The Half Brother: A Novel (71 page)

We cross the yard and take the kitchen steps. On the third floor the door’s ajar. The plate that bore their name has been unscrewed, and we can see that another plate has hung there at one time; the holes for the screws are there, smaller than those for the Arnesens’. Mom rings the bell. More than anything I want to get away but she keeps a hold of me. She attempts a smile. Her breath is held inside her like a heavy wave. No one comes to the door. Mom rings the bell again, and then we realize it isn’t working. The stillness only intensifies. Mom pushes the door open. I follow her in. She stops and looks about her with wondering, shining eyes. The walls are bare and covered with splotches. The stove has been removed. There’s a border of soot and grease along the upper edge. And behind everything we can see other marks, marks that can’t be hidden, signs of people who lived here before the Arnesens. And then we see her, Mrs. Arnesen herself, standing in the empty living room under the light in the ceiling — the only light that encircles her in one yellow, unsteady pool of illumination. She turns toward us. Mom lets go of my arm and goes closer. I’m the one who sees them, these two women, wounded and proud. They’ve given birth in the same maternity ward, they’ve lived in the same building, and in the course of all these years have barely exchanged a word. They’ve lived their own lives; yet in that moment, here, in this deserted apartment — my unfurnished memory — there’s nothing between them. “You knew the people who lived here before us, didn’t you?” Mrs. Arnesen says. Mom just nods, and smiles again. “She was my best friend. Her name was Rakel.” “Where is she now?” “She and her family were sent to Ravensbrück.” Mom stretches out her hand. “She gave me this ring,” she says. “I was to look after it for her.” Mrs. Arnesen extends her hand too. They shake hands. “We just wanted to say goodbye,” Mom tells her. “Thank you. That was nice of you.” “Where are you moving to?” “To my parents’ house. Outside town. A long way from here.” Mrs. Arnesen drops Mom’s hand. “I’ll miss your playing,” Mom tells her. “Most people will be glad to be rid of it.” Suddenly she turns in my direction, as if she’s only now realized I’m there. “Are you here, too?” she says. I bow and hear a sound from somewhere else, that of running water being turned off. “A shame we didn’t get to talk more,” Mom says. Mrs. Arnesen looks at her again. “Yes, and now it’s too late.” Mom looks awkward for a moment, and I feel the desire to go. “Is it?” Suddenly Mrs. Arnesen laughs. “Do you remember how Fred kept everyone in the ward awake? How that boy shrieked!” Mom laughs herself. “Mercifully he stopped all that once we got home.” They’re silent for a bit. I take a step backward. There are others in the apartment. There’s someone else here. “How are things going with your son?” Mom finally asks. Mrs. Arnesen holds her hands in a knot in front of her. “Fortunately he got leave from military service. So he could help me. With the move.” And Aslak materializes from the bathroom — Aslak, my tormentor, our tormentor. He’s wearing a dark green outfit, and his hands are dripping. He doesn’t give us so much as a glance and just wants to get past. But his mother stops him. “Don’t you remember Barnum?” she says. Aslak turns slowly in my direction. “Oh, yes. He hasn’t changed in the least.” Aslak extends his dripping hand, and I have no choice but to take it. “My condolences,” I breathe. Mom flushes in horror, and a tremor passes through Aslak’s arm. “Yes, that’s right,” he says. “My father’s dead, too.” And when we’re standing down in the yard once more, Mom lets out her breath. “I know you didn’t mean it, Barnum. But you have to watch what you say.” It has cleared up. The darkness is close and clear. The heavens are a shining, black square above our heads. “I’ll stay here a while,” I murmur. Mom hesitates. Finally she goes. And I sit down on the steps by the garbage cans. The windows darken around me one by one until only the stars are visible. I listen. I hear. Because just as Fred said once in the graveyard, it’s true that you can listen to the building, that there are stories all around that never fall silent, that never stop. But none of them can tell who Fred’s father was, who it was that destroyed Mom; not the clotheslines in the loft, nor even the dusty light in the angled attic window. The stories have their secrets too, secrets they won’t reveal, and when you get too close they begin to tell another story instead. They tell, for instance, that Arnesen’s apartment lies vacant a long time after his wife has gone home to her parents’ house where no one plays the piano. But in the new year a third nameplate goes onto the front door — bigger still this time and of polished, shining cop- per: Ole Arvid Bang. It’s the caretaker who’s moving up from his gloomy studio apartment by the gate to four rooms, a balcony and early morning sunlight on the third floor. This is his reward for long and faithful service; it’s his final triple jump, his longest leap yet — a personal record. At last he’s got to the top of the tree, but it’s said he feels so lonely there that when he sits in the kitchen in the morning talking to himself he doesn’t get an answer till he’s gone to bed. And many years later, once Arnesen had been released for quite some time, he returned to his old apartment, saw the new name-plate and rang the bell. Bang just stared at him through the peephole he’d fitted in the door; he saw Arnesen’s pale face like a moon, stole back to the kitchen and drew the curtains. Bang had been promoted to loneliness, and Arnesen had been released, but the latter gained admission nowhere — for he bore an infection with him, a shadow of shame. And there are those who say that thereafter he slept in a box on Krankaia, shaved beside the hydrant on Bispekaia, and earned eight kroner a day buying brandy at the “pole” in the City Chambers Square for the tramps who couldn’t keep sober once the clouds of frost from the fjord caused their tongues to wilt in their parched mouths.

I go upstairs and lie down. This is my in-between time. I dream and I invent. One morning I wake up and it’s my birthday Mom stands by my bed singing while Boletta keeps time with her stick. Fred leans against the door frame where I stopped growing a long time ago. The first parcel I open is from Mom. It’s a tie. The other parcel’s Boletta’s. It’s a tie-pin. The third parcel is a joint present from Mom and Boletta. It’s heavy. It’s Knut Hamsun’s collected works. The flakes of ash from the stove have been washed and put together, side by side, and bound, volume by volume — eighteen spines raised from the flames. “Thank you,” I breathe. And then it’s Fred’s turn. He bends down and pulls out something he’s kept hidden under his bed. I’ve never had a present from Fred before. Mom opens her mouth in astonishment. Boletta straightens her hunched back. Fred places a great angular parcel on the quilt. “Many happy returns,” he says. I almost don’t dare open it. I’d rather wait. I’d like to hold on to this moment while I’m still in ignorance of what’s inside; it could be anything whatsoever or exactly what I want it to be. Fred has bought me a present.
To Branum from Fred.
I make as if I haven’t seen that. I don’t see it. Branum is my name. The line on the floor is gone. I feel the parcel. Its hard. There’s a jarring noise when I shake it. Mom starts growing impatient. Fred gives a laugh. “It’s not grenades,” he says. And I tear off the wrapping paper. It’s a typewriter. I have to close my eyes and open them again. It’s still a typewriter — a Diplomat — with a carrying case and three different line settings. Boletta thumps her stick against the wall. Mom’s face is dark and worried, but the delight inside her is greater, and she claps her hands because this moment mustn’t be spoiled. “Now the only thing you need is something to write on,” she murmurs, almost moved. Fred points to the table. There’s already a stack of white paper there. “Now the only thing he needs is something to write,” he says. I get up. I take his hand. “Next time you’ll get the finest thing I have,” I tell him. Fred looks at me in surprise. “What?” he says. But that I don’t yet know. “Many thanks,” I say, that’s all. Fred’s smiling now. “Good, Barnum.” And he drops my hand and disappears.

I put my tie and the pin in my drawer, and Hamsun’s collected works on the bookshelf between the
Medical Dictionary for Norwegian Homes
and
The World in Pictures.
I begin writing that same evening. I type out “The Little City” on the machine. I copy it out from my notebook. I begin. It isn’t easy. I have to start again several times. Now it’s no longer the sound of Mrs. Arnesen’s piano that’s to be heard across the yard, but rather that of my typewriter. There’s something wrong with two of the letters. The k is all but invisible and the e is fairly worn too. It makes no difference. Perhaps Fred got it cheap. But it looks a bit strange when, for instance, I type the word
kindness.
What ends up there is
indness.
That isn’t a word. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t write the word all that often anyway. And afterward I correct all the mistakes with my pen. By the time I’m finished it’s one and a half pages altogether. Two pages really. This is mine. This is no one else’s. This is something only I could have done. I’ve never thought of it like that before. What I’ve written on those two pages isn’t to be found anywhere else in the world, the entire universe — just here. And it’s from my head, my very own head; my hand wrote it and now it’s there — “The Little City” by Barnum Nilsen — forty-eight lines the world has never seen before. I have to lie down for a bit. I’m intoxicated. I’m all trembling there where I lie. Then Peder comes in. And Peder isn’t exactly the type to knock and wait for an answer. He just storms in, and Mom’s standing there with a cake and the requisite number of candles in the icing on top. “Happy Birthday!” Peder exclaims. Then he stops a moment and goes straight over to the gleaming typewriter and gives it a long look. “Got that from my brother,” I tell him with pride. “God damn,” Peder murmurs. At once he whirls around to face Mom. “Please excuse my language. I only wanted to express my enthusiasm for the best present I’ve ever seen.” Mom smiles. “Would you like a little cake?” “A little? Peder Miil has never said no to a lot of cake.” And this is my birthday. I blow out the candles. I manage it on the third attempt. Mom leaves us in peace. We have some cake, but I’m not especially hungry and Peder beats me by five slices. “Have you tried it?” he asks. And I show him the pages I’ve produced. Peder studies them carefully himself, smiles and nods. Then he finally remembers he’s brought a present with him too. He pulls a square parcel from his pocket. I open it. It’s a square, red metal box. “What is it?” I ask him. Peder points. “Press the button, idiot.” It starts laughing. To begin with it’s just a low chuckling. It chuckles. Then it grows stronger. The chuckling becomes a spluttering, and the spluttering becomes laughter. And Peder and I laugh too; it’s infectious — the mechanical laughter is infectious. We have to hold on to each other and we laugh like that, we laugh at the laughter, and it lasts two minutes before the box falls silent once more. And we breathe out, dry our tears, and can hardly manage to talk properly. “Closest I could get,” Peder breathes. “Closest you could get to what?” Peder has to massage his stomach. “After we didn’t find any applause in your suitcase.” My head grows dark for a time. “Couldn’t Vivian come?” I ask, and look the other way. Peder puts the machine on again. It laughs. And when there’s no more laughter left in it, Mom’s standing in the doorway with her hands over her ears. “Help us all. What are you laughing at?” Peder gets up. “Barnum laughed at me, and I laughed at him.” Mom just shakes her head, laughs herself, and takes out the empty cake plate and the candles. Peder stays on his feet. “Now I know,” he says. “You’ll write my essays for me, and I’ll do your math.” “Couldn’t Vivian come?” I ask him again. “She had to look after her mother,” Peder murmurs. “Christ.” “Yes, Christ,” I agree. And when I’m on the point of putting the typewriter in its carrying case, I find something else, another present, that Fred must have put there for me. It’s a dozen Durex — gossamer. Peder looks at me, long and hard. “Can I borrow one?” he asks. “What for?” Peder groans. “You don’t need the whole dozen!” So he gets one, and the remainder are secreted in Oscar Mathisen’s left shoe, as far back as possible in the closet. And I fold up “The Little City” and put it in my right shoe. But I try one of the condoms that same night; it stings and I think certain thoughts, and afterward I don’t know where to hide it. I chuck it out of the window. The lights come on in the caretaker’s by the gate. Now the building has something else to talk about, but my mouth is shut. I write Peder’s essays, and he does my math. We both get As. I read
Hunger.
Fred comes home. He undresses. I see his long, thin body in the dark by the bed. He has his back to me. If I were to run my hand over his shoulder, past his neck and along his cheek that’s blue and almost swollen — what would he say? I don’t know. I can’t sleep. That which we do is only a shadow of all we could have done. “Why didn’t you ever say that Vivian was born in a car too?” he suddenly asked.

One day, when I come home from school, there’s another letter waiting for me. Mom is so impatient she can barely wait, and I’m certain she’s held it up to the light to try to read it. But that hasn’t worked, because the envelope is fat and impossible to see through. Boletta’s pretty excited herself. She’s probably tried to slip it open with Malaga steam. “But aren’t you going to open it?” Mom exclaims. I turn away and slowly tear it open. Boletta thumps her stick on the floor. Mom leans over my shoulder. “What does it say, Bar-num?” “I’ve won,” I tell her, amazed and bewildered. Mom puts her arms around me. “I knew it!” And so it comes to light that she has submitted “The Little City” to the School of Oslo’s major creative writing contest, and I don’t know whether to be happy or angry, proud or put out — because Mom has, in other words, unearthed my typescript in Oscar Mathisen’s right shoe, and gone behind my back. And that means she must have found the condoms in my left shoe too. Mom tears the letter out of my hands and reads it aloud.
“Dear Barnum Nilsen, It is a joy to inform you that you have won the School of Oslo’s creative writing contest for your age group with your story ‘The Little City.
’
The prize will he awarded in the City Chambers
on Friday the 12th and we would be delighted if you would be present to receive this.”
Mom gives me a kiss on the brow and is suddenly all flustered. “Good Lord, Barnum, it’s only four days away!” Boletta’s already poured two glasses of Malaga. I have to go into my room to get my breath back. Soon I’ll be famous. I don’t quite know why but I start crying; I sit in at the windowsill and cry for joy and I’m glad Fred can’t see me now. But when I turn around he’s standing in the doorway after all. I hide my face. Fred throws himself down on the bed. “Not long now,” he says. “Till what, Fred?” He just looks at me and gives me that crooked smile; his lips slide over his teeth. “You remember what you promised, Barnum, huh?” “Of course.” “That you won’t say anything?” “I won’t say a thing, Fred.” “Brothers don’t squeal on each other, do they?” “Of course not.” Suddenly he gets up. “I’m forgetting to congratulate you! Well done, Barnum! I’m proud of you!” I look down. “Had it not been for the typewriter,” I murmur. “Don’t put yourself down, Barnum.”