The Half Brother: A Novel

by Christensen, Lars Saabye

  Mom and Boletta went with Fred to the hospital, where they fitted his nose and jaw back together. He was in such a bad state that he even got out of military service, though I don’t know if it was just because of that. At any rate they didn’t need a dyslexic, dizzy individual with tinnitus who roamed the streets, was poorly sighted in his left eye, had headaches and whose behavior was unpredictable — they didn’t need him in the Norwegian services. I went with Peder and Vivian. We walked slowly through the unfamiliar streets, but for one reason or another weren’t scared; we’d been at the Central Boxing Club, and it couldn’t get any worse than that — we were invulnerable. “Now I know where the impossible number is,” Peder said. “Where?” “Between nine and ten.” We managed to catch a tram at Stortorget and sat in the very back. The yellow light made our faces pale. The dark outside became a black flood that ran in the opposite direction, back into the hollow of the city. We jumped off at Frogner Place. We stood there for a bit and didn’t quite know what to do with ourselves. “I feel sorry for him,” Vivian whispered. Peder looked away. “Who?” I asked. “Fred, of course.”

  He didn’t come home until the following day. He came quietly. I hadn’t heard him. And it was then I caught him unawares in front of the mirror in Mom’s room. I was on my way out and stopped, held my breath; I didn’t want to see him like this, but what had been seen had been seen. He leaned against the mirror, against his own lopsided reflection; he grimaced and preened himself. And I thought perhaps he was searching for his own face (or else that’s what I think now), that perhaps he could see all the masks in there, inside the dull glass, a long gallery that ended with his own real face. All of a sudden Fred laughed, pressed his lips against the mirror and licked. I didn’t want to see. But I already had. It was too late. “Why did you lose?” I asked. Fred turned around, for a moment embarrassed and furious. “You hear that, Barnum?” he said. “What?” He breathed deeply a couple of times and smiled. “My nose. It’s all right again.” He sat down on Mom’s bed, leaned backward. It still smelled of Malaga there. The air was heavy and sweet. I wanted to feel drunk. “Why did you lose, Fred?” He got up again, surprised and almost sad. “Lost? I won, Barnum. Don’t you get anything?”

  Many years would elapse before I developed the pictures from this summer, the summer I called my first. I had put off doing it. I couldn’t forget Peder’s mother, hiding her face and turning away her wheelchair, enraged and afraid of losing her wretched soul. I had promised not to develop those pictures. But there came a time when the dreams slipped away as soon as I tried to put them on paper; they dissolved into dust and disappeared. I needed instead some kind of handle; something to hold on to, to see before me — something from which to create. For that reason I took with me the old film that had lain undisturbed in my drawer all that time, down to the shop in Bogstad Road. I thought that maybe I could link all those memories into a story from which I could make a script. A week later I went to fetch the envelope of pictures. I went to Gamle Major and opened it there. The first picture had been taken by Mom in the May days of 1945; the Old One and Boletta are standing out on the balcony in Church Road, and they’re looking at the one taking their picture in astonishment, almost in fear. Boletta’s about to say something and the Old One’s fingers are spread out — perhaps she’s afraid of losing her soul too at that moment. And the rest of the pictures belong to another time, as if a whole life has been missed out. Peder lying on the double bed in the summer house on Ildjernet, his upper body bare, one eye shut and his hand between his legs; and a shadow divides the room and the picture obliquely it’s my shadow. Vivian and I are sitting on the bed, the suitcase between us; Vivian bending toward me to kiss my thin shoulder. I don’t remember Peder taking it. I don’t remember the kiss, her touch. Peder’s mother’s swinging the wheelchair around, but it isn’t the camera she’s afraid of, she’s just blinded by the sun — that’s how I see it — the light that’s falling full and sharp over the fjord in my first summer. And in the background, by the corner of the veranda, Peder’s father’s standing, half-hidden, as if he’s been caught just as he’s taking a step forward, or backward — he’s the one who’s putting the curse on her. I have another beer. It’s started to rain. People come in and drape their ugly garments over the backs of their chairs and order half-bottles of red wine. The last picture’s of Fred. It’s not me who took it. He must have taken it himself, up in the drying loft, for I can just make out the attic window and the lines with their clothespins. He must have held the camera in his extended arm and taken the picture that way. His face is almost unrecognizable, all twisted. His mouth is open, and he’s saying something, he’s trying to talk. He’s speaking to me, he’s shouting from the drying loft, down through time — and I hear nothing, I can’t hear him.

  Footnote

  * Famous sculpture of an angry child.

  Hunger

  One evening, Peder phoned and was pretty worked up. I was the one to get to the phone before anyone else reached it — actually I was the only one in the house. To say that Peder was worked up isn’t exactly an exaggeration. It sounded as if he were on another planet screeching through a foghorn. “Meet me under the tree!” he shouted. I held the receiver at arm’s length so as not to suffer permanent deafness. Peder screamed even louder from out there in the universe. “Are you there, Barnum?” I held the receiver as normal again. “Yes, yes. What’s up?” “Wait and see!” “Oh, come on! What’s up?” Peder became impatient. “Are you coming or are you not coming, you tiny toadstool?” “I’m coming!” I roared. And I went. I slammed down the receiver, grabbed my jacket, raced down the kitchen stairs and all but knocked over Mom, who was on her way up with the empty wastebasket. And I was on the point of setting a personal record, because when Peder called me a tiny toadstool it was serious, then there was no excuse. Had he just called me a toad, then I could have dawdled; if he’d said sandal then I’d perhaps have stayed at home, and if he’d only called me a mitten I wouldn’t have bothered answering at all. But tiny toadstool, that was beyond being serious — at the very least it meant a forest fire in Frogner Park. “No time!” I called to Boletta, who was eighteen steps behind Mom, before either of them managed to say a word. I ran out across the yard, ducked under the clotheslines, trampled over the caretaker’s withered flowers and went on down Jacob Aall Street. I got no farther than Vestkanttorget because somebody called my name, and it was Fred calling me; Fred whom nobody had seen for five days. I wished it wasn’t him, that I’d gone a different way. Slowly I went over to him. He was sitting on the only bench left there. It was already October, and there were almost no benches in the city left to sit on except for this one. He didn’t look good. He had begun to look like himself again after the Asle Bråten fight — he was just even thinner, his muscles were somehow thinned out as if they’d lain a long time in water and had been hung up afterward to dry in the sun. He was smoking a cigarette and dropped it on the gravel between his crooked toes. “Sit down, Barnum,” Fred said. I sat down. Now Peder would be waiting. Perhaps he wouldn’t bother waiting any longer. “Where’ve you been?” I asked. “Why do you ask that?” “Just did.” “Is Mom annoyed?” “Don’t think so.” “Sure?” “She hasn’t said anything at any rate.” Fred lit a cigarette end and had a drag of it. “Maybe I’ve been at Willy’s,” he said. “The trainer? Are you going to box again?” Fred shook his head. “Willy’s given up as a trainer.” “Has he?” Fred looked at me. “In a hurry Barnum?” “I’m meeting Peder,” I murmured. Fred shrugged his shoulders. “Then go on.” I stayed where I was. “What have you been doing at Willy’s, Fred?” “Haven’t you arranged to meet Peder, huh?” “Yes, shortly.” “Is Vivian coming too?” I didn’t like him saying her name. I suddenly wanted to call her something different. I could call her Lauren. I made up my mind that that was what she was called. Lauren. Lauren and Barnum. It had a ring to it — made us sound like a famous couple — and it meant Fred could use the name Vivian as much as he liked, beca
use he’d have no idea I called her Lauren instead. “Don’t know,” I muttered. I got up and remained on my feet. “What are you and your best friend off to do then, Barnum?” “Don’t know,” I said a second time. “Don’t you know that either? Something you won’t tell me, Barnum?” “I don’t know, Fred. I swear.” “You swear, now that’s good.” “I’d better be off, Fred.” “Turn around,” he said. I closed my eyes and turned around. “What is it?” I asked him. “Just wanted to see if you had your fingers crossed. “’Cause then it wouldn’t count.” “What wouldn’t, Fred?” “Your promise, Barnum. Say hi to Peder.” “Sure,” I told him. “I’ll do that.” Fred smiled. “And say hi to Vivian from me. If she comes too.” I began walking over the square toward the streetlights; more than anything I wanted to run, but I didn’t dare. Fred suddenly got up. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” he called. I stopped for a second. “What do you mean?” Fred smiled. “What do I mean? You know just fine.” “No, Fred, I don’t.” Fred sat down again, as if all of a sudden he was frightfully bored and couldn’t be bothered so much as to open his mouth to talk to me any more. “Then you’ll find out for yourself, Barnum.” I didn’t run before I’d got as far as the fountain — turned off now since it was autumn and the frost could come at any time. I ran all the way to Solli Square, and there was Peder standing under our tree in the Hydro Park, unable to keep still. I stopped, completely out of breath, and it was Peder who ran the last part of the way through the huge leaves coming in clouds from the branches. “You’re damn late!” “Came as fast as I could!” “As fast as you could? Could have been faster!” We gave each other a long bear hug. We were up to our knees in leaves — blood-red and wet flakes that were never still — a sea of leaves. “But what is it?” I demanded. “They’re filming in Solli Street, damn it!” “Now?” “Yes! They’re filming right at this moment! Do you think I’m kidding, or what?” No, I didn’t think Peder Miil was kidding; he could do a fair amount of that, he kidded about almost everything — but he wasn’t kidding about this, that they were filming in Solli Street on an ordinary evening in October. “But where’s Vivian?” I asked him. Peder looked at his watch, and his brow was drenched in sweat. “She’s about as late as you,” he moaned. We waited a bit longer. But Vivian didn’t appear. Perhaps she hadn’t been allowed out. Perhaps she’d gotten sick in the interim. Had to be something. There had to be some reason for her not coming, and I was struck by a savage thought; it came like a blow but because I didn’t think it to completion, it slipped away. We couldn’t wait any longer. We went down to Solli Street. They were there. Peder hadn’t been kidding. Something was being filmed. It was another world. And we went slowly into it. The pavement was covered in earth. The red mailbox had been removed. The cars that were usually parked there had been taken away. Beside the doorway to Number 2, a policeman was standing in old-fashioned dress with a flat cap and enormous shiny buttons. He raised his hand in salute to a coachman trundling past with his horse-drawn cab. Even the curtains in the ground-floor windows had been changed, and for some reason or another it was this that made the greatest impression on me. Perhaps they’d refurbished the apartments that lay behind the curtains too: repapered the walls, brought in different chairs and sofas, exchanged the books on the shelves, hung paintings on the walls, pulled out the showers, hidden washing machines and fridges, and sent the people who really lived there off to the country. Because I had this strange thought that not even I could quite understand or ever explain to anyone — how far do you have to go to suspend the disbelief of those who will see this movie one day? How much has to be covered? How far is it necessary to go behind the façades, the buildings, the people and their lives to make us believe that all of this is true? And I could hear Dads laughter and his voice: Its not what you see that matters most, but rather what you think you see. I took Peder’s hand. “Look,” I whispered. “The curtains have been changed!” But then something happened down at the bottom of the street. We were blinded by a powerful light, and a man with a megaphone rose from the shadows. “Get those idiots out of the way!” he shouted. The policeman came running and chased us almost right up to Solli Square again, and we crouched there behind a garbage can. “Jesus Christ,” Peder breathed. “Yeah, Jesus Christ. That was close.” The policeman hurried back to his doorway and took up position there. We edged forward, and now things started happening. A lady with a fur coat and hat appeared and began walking down the sidewalk. A camera followed, right behind her. Our backs were cold. This wasn’t a movie. This was real. We were on the inside, in a double reality. She came toward us, she and the cameraman, and it looked as if she were freezing herself; she had her hands buried in a thick muff on her middle. And she kept turning around the whole time as if she were frightened someone was following her, someone she was scared of. Maybe she was going home alone and someone was going to assault her — but it was just the cameraman who was there and he posed no threat. And so she stopped outside the entrance where the policeman was standing doffing his cap; she hesitated for a moment, her face completely white, and she had to turn once more before disappearing into the darkness. The director got up from a chair and applauded. The lady in the fur coat reappeared from the entryway, smiling now, and was given a peck on the cheek by the director as, with a quivering sound, the lights dimmed. “Lauren Bacall’s better,” Peder whispered. When he said that, I missed Vivian and I’m sure Peder missed her too. She should have been here. We should have been seeing this together. “What sort of film do you think it is?” I hissed. “An over-40,” Peder replied. And we kept crouching there behind that stinking garbage can. It smelled of summers past. Time went by. A dog trotted past with something in its mouth. Perhaps they were done filming. The policeman lit a cigarette. We waited. Every- one waited. That was the way it was. This was a time for waiting. The director sat in his chair and slowly leafed through a thick bundle of sheets. And suddenly there came a gust of wind, the sort that can come up Munkedam Road from the bottom of town, like a puff of storm though the streets. A single sheet of paper was blown from the director’s lap; it flew over a fence and I got up. Peder tried to hold me back, but I chased after it; I got hold of it, and as I ran back equally fast to the director (who’d got up and seemed pretty mad) I managed to read what was at the top of the page. And I remember it; I remember it as if it were yesterday, as if it were today or right this minute — because this was the first script I ever held in my hands: Page 48, EXT. AFTERNOON. STREET IV. A few pedestrians and a cab. PONTUS sees a little dog running home in the gutter with a hone in its mouth. These were the words which would become film: Pontus, a dog, the gutter. They would be lifted from that sheet, torn loose from the paper to become movements, pictures and sound. And it was as I read those ordinary words in that ordinary sentence, so low-key and yet of such power, that I decided, there and then I made a decision without thinking — I just made it and knew it was right — that I would write down my dreams. And I could sense a deep and lasting joy over having made that decision. I gave Page 48 to the director and bowed. He tore it out of my hands. “There you are,” I said. He didn’t so much as say thanks. He just waved me away. I ran back to Peder behind the garbage can. And now things started happening again. A tall, thin man in worn clothes and with round glasses and a gaunt, unshaven face went walking down the same street. But now the camera was in front; he was walking toward it, and suddenly he halted and polished his glasses, and it looked as if he was talking and arguing with himself. “That must be Pontus,” I whispered. “Who?” “Pontus. It was in the script.” And the one who had to be Pontus kept walking, coming closer and closer to the camera — it was as if he’d thought of assaulting it. Then the director clapped his hands, shouted something, and the thin man, Pontus, had to do it all again — walk toward the camera, stop, polish his spectacles, talk to himself — and I couldn’t notice any difference, but he had to do it twice before the director was satisfied. Then the lights were dimmed for good, the equipment was packed away
and they all drove off in a van. Peder and I got up. People appeared at their windows. A caretaker began sweeping the earth off the cobbles. The mailbox was brought out again. The horses went up toward the Palace. Everything was put back, and slowly but surely the street returned to normal. It had almost been like a dream. We walked along Bygd0y Alley and I couldn’t wait to tell Peder that my life had taken a sudden and unexpected course when I stood there with Page 48 in my hands and read those tranquil words concerning Pontus and the dog, written in Danish. But I said nothing at that point to Peder — not yet — because I first wanted to go home and write something I could show him. “Wonder what happened to Vivian,” I said. We stopped outside her stairs and looked up at her window. It was dark. Peder chucked a conker and hit the glass. But it wasn’t Vivian who gave the curtains a twitch, it was her mother; she glanced down at us for a second before retreating once more. Peder looked at me and shuddered. “Glad my mom’s just in a wheelchair,” he said. And at that moment Vivian appeared; she was approaching from the other side of the church and we ran toward her. “Where were you?” Peder exclaimed. “Just went for a walk,” she said. “Then I had to help my mother.” “Help your mother?” Vivian shrugged her shoulders. “I usually read to her. When she can’t get to sleep.” Peder didn’t say any more. “Hell, just think what you’ve been missing!” Vivian looked at me but not for any length of time; she looked down instead and suddenly came across as unhappy and fearful — but who wouldn’t have been, with a mother who had no face you had to read to. “No, what?” she asked. “They were making a movie in Solli Street! With a camera and floodlights and everything!” “I know,” Vivian said. “Know? You know?” “Yes, it was in the paper. It’s called Hunger.” “Hunger? Not a bad title.” “It’s actually a book by Knut Hamsun. That’s what I’m reading to Mom.” Vivian went over to the stairs. She turned. “They’ll most likely be filming tomorrow too. Can’t we try to catch up with them then?” We nodded. Of course we’d find them. That couldn’t be so difficult, to find a movie being made in a city like ours. Vivian laughed and began to be more like herself, as if she’d been in a movie too and had at last taken off her costume. “We can meet at twelve,” she said. “If you two have the nerve to skip school.”