the whole pack of them think that she collaborated with the enemy, since she could never account for the father of her illegitimate child. There are even those who maintain they saw her by the subway and in the Bygd0y woods during the war, committing unmentionable acts with Germans. Then the Old One sits up when she hears something like this, and her heart within her is cold as she says to the person, “Now you are completely mistaken. But I understand that you were at both places!” And it isn’t true that time is the great healer. Time freezes wounds to open scars. In time it’s only Esther in her kiosk who will greet her at all. “What a silly fool,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m darn sure he’s sitting on a pillow to make himself more visible!” Vera puts down her shopping bags. “Who?” “Did you say ‘who?’ Didn’t you see the car?” Esther points, and Vera sees the open car that has parked on the corner of Suhm Street and the dark, shiny head that’s just sticking up over the back of the seat — it almost looks comical. Esther pulls Vera to her side. “He’s most likely driving illegally,” she whispers. “If he isn’t a traveling salesman, that is.” “And now he must be out of gas,” Vera replies, her voice just as quiet. “Serves him right!” Esther exclaims. “If he thinks he can walk into Fagerborg and soften us up with his pomade and flashy car! But if he’s selling nylon stockings, he’s welcome to stay!” The two of them laugh, and Esther twists shut a bag of candy and gives it to Vera. “How’s Fred?” she asks. Vera sighs. “At least he’s stopped crying.”

  And Arnold Nilsen sees in the mirror that the young lady puts a little brown bag in her coat pocket, picks up her shopping bags and slowly walks along the sidewalk toward the crossroads where he’s parked. She’s looking down, he thinks. She’s looking down on her old shoes and thick stockings. Her bent neck is white and thin. He shivers and quickly wipes the sweat from his forehead, twists a lock of hair with his fingers and then leans over the passenger seat as she passes. “May I help the young lady with her excessively heavy burden?” Arnold Nilsen asks. But Vera doesn’t reply. She just goes on, past the crossroads, and Bang follows her with his eyes without saying anything. And Arnold Nilsen hasn’t run out of gas. Now he cruises along the edge of the sidewalk and catches up with her again. “Would you at least be so kind as to look in my direction?” he asks. But Vera is resolute and doesn’t give in; she looks down, she walks straight ahead and she will soon be home. Then Arnold Nilsen puts the whole of his weight on the horn, and the noise is like a fanfare and a foghorn. Vera goes to pieces completely and drops one of the bags; Arnold Nilsen’s out of the car before she has managed to reach down for it, and he picks it up himself. He keeps hold of the bag and bows deeply. “I saw you back at Majorstuen. And I simply couldn’t take my eyes off you. May I offer you a lift?” Vera is both bewildered and angry, but more bewildered — she hasn’t heard the like of this, and she’s aware that everyone in Church Road can see them, and that those who can’t will get to hear of it all before long from the caretaker who’s leaning on his broom and smiling, knowing that soon he’ll be able to add new chapters to his rumors. “I live here,” Vera mutters. “Well, I was there for the last little bit,” Arnold Nilsen laughs, and he picks up the other bag and follows her around the corner. Vera stops by the door. “Thank you very much,” she says, and wants her shopping bags back, but Arnold Nilsen isn’t going to stop there. He gives another deep bow and goes with her up to the second floor, and when they get there Vera stands in the doorway. “Thank you very much,” she says a second time, amazed at herself, and the little man with the shiny black hair puts down the shopping bags on the mat, takes the glove from his left hand but extends his right one instead, the glove still covering it. “A war wound prevents me from showing my bare arm,” he breathes. “My name is Arnold Nilsen.” Vera takes his hand. The glove is thin and smooth, and she realizes there’s something hard in it, something that isn’t pliable — stiff, square fingers — and she shudders. “I apologize for my intrusion,” he continues, “but you were simply too beautiful to drive past.” Vera turns crimson and drops his dead hand. She hears someone coming up the stairs. It’s Boletta and Fred. They stop on the landing below, and the moment Fred sets eyes on Arnold Nilsen he cries, he howls more than ever before. There’s such a capacity for wailing in the skinny boy that no one knows where it comes from, but those who remember it have never forgotten the time when Boletta screamed, and it’s possible that the child Vera bore heard that scream and decided to mimic it. Fred howls, and in the end Boletta has to put a hand over his mouth. He bites it, and now it’s Boletta’s turn to swear, and just as suddenly there’s quiet again. Boletta hides her arm behind her back, and Fred stands there with darkness in his eyes and tight-pursed lips, and a droplet of blood runs down his chin. The door behind Vera opens wide, and the Old One sticks out her wild head of hair. “What in the name of heaven is going on here?” Vera turns toward Arnold Nilsen. “This is my grandmother,” she tells him. “And down there’s my son, Fred, with his grandmother.” And Arnold Nilsen bows to one and all and has to gather his thoughts for a moment. He has to compose himself, gain some time, as he puts on his glove again and looks right at Vera. “It has been a great joy to meet your family. If I am not mistaken there are three mothers, two grandmothers, one great-grandmother, two daughters and one son standing here, all from the same family!” Vera meets his gaze, and for a second she has to think too. Then she gives a laugh, and Boletta and the Old One look at each other, as surprised as the other, because they can barely remember when Vera last laughed, and Arnold Nilsen kisses her hand and starts going down the steps. He stops in front of Fred, who’s standing there dark and with his jaw set. Boletta holds him close. Fred struggles. “Did you see the car out there?” Arnold Nilsen asks. Fred is silent. “It has a roof you can put up when it’s raining.” Still Fred doesn’t say a word. “That car starts fast as an airplane and has driven all the way from America.” Fred draws his hand over his chin and wipes the blood away. “You can come for a drive with me, if your mother lets you,” Arnold Nilsen says, continuing down the steps. They hear the door banging and shortly afterward the car starting. Then Boletta rushes up to Vera. “Who was that?” she hisses. The Old One’s question is the same. “Who in heaven’s name was that creation?” “He just helped me to carry my things,” Vera tells them. “His name’s Arnold Nilsen.” She turns toward Fred, who hasn’t moved on the landing. “Can I, Mom?”

  Arnold Nilsen is back two days later. He has flowers with him, which he leaves outside the door. He doesn’t ring the bell. He lets the bouquet stand and speak for itself. It’s the Old One who finds it there when she comes back from the “pole” with enough Malaga to celebrate four years of freedom. She lifts the bouquet and counts twenty-one wood anemones, and takes them all in with her. “Who can these be for?” she asks. Vera turns crimson once more (she can still blush), and tries to take the flowers, but the Old One won’t let her come close. “There’s no card here. They could just as well be for me. Or maybe they’re for Boletta.” “Stop fooling around,” Vera says, getting angry. “Give them to me!” But the Old One refuses to allow this rare opportunity for some merriment to pass her by. “Boletta!” she calls. “Have you a secret admirer who leaves anemones at the front door?” Boletta shakes her head, and Vera darts around the Old One to grab the bouquet and tears it from her at last with a sudden fury that brings silence over them all once more. Vera puts the flowers in a blue vase that she then places on the windowsill. She remains standing there looking out. Boletta gets her telegraph illness again and lies down. The Old One tests her Malaga just to see if it’s worth drinking. It is, and she goes over with her glass to Vera. “It is your turn to wait now,” she murmurs. “I’m not waiting for anyone,” Vera says firmly. “That’s for the best.” The Old One kisses her cheek. “The flowers look rather battered and
bruised,” she observes. “But at least he picked them himself.”