The Half Brother: A Novel (20 page)

Everything becomes completely still once more. Arnold takes in the faces that all but encircle him. They stare, they gape. The closest among the audience stretch forward and all but touch him. The vicar makes to get up but in the end remains seated, sorrowful and uncertain. And perhaps there are some who for a time believe that this is part of the act too, for the laughter begins and then spreads, and in the end the big top is full of laughter — people applauding and stamping their feet. Only the vicar remains quiet; he keeps looking at Arnold and doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Mundus gives a deep bow, circles the ring as the public continues clapping, and in the end he carries Arnold backstage, puts him down and hurries out once more. It’s almost pitch dark. Only one pale light shines over a mirror. Arnold doesn’t move. He can hear fanfares and drum rolls coming from the ring. Then he hears something else. He hears heavy footsteps; the ground beneath him shakes, and the chair he’s sitting on starts trembling. It isn’t an elephant approaching. It’s a human being, and Arnold has to brace himself because he realizes it’s none other than the world’s tallest man. And the world’s tallest man has to walk with his head bowed. His face is long and sorrowful. His nose casts a shadow over everything. He wears a black suit, and his tie is longer than the moonlight reflected over the ocean. He’s accompanied by a lady with a short dress that sticks right out and a shiny cap on her head. She’s probably quite normal but only reaches up to his belt, and barely even that. He stops by the heavy golden curtain. He bends even lower and the lady lets go of his enormous hand. The music subsides. Everything falls silent, only the quick pattering of the drum is left and the full power of Mundus’ voice: “Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the man declared the worlds tallest man at the Copenhagen medical congress, the Icelander Paturson from Akureyri! He's eight feet eleven and one-half inches tall, and that without shoes on his feet!” Paturson stretches up and goes out. Some people shriek and some laugh, others gasp in astonishment. But most are just silent, for they’ve never seen anything so huge before. Then the lady with the funny cap notices Arnold. “Who are you?” “Arnold,” says Arnold. She smiles, twists her head, and comes closer. “And what are you doing here, Arnold?” “Waiting for Mundus,” Arnold replies. The lady peeks through the gap in the curtain and quickly waves Arnold over. He jumps from his chair and goes over to her. Arnold feels the lady putting something into his hand. It’s a candy. He puts it into his mouth before anyone can take it from him again, and sucks on it for a long while. Inside the candy is something still softer that melts around his tongue and almost dizzies him from head to foot. She gives him another piece. “I’m the Chocolate Girl,” she whispers, and kisses him quickly on the cheek. “Look, Arnold.” And Arnold sees Paturson standing there in the ring with his back to them. Mundus is measuring him with a silver tape and has to get up on a ladder to record the final inches. Then he shows the measuring tape to those at the front so that they can see with their own eyes Paturson’s exact height — eight feet eleven and one-half inches! Everyone claps, and Mundus stands by Paturson once more, takes his right hand that’s as big as a spade, and begins working free a ring from his index finger. “Is he married?” Arnold asks. The Chocolate Girl just shakes her head and laughs. “Be quiet,” she tells him. Mundus has got the ring off, and he shows it to the crowd. Then he produces a real silver two kroner coin and draws it through the ring so that everyone can see that the ring is wide enough to let the coin pass. It’s almost beyond belief and the crowd is wild with exultation, but Mundus has kept the best for last. He gets two blushing girls from the front row to come out with him into the ring. Once there they’re allowed to touch Paturson so that no one will be in any doubt that he’s genuine flesh and blood. They then get to sit on each of his arms, as if they were up in the branches of a great tree, and now it’s Paturson’s turn to blush rather than the girls’ — his cheeks blaze and shyly he buries his head as the girls swing about and laugh and wave the whole way home. A couple of the guys at the back want to come down and arm-wrestle the bashful giant, but that’s going too far for Mundus. Someone could get badly injured. Instead he lets a table covered in an embroidered cloth be brought in. He draws this off like a conjurer to reveal Paturson’s supper, which consists of nothing less than a dozen soft-boiled eggs, fourteen rolls, a pork chop, three kilos of potatoes, eighteen prunes and two quarts of milk. All this the Icelander partakes of before the wide eyes of the audience. And as Paturson eats Mundus goes closer to the crowd and folds his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “Our Icelandic friend comes from the impoverished house of a fisherman in Akureyri, and as you have seen, his size causes him great tribulation. He yearns to return and fish with his family as before. But neither clothes nor normal fishing gear are feasible. Even his shoelaces have to be ordered from abroad. For this reason we have produced some cards that he will now go around with and sell. The more cards you buy, the bigger the clothes and fishing equipment he can obtain. Please give generously!” And the world’s tallest man dries his mouth with a cloth and quietly goes from row to row with his color cards. But few are willing to buy them, since they’ve already had to pay fifty 0re to get in, and the only one to put two coins in Paturson’s fist is the vicar. The show is over. The orchestra strikes up. Paturson withdraws, and the Chocolate Girl takes his hand once more. Mundus storms out backstage. He’s seething with anger. “Where’s that damned Teufel?” he shrieks. “I’ll give him Teufel!” Mundus rushes out but comes straight back to look down darkly on Arnold. “And you’re still here?” Arnold nods. He can’t deny it. He’s afraid Mundus will throw him out, but instead the man sighs heavily and painfully, lights a cigar and sits down exhausted. “This is a wretched circus,” he says. “The acrobats fart so their outfits rip, and no one’ll buy the cards I’ve printed.” “The vicar did,” Arnold whispers. “Oh, yes. The vicar obliged, and I’m left with 348 cards! Is there anybody around here except heartless, tightfisted wretches?” Mundus exhales smoke from beneath his mustache and waves it away with his hand. Arnold reflects for a moment. “It’s perhaps not so wise to give him all that food first,” he ventures. Mundus looks at him again. “What do you mean?” “They won’t feel sony for him once he’s eaten so much,” Arnold mumbles. Mundus gets up. He chucks his cigar out the door and smiles. “What’s your name, boy?” he asks. “My name’s Arnold.” And at that moment the Chocolate Girl comes in. She’s holding the still lit cigar in her hand and looking astonished at Mundus, who in turn is pointing at Arnold. “Arnold’s right!” he exclaims. “Why in the world didn’t anyone ever say that Paturson shouldn’t eat for king and country right in front of a hungry audience the moment before he sells his cards!” He turns toward the Chocolate Girl. “Did you get him to bed?” The Chocolate Girl nods and has a drag of the cigar. Mundus grabs it from her and chucks it out once more. “Find somewhere for Arnold to sleep,” he orders her.

And the Chocolate Girl takes Arnold’s hand and leads him out of the tent, and they walk along the muddy path that runs between the stalls. “I think you’ve found the elephant’s hair,” she murmurs. Arnold doesn’t quite follow. “Does an elephant have hair?” “Yes,” the Chocolate Girl replies. “But only on its tail.” She gives him a quick kiss on the lips, and Arnold feels dizzy again. “You can sleep with Paturson. But I’m just in the next wagon. If you need anything.”

She stops outside one of the wagons, carefully opens the door and lets Arnold in. This is where Paturson is sleeping. He’s sleeping deeply. Two beds have been pushed together to give him sufficient space. Arnold’s supposed to lie beside him on the floor. The Chocolate Girl gives him a blanket. “I’m in the wagon right beside this one,” she whispers. “If you need anything.” She hurries out. Arnold remains standing in the poor light for a time, just looking at the world’s tallest man. His face is huge and lonely on the white pillow. He has three quilts, but even they aren’t sufficient. His socks are torn, and his toes stick out in all directions. They’re bigger than Arnold’s thighs and resemble bouquets of flesh with the crooked yellow toenails as petals. Then Arnold catches sight of Paturson’s jacket hanging from a nail behind the bed. He hauls it down and tries it on. The buttons reach right down to his shoes, and the arms are so long that he has trouble finding his hands again. He could go on a long journey into that jacket. Paturson turns over in bed. Arnold holds his breath. It takes some time for the tallest man in the world to turn over. It’s almost as if the globe itself trembles on its axis for a moment. Arnold climbs out of the jacket, hangs it up again and then feels something in one of the pockets. It’s the silver measuring tape. He turns toward the bed. Paturson is still sleeping soundlessly. And Arnold begins at his longest toe and rolls out the shining tape right to Paterson’s topmost hair. Arnold looks at the figure. He must have made a mistake and he measures again, this time the other way around, from his head and down to his feet, just to make certain. But he arrives at exactly the same measurement. Paturson isn’t eight feet eleven and a half inches, he’s six feet eight and a quarter inches. Arnold puts the measuring tape back in his pocket. He’s surprised but not really disappointed. There’s something he’s gradually understanding, something that hasn’t yet become clear but that is beginning to make sense; a shadow in his head, a lie.

Arnold steals over to the wagon where the Chocolate Girl’s sleeping. He awakens her. “I need something,” Arnold tells her. She sits up smiling. “What is it, Arnold?” she asks. “Paturson isn’t eight feet eleven and a half inches.” The Chocolate Girl’s smile vanishes. “What was that you said, Arnold?” “He’s only six feet eight and a quarter inches. I’ve measured him!” The Chocolate Girl takes hold of Arnold and lays one finger hard on his lips. “Paturson is six feet eight and a quarter inches in length when he’s lying down,” she tells him. “And when he stands up he’s eight feet eleven and a half inches! Mundus decides how tall Paturson is. Do you understand?” But the wheels in Arnold’s head are turning rather slowly now and not getting very far. “How old are you?” the Chocolate Girl asks instead. And suddenly Arnold notices that she’s almost naked. “Sixteen,” he answers quickly She laughs. “Sixteen? And how old are you when you’re lying down?” The Chocolate Girl pulls Arnold down beside her and puts her arms around him. Arnold grows in her arms, and she explains just about everything to him.

Now he knows what the elephant’s hair is.

Next morning Arnold presents himself in Mundus’ own wagon, the biggest of all the circus vehicles, with its own staircase, curtains and chimney; Mundus himself is sitting up eating breakfast in a four-poster bed. He’s wearing a burgundy bathrobe and his mustache is behind a protective leather cover under his nose. He wipes egg yolk from the corners of his mouth with the end of a white napkin. “Where are you from?” Mundus asks. “Nowhere in particular,” Arnold answers. Mundus looks at him. “Nowhere in particular? Everyone comes from somewhere, Arnold.” “Not me.” “Then perhaps you’re a little angel who’s landed among us?” Arnold says nothing. Why not, though? He could well be an angel. Mundus gives a sigh, puts his breakfast tray to one side and reaches for a cigar. “We don’t want the police on our backs now, do we?” “The vicar knows who I am,” Arnold says. “I’ve told him everything.”

At that moment he hears heavy footsteps outside. He turns toward the window and sees Paturson going past with the Chocolate Girl, who throws a large tarpaulin over him once they’re in the vicinity of the ornate portals. Mundus gets up from his bed and stands beside Arnold. “We don’t want anyone in the town to see him for free,” he says, and lights his cigar with a long match. Arnold watches the world’s tallest man going for a walk under a tarpaulin and the sight affects him. “Have you heard of Barnum?” Mundus suddenly asks him. Arnold shakes his head and can barely see Mundus for the smoke. “Barnum was king of America, Arnold. He was mightier than Alexander the Great and Napoleon put together!” Arnold steps closer. “Bigger than Paturson too?” Mundus laughs, coughing. “Yes, bigger than Paturson! Because Barnum made the world his circus! The earth was his big top, and heaven itself the tent he pitched above us!” Mundus was moved by his own tale. “Barnum wanted to make people happy,” he breathed. “He wanted to make them laugh, tremble, gasp and dance! And could one individual possess any nobler ambition?” The Chocolate Girl comes back with Paturson. She gives Arnold a wave. Mundus lays a hand on his shoulder. “Do you know what
Mundus vult decipi
means?” he asks. Arnold smiles. He knows almost everything now. “The world will be taken in,” he replies. Mundus is stunned. “Ah, but can you tell me what
Ergo decipiatur
means?” “Thus it is deceived,” Arnold tells him. Mundus has to put down his cigar. “All right, can you tell me lastly what’s bigger than Paturson from Iceland?” Arnold thinks about it. “God?” he suggests. Mundus shakes his head. “Oh, no, God’s two inches smaller than Paturson.” “Barnum?” Arnold suggests. Mundus bends right down to his level. “Imagination, Arnold! Imagination is the greatest thing there is! It’s not what you see that counts first and foremost. It’s what you
think
you see! Always remember that.” Mundus sits down on the bed, but doesn’t take his eyes off Arnold. “Turn around,” he tells him. Arnold turns around and stands with his back to Mundus. “All the way around!” Mundus thunders. Arnold turns the whole way around, and now Mundus has put on a pair of glasses. “Well, well, my small friend. So tell me what you can do!” “I can be a wheel,” Arnold replies, and he circles over the floor and gets up again. Mundus isn’t impressed. “We’ve got enough wheels, Arnold.” “I’ve only got nine fingers,” Arnold says, and holds both hands in the air. Mundus shrugs his shoulders and couldn’t care less. “I have worse monsters than you to rely on.” “I can be skin-dead,” Arnold suggests. “Being skin-dead’s far too old a trick. The public is fed up with that one.” “I’m well-equipped,” Arnold finally whispers. “Well-equipped? Who told you that?” Arnold looks down. “The doctor himself. And the Chocolate Girl,” he quickly puts in. Mundus dismisses this with a wave of the hand. “Leave me in peace,” he says. “Mundus has to think.”