But I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake. I let the day remain in me. I breathed deeply, and then I sensed a taste that lingered in the room yet, the taste of dark wine, and it became a wave in my blood and an undertow in my head. I laughed and Mom told me to hush, but I laughed myself down into sleep, and that’s how I close this remembrance, this light picture of night — bathed in the moon and in Malaga.
The Labyrinth
Peder once asked me what my first memory of Fred really was. Where was I to begin? What image was I to choose from among the pile of memories I kept hidden in a darkness I seldom dared go into? And didn’t those images slide over into each other anyway? Didn’t the space between them, the years that separated them, get rubbed away when I looked back, so that the images were no longer clear and individual? For memories are always impure, joined together in another order — doubly exposed, impossible to separate, part of a different kind of logic and a confused chronology which is the hallmark of memory. Like the boy’s footsteps in the labyrinth in The Shining, which we saw together a long time later at Saga. At first I wasn’t allowed in and had to show my identity card to prove my age. And Peder, who was still easily scared (but only in respect to movies, whereas I was scared of everything else), grabbed my hand every time the two murdered twins showed up in the bloodbath. He could well have asked what Fred’s first memory of me was. What did Fred think when he leaned over the stroller and saw the tiny, quiet boy lying in there and stretching up small, squat fists at him? Was this our first memory, our shared image, when he shook the stroller to make me sleep or to scare me? Was that where we began? Peder raised his glass and drank to my health. “You don’t remember,” he said. I drank. “I hate the word really. You know I hate the word really” “All right,” Peder said. “I won’t use it any more. What’s your first memory of Fred?” And I think to myself — not what others have told me that I’ve added to my own memory and now relate to others, as if I’d been there when those things happened, before my time and beyond it. In the backseat of the taxi where he was born, or in the gutter at the corner of Wergeland Road when the Old One was killed. No, that’s not what I remember first, my earliest memory of Fred is this — six nylon stockings, the smell of Malaga, and Boletta reading aloud in a peaceful voice from our great-grandfather’s letter On board the SS Antarctic, 8-17-1900. And how fragile the paper it’s written on has grown with all the fingers that have carefully leafed through the pages, and how worn are the edges of the envelope from which they gingerly remove the letter. But each time it’s done with equal solemnity — each time it’s like the first time. Now and again Boletta’s voice quavers, and then we can hear the glasses being refilled and the crumbs falling from the dry pieces of cake, as the three women take a short break. For Fred and I are sitting under the table in the dining room. I can count six individual knees, two of them with holes in them (those are Mom’s), and the Old One has kicked off her slippers and her big toe is poking out of the thin stocking of one foot, and Boletta keeps the rhythm with one of her own feet as she reads. There isn’t much room for Fred, but I’m sitting comfortably, leaning against his back, and I can feel his warmth. We’re sitting as still as possible, not wanting to miss a word, and finally Boletta continues. We had a very fine passage north; we passed the uninhabited island of Jan Mayen and lay there at anchor two days while the scientists went ashore. Even before the time we had traveled so far north the sun was high in the heavens at midnight. A short time after leaving this landfall we entered the ice; we fought our way in but it became stronger and stronger until, after two days, we were forced to turn back and remain free of it. We pushed further in a northerly direction through more or less solid ice; at times when the weather was fine or we could not proceed we dropped anchor by an iceberg to take a series of temperature readings, that is to say we investigated the oceans temperature at different depths, as well as taking soundings. We have equipment on board for taking soundings to depths of 4,000 fathoms. The greatest depth we have measured thus far is, from memory, 1,600 fathoms. “Good Lord,” the Old One murmurs. “That they dared. Sixteen hundred fathoms!” “Be quiet!” Fred tells her loudly. There’s silence for a moment. And suddenly Boletta reads, loudly and clearly: I have no need to fear this coming to the attention of any gossips from the press, for I will not have so much as a word of it in the papers! Then the cloth is lifted and Mom’s face comes to view; she looks at us in amazement, but I think she just puts it on and that they’ve probably known we were there all along. “Guess who’s hiding under the table?” she breathes. And now the Old One and Boletta have to have a look too — it’s almost as if their heads are hanging upside down, and I rejoice at the sight. But Freds as serious as ever. “More,” he demands. “More.” Mom gives a sigh. “No, that’s enough now. Its not good for the boy.” Is it me she’s meaning or Fred? Is it really not good for us, or is it that she doesn’t want us to sit under the table? At any rate not another word was read that evening. Boletta put the letter back in its envelope and tied a piece of blue ribbon around it so none of the pages would fall out, and then it was laid in the bottom drawer of the cabinet. We crawled out from our hiding place under the table behind the cloth. But it wasn’t over all the same because the Old One got carried away; it was as if the memories were to the left and to the right of her, impelling her on. She picked me up onto her knee, and I saw Fred’s expression in the moment the Old One put her arms around me and I laid my head against her breast. I saw the envy in his eyes and something else too — disdain. I can find no other words for what I saw except envy and disdain, but he didn’t go, he kept on sitting on the floor in the corner because we knew what was going to happen now. Boletta put out all the lights, drew the curtains and lit candles instead. Mom cooked slices of apple in the kitchen, and soon enough the aroma mingled with the dark and the Old One sighed contentedly. “Now it’s twilight time again,” she murmured. “What do you want me to tell you?” “About the letter,” I whispered. “About the letter!” “Don’t nag,” Fred said from the corner. And when the Old One told a story, she always began it from a different place, as if she wanted to come in sideways, as it were. She went the long way around, tested our patience, whetted our appetite; she told us about the little town of K0ge where she was born and which Hans Christian Andersen himself has portrayed. She told us about the backbone of the dried cod from which they made cups, sugar bowls and cream jugs, and part of the cod’s head that could be glued onto small boxes in which they could keep secret things. I ate hot slices of apple and dozed; the dark and the Old One’s procrastination made me sleepy. And yet suddenly she was there, unexpectedly, on the narrative’s plank, ready for the big jump. “And then it happened that a young seaman fell for me,” she said. I woke up. “He fell for you?” I asked. Fred growled. The Old One chuckled. “And I fell for him, Barnum. We fell for each other so heavily that the echo of it reached all the way to Copenhagen and reverberated over the whole country.” “No more exaggerating,” Boletta ordered her. The Old One took a sip of Malaga. “Denmark is small enough for such things to be heard,” she said. “Go on,” I whispered. And the Old One did continue. “That was the time when I was the Young One, when the world was still in the last century. But our happiness together was to be short-lived. In June of 1900 he joined the crew of the ship Antarctic, which was bound for Greenland. And he, whose name was Wilhelm and is your greatgrandfather, never returned to me but remained up there in the vast northern ice.” The Old One fell silent. I could hear her heart beating inside her dress; it thudded slow and heavy and made her hands tremble. I was close to tears. “Don’t stop now,” I whispered. The Old One drew her fingers through my curls. “Perhaps it’s now the story really begins, Barnum? For one year later, after little Boletta had been born, I was visited by a gentleman sent by the ship’s owners and he brought with him a letter they had discovered in Wilhelm’s windproof coat the day he disappeared. The very same letter that’s lying there in the drawer.” The Old One had to have a rest. S
he ate some of the warm apple. We waited. Far off Mrs. Arnesen played the piano, the same tune as always. “Go on,” I whispered. “Go on!” “Don’t nag,” Fred said. And the Old One did continue. “When I read the letter, it was just as if my Wilhelm was speaking to me. He was lost, but he spoke to me just the same. It was so strange. I could hear his voice in those words, in the dry ink, in the writing which he had taken such pains over there in the cold. All the same, I couldn’t help thinking that if he’d put on the windproof coat, he’d perhaps have still been alive.” Boletta sighed. “Then the letter might have been lost too,” she said. We thought about that for a moment. Fred got up, but sat back down again right away. It was the overwhelming smell of cooked apple in the dark. It held us fast. There was peel in my mouth, sweet and hard. The Old One wiped her nose. “And after that I went into the film world,” she breathed. “For they said I was the most attractive girl in Denmark.” I looked up at her. She was like one single wrinkle above me; her face resembled a great big raisin. “What does attractive mean?” I asked. “Beautiful,” the Old One breathed. I looked at her more closely still. “They lied to you then,” I said. The Old One laughed and pushed me into bed. Fred was rather fed up because he had to go to bed at the same time, but for one reason or another he didn’t protest. We lay awake in the dark. “You should never have said that,” he told me. I grew frightened. I’d done something Fred didn’t like. “What?” “That they lied.” “I didn’t mean it, Fred.” “You said it. Don’t say it again.” I thumped my head down on the pillow and cried. “Shall I read to you?” I murmured. Fred threw a slice of apple onto the floor. “Read what, Tiny?” I thought for a moment. “If I go and get the letter, I can read the rest to you.” Fred lay silent himself for a time. “No one’s allowed to touch the letter,” he said at last. “Only Boletta and the Old One. And Mom.” He fell silent once more. I had nothing to say either. “Anyway, you can’t read,” he said. I sat up in bed. “Yes, I can.” “No.” “Yes, I can read.” “No,” Fred insisted. “You’re too small.” I lay back down again. I was close to tears. “A b c,” I breathed. “What are you saying?” “A b c d e f g,” I said. Now it was Fred’s turn to get up. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted. “H i j k 1 m n o p,” I said as fast as I possibly could. “I’m reading! Q r s t!” Fred leaped out of bed and came at me, and I had no idea what was in his mind, I only saw his one hand clenched and I slid under the quilt, hoping he wouldn’t find me in the dark. But all of a sudden he stopped, right in front of the window. He stopped and stood there. After a time I dared to peek out. I saw he was holding a pencil in both hands; he bent down and drew a line along the whole length of the floor between us. And each time Mom washed that line away, Fred drew a new one, until in the end she gave up and let it remain there, a line that divided the room in two. And is it that night or another one on which Dad, Arnold Nilsen, comes home with a washing machine? It could be that one. It’s that night. That’s why Fred doesn’t go and lie down again. He just stands there listening. There’s a terrific noise on the stairs. Dad’s carrying a washing machine on his back and is waking the entire neighborhood. That’s of no consequence. He can make as much noise as he likes because he’s coming home with a washing machine. Mom can’t believe her own eyes and has to clutch Boletta’s hand, who’s already holding on to the Old One. Dad’s panting like an elk and is beet-red in the face — he’s got strength enough to smile nonetheless. “Here I come,” he breathes. “Make way!” And he carries the washing machine right into the bathroom and drops it there while he sits down in the bath, wipes away the sweat and lets his thumping pulse calm once more. Mom fetches a beer for him; it’s the middle of the night, and it’s still all quite unbelievable. He drinks the contents of the bottle in one single gulp, and we just stand there staring at him. “Now the time’s over when you’ll have to tire yourselves out with tub-thumping!” he finally says, and looks at Mom, the Old One and Boletta in turn, “Because now I’ve brought the future home with me!” He rises from the bath like a sun god. “How did you get it?” Mom whispers. Dad’s expression grows impatient; there’s a strain at the corner of his eye, a shadow over his smile. But the night is too good to get worked up. Instead he puts his arms around Mom and kisses her so hard she has to push him back forcibly. “That’s the least of our worries,” Dad says and laughs. Then he gets going twisting things and attaching things, and his swearing is worse than ever because he has to do everything with just the one hand. Mom puts her arms around me and keeps Fred’s ears out of hearing, while the Old One just sighs and shakes her head at all this future there’s room for in one small bathroom. But Dad can rise in triumph one more time. A button on the lid finally lights up and he flourishes his good hand and points at it. “When you touch this electric dial, you set in motion nothing less than washing, spinning and emptying, in the aforementioned order. Apart from that, may I mention in passing that the machine has an element that may be regulated, an automatic pump, a pulser on one side and a rustproof steel door.” There’s silence for a good while. We’re struck dumb. We’re struck dumb with wonder and Dad basks in every second of it. He has us in the palm of his hand. He magics forth a packet of detergent. “What are you standing here gawking for?” he exclaims. “Go and dig out the dirtiest things you can find!” But what were we to bring? Should we start with the curtains, bed linens, socks, dishcloths, pants or all our hankies? We just stand there, huddled together in the bathroom; not even Fred moves a muscle, and Dad has a good old laugh at all this confusion and paralysis of action. It’s the indulgent laughter — patient and good-hearted on a generous night. “Then I’ll have to ask someone to bring the best they have,” he murmurs. Mom vanishes for a second and reappears with her nylon stockings. Boletta’s about to protest but Dad nullifies the objection with yet another smile. “Woolens, silks and delicate fabrics are washed in lukewarm water for one minute,” he says, his voice low. Then he drops the stockings into the machine, one after the other, bangs the lid shut, pours some powder into a little drawer, turns on the tap and holds his fingers over the dial. We have to edge forward. He twists the dial. Sure enough we hear a noise, a low humming that gradually grows in intensity; the machine begins to tremble and then to shake, a roaring engine on the spot on which it’s resting. Mom’s white as a sheet, Boletta can’t bring herself to look, and the Old One just keeps sighing because this isn’t the future but rather the onset of total insanity. Dad becomes a mite anxious (his smile is hanging by a very fine thread), and he flattens himself over the machine to keep it still. On no account must it topple over; these are powers far greater than ourselves — a machine like this can power a ferry from Svolvaer to Bergen and come back home before getting as far as rinsing. I stand behind Fred, who’s just crying with laughter; Dad’s on the verge of cuffing him, but just as suddenly the machine goes quiet again. Steam rises from the lid then dies away; Dad looks with satisfaction at his wristwatch and counts the last seconds before the minute’s up. Then he opens the lid, lifts out the three pairs of stockings, and drapes them over his injured hand. They’re shining, and not just that, I swear even the tears on the knees are repaired; they’re whole and clean and smell sweet — they’re as good as new. Yes, they’re better by far than when they were new, and Boletta and the Old One put on these resurrected stockings and have to go for a walk in their newly cleaned legs. Dad takes Fred and me to one side. “Now you see how it’s done,” he breathes. “And not one of us’ll forget this night.” With that he pulls off his shirt and chucks it into the machine, and he wants our pyjamas too, but then Mom comes back and sends us off to bed. But we don’t fall asleep; we lie there listening to the song of the washing machine, and when everything is still once more we sneak back into the bathroom where Dad’s white shirts are hanging to dry, and we crouch down there. Fred takes his fingers over the little metal logo just under the dial, and I sit beside him, as close as I dare. His face is serious; he clenches his teeth and slowly moves his fingers from letter to letter.<
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“W-A-S-H-I-N-G-M-A-C-H-I-N-E,” he spells out just as slowly; he says each letter aloud. But it’s not washing machine that’s inscribed there, it’s Evalet. Fred turns to me and smiles. I smile too. But I say nothing because it’s so seldom he looks at me like that, smiling; he’s sort of proud and embarrassed at one and the same time. I don’t tell him that it’s Evalet that’s on the washing machine, and not washing machine. And we sit there on the cold bathroom floor, under Dads shirts, and Fred takes his fingers over the letters again and again. “Washing machine,” he whispers.
The Half Brother: A Novel Page 42
