The Half Brother: A Novel (75 page)

They’ve sat at the kitchen table all evening. Finally Fred comes in and lies down himself. Mom stands there between us. Shell keep this moment. She is a squirrel. Shell hide her happiness and spread it through her forest, as if she knows too in her heart of hearts that Fred’ll soon be gone again. Her voice is almost as it was before. “Good night then, boys.” We are kids; the clock with the money in it has started again, but it’s going the other way, it’s going backward. The coins are clattering down, and each coin is a memory that Mom can polish and with which she can buy time. She kisses Fred on the brow. “Tomorrow you’re going to the dentist!” she tells him. She leans over me and whispers, “The movie would have been a whole lot better if you’d been in it.” After that we hear the washing machine, its quick whirring; we lie awake in the dark and listen to Mom washing Fred’s clothes. Now and again she sings to herself, it’s the middle of the night and she washes Fred’s clothes and sings. “Evalet,” Fred says slowly, letter by letter. “Washing machine,” I say, equally slowly. We laugh together there in the dark. “I bet your Dad swiped it,” Fred whispers. Stillness falls. Mom hangs up the clothes to dry on a line suspended over the bath. “What was it you’d seen enough of?” I ask. “The same as great-granddad saw. Ice and snow.” “Wasn’t there anything else?” “I saw a glacier calving.” “Calving?” “All at once half the mountain slid down into the sea. Right in front of us. You should have heard the noise.” “What do you mean?” “Did you think ice was quiet? Ice makes one hell of a noise, Barnum. The whole time. When you’re going through ice in a ship no one can sleep.” “Didn’t you see any musk oxen?” Fred rummages around for something. I hear several clicks. He swears. “Did you get the card?” he asks. “Yes, Peder came with it.” Fred bursts out laughing, and his laughter is low and deep. “Why did you send Mom straight to Willy, Barnum?” “I didn’t send Mom straight to Willy.” “Yes, you did. You said I’d been at his place. And Mom went to Willy’s. Do you really think Mom’s likely to take up boxing, Barnum?” “Mom was frightened. She wasn’t sleeping.” “But next time I won’t go to Willy’s first.” Finally Fred gets a light; a flicker spreads over his dark, rough skin; he lights the cigarette and locks the flame in the shiny Zippo lighter. “I don’t think it’s the letter you’re looking for,” I breathe. “And what do you think I’m looking for then, Barnum the wise?” “Your father,” I answer, very quietly, as if I almost hadn’t spoken the words at all. Fred sucks the glowing cigarette end down to nothing. The glow of it is all I can see. “Who was it you screwed?” he asks. I close my eyes. “You remember what you said when I started dancing classes? That I should see what everyone else was doing and then do the exact opposite?” Fred doesn’t reply. I open my eyes. The glow hovers still in the air. I wait. “So?” he says in the end. “What if you did the opposite of what you yourself want?” “It’d be a fucking mess, Barnum.” Fred gets up, opens the window, and flicks out the cigarette butt. It’s like a tiny firework extinguishing in the dark rain. Then he turns around and comes closer. “Don’t you have the guts to say who it was you screwed?” I look up at him. “Lauren Bacall,” I breathe. the middle of the doggone afternoon.” He considered things, buttoned up his burgundy uniform and locked the door again with both keys. “Well, well, well see what we have.” We went with him up to the projection room, that cramped space where projectors were ranged like cannons in front of embrasures, ready to bombard the screen with light when it was dark enough. There was a packet of sandwiches on the seat; the paper that wrapped them had been partially removed and one cheese sandwich had been half-eaten. The projectionist searched through some reels of film that were piled in a corner behind his desk. He gave a sudden groan and pulled out one of them — a flat, shiny box — a wheel. “Good Lord,” he groaned. “This one here should have been sent back.” “That’s the one we’d like to see,” I told him. The projectionist straightened up. “You can’t.” “Why not?” “It’s an over-18.” Vivian laughed. “Barnum’s over eighteen,” she said. “Anyway, there’s no one to see us,” I put in. He opened the lid and took out the reels of film. “All right, but hurry up so we’re done before the evening performance!” And we went down the stairs to the main part of the theater, which seemed much bigger without people coughing, whispering, stamping, taking off chocolate wrappers, blowing their noses and crunching. We ran down between the rows, Vivian and me and no one else, entranced, searching for seats — at least now I wouldn’t have to end up behind somebody who was six feet tall with an Afro and ears sticking out. “Where do you want to sit?” I called out. But Vivian couldn’t make up her mind and neither could I. We had 600 tickets between the two of us and didn’t know which to choose. The projectionist shouted something from his room and finally we sat down in row 14, seats 18 and 19 — naturally enough. I put my hand in her lap. She took off her mitten and carefully laid her hand on mine. The lights dimmed — not softly and slowly as with a sunset, like we were used to; no blue and gradual twilight in which we could get ready for the darkness and the trailers — but abruptly, and all we heard was the heavy curtain sliding to one side and then the movie began. And it was as if time threw a noose about me and pulled it tight. It was
Days of Wine and Roses.
I remembered the title, the posters in the rain, the projectionist who carried them in, the steps I counted, someone following me and Fred coming out of the round lavatory by the church. Was this also a mark on Barnum’s ruler; time that catches up with you again? And how long does such a moment last, a moment that doesn’t set its mark in the door frame with a knife but cuts free a point in time in your memory? I only know that
Days of Wine and Roses
lasts one hour and fifty-seven minutes, and I’ll never forget the scene when Jack Lemmon’s on his way into the Union Square Bar and stops abruptly when he glimpses his own reflection in the window. And he thinks, for just a split second before it’s passed, that it’s a stranger standing there instead — a tramp, a ruined and pathetic drunk — until he realizes it’s none other than himself.

Afterward we went to Kr0lle’s. We sat right down all the way at the back. “One hell of a movie,” I said. Vivian unwound her scarf. “A shit movie,” she said. I found a cigarette in my pocket. “Shit? Why do you say that?” Vivians face was pale with the cold; her mouth was small and slow. “I don’t like movies with sad endings.” The waiter had stopped at our table. “A pint,” I said quickly. He bent right down to my level. “Very funny.” It was now I should have responded with a reply from another movie entirely, our movie:
What’s wrong with you? “Tea”
said Vivian. “Same for me,” I whispered. The waiter drew himself up. “And what will you have to eat?” “Nothing,” I told him. “We don’t serve drinks only here, littl’un.” He really was starting to get on my nerves. “Then I’ll have some lemon in my tea,” I said. The waiter looked down. “So you have a sense of humor too. Perhaps you’d like to eat your packed lunch outside?” “Some apple cake,” Vivian said. “Ill have the same,” I breathed. “With whipped cream.” The waiter went over to the hatch through to the kitchen and turned twice in the course of the short walk. “Jerk-off waiter.” I held my hand over my mouth. Vivian was thawing; a warmth was rising from her throat, and her lips became soft. I didn’t say any more before the waiter returned with our order. We had to pay there and then. I treated her. I gave the waiter a fistful of coins I’d found in the drawer under the dead clock. It took about a quarter of an hour for them to be counted. When he’d finally left, I leaned over the table. “Why don’t you like movies with sad endings?” I asked. “Because it makes me think of my parents,” she replied. I ate whipped cream with my fingers and considered my response intently. “There’s a difference between film and reality,” I explained. Vivian started laughing. “My, you’re clever, Barnum.” I blushed and went to the bathroom. Someone had hidden a hip flask behind the toilet bowl. It wasn’t empty. I locked the door and drank what was left. My head burned quickly and quietly I looked at myself in the mirror above the basin, pulled my curls down over my brow and went back to join Vivian. “Happy endings are a load of crap,” I said. “Why do you think that, Barnum?” “Because there’s no such thing as a goddamn happy ending! We’ll all die anyway, won’t we?” Vivian smiled. “Perhaps it would have been best if they’d died in the accident,” she said. “Who?” “My parents.” I drained my cup. The flames in my head were going down and down. Soon there’d just be ash left on my tongue. “You don’t mean that,” I whispered. Now it was Vivian’s turn to lean over the table. “They don’t think about anything else but the accident, Barnum.” “Maybe it’s no surprise,” I said. Vivian looked at me a long time. “They’re self-obsessed and selfish bastards,” she breathed. “And the accident lets them be like that. They worship that accident. They love it.” I no longer knew what to say I’d never seen such anger in her; even though she was whispering her voice shook as if any moment it might crack and become a scream. “You want more tea?” I asked. Vivian shook her head. “Let me tell you something, Barnum. Mom got rid of every mirror in the apartment. From the bathroom, the living room, the hall — she threw away every pocket mirror and wouldn’t use silver dishes because she could see her face in them too. Dad went down to the yard and got rid of them there — not even he could bring himself to look at her. And one day the doorbell rang. It was Mom who went to see who it was, and outside there were some kids holding out a mirror — a beautiful, framed oval mirror that used to hang in the hall. They thought it had been thrown away by accident and wanted to do her a favor. But Mom saw her reflection in it, smashed the mirror with her fist, and chased those kids down the steps and terrified the living daylights out of them.” Vivian pushed her empty cup toward the side of the table, the very edge. The waiter was keeping a weather eye on us. “She thought they’d done it out of sheer devilment,” I said. Vivian looked at me. “What’s so special about the face? It’s just a mask, isn’t it? Does it really matter if it’s beautiful or ugly?” I took her hand before the cup went tumbling to the floor. “If they’d been killed, we wouldn’t be sitting here,” I murmured. Vivian smiled. “No, only you. Shall we go to Peder’s?”

We went to Peder’s. He wasn’t home. But his mother refused to let us go. She could only just manage to push the wheels of her chair. I helped her into the living room. The place was swimming in brushes, tubes of paint, frames and canvases. I noticed that the wheels of her chair weren’t whining now, they’d been oiled. And in the midst of this chaos stood her model; he’d been standing there all those years — just as naked, but he was no longer Greek. He’d begun to get fat and to sag; he was sliding away and becoming a shadow of himself. Vivian stared at him. I stared at Vivian. Peder’s mother whistled. The model picked up a white towel and disappeared. “Long time no see,” she said to us. We felt a bit embarrassed. It struck me that almost everything was a long while back and that we’d let time pass, on both sides, in this little city. “How are you doing?” I asked. “As long as I can finish my pictures before my arms are completely gone, I’ll be happy.” She laughed. “But don’t let’s talk about me! How are you two?” “Trying to write a little,” I told her. “What do you write about, Barnum?” “Things I’ve seen.” Peder’s mother brought her chair nearer, soundlessly. “Have you seen anything that no one else has seen?” “Yes,” I told her. She looked right at me. “Don’t say what it is, because then you won’t be able to write about it.” She turned to Vivian. “And what about you then?” “I’ve gotten into a school in Switzerland for next year,” Vivian answered. I felt a great elevator plummet through me. There weren’t all that many floors, but it didn’t stop at any of them. “What sort of school?” Peder’s mom asked her. Vivian looked down. “A school for makeup artists,” she said. At that moment the bell rang. I ran out to answer it, glad to get away. Was that why she’d waited for me outside school, to tell me she’d be going to Switzerland to become a makeup artist? The bell rang again. It was Peder. He always forgot his key. Peder remembered just about everything else, but never his key. He stood in the light on the steps with ear muffs and a bag under his arm; he shaded his eyes, blinking. “Is Peder in?” Peder asked. “Peder’s not home yet,” I replied. “Well, say that Barnum was here,” Peder said. “Goodbye then, Barnum,” I told him, and made to shut the door. “Goodbye, Barnum,” Peder said, and flung his arms around me and we tumbled into the hall and rolled around there and clasped each other tight in an avalanche of boots and shoes and slippers. We laughed, the same laughter as al- ways, but all at once he pushed me away and got to his feet. It was Vivian. She stood leaning against the wall, her arms folded, taking us in with a smile, and I got up myself. “A full house,” Peder said. And when we sat together in his room, I saw that we three, who were always to be together, had lost our equilibrium. Peder babbled on for about three quarters of an hour about the shortfall in his college club funds, and explained in meticulous detail how he would raise new capital, namely by demanding advertising revenue from the bakery in Ullevål Road — if they refused he’d get the students to find somewhere else to eat their buns. There was quiet for a time. We heard his dad park in the garage. A stack of logs tumbled to the ground, or maybe it was just thunder, thunder in November. Vivian turned to me. “What is it you’ve seen?” she asked. “Nothing,” I said, my voice low. Peder looked at us and smiled, but lost his smile equally fast. Again there was silence. The number and the dream didn’t add up. We had a shortfall too. And then it was Peder who brought him up, as though we needed someone else to talk about. “Has that nutcase of a brother of yours settled down yet?” he asked.

I thought about precisely that as I went home that evening — whether Fred had settled down or not. I wanted him to stay. And I wanted him to leave. My thoughts were in halves too. He was lying on the bed, with his clothes on and his back to me. I undressed, quietly and quickly, and as I stood there naked in the scanty light from the window, he turned around and I could see that he was crying.