The Half Brother: A Novel (14 page)

Arnesen was about to answer back but decided against it. Instead he went into the living room, carrying the case that he never took his eyes off. Arnesen was given hospitality wherever he went, almost as if people felt guilty about something or wanted to make a good impression on him. Maybe it was because they thought their lives were in his hands. He walked slowly past the bookshelves, letting his finger run along the leather spines, looking around the room as he did so at the dining room divan that was made up as a bed, the glass of Malaga, the game of patience. His fingers stopped at a wide gap in the shelf from which only the dust rose. Now Arnesen smiled again. “He should have been shot,” he said. He sat down in the soft seat with his back toward the balcony. The Old One leaned over the table. “Who should have been shot?” “Hamsun. The traitor.” “You mean the writer?” “The writer and the traitor.” The Old One leaned back in the sofa. “I prefer reading Johannes V. Jensen,” she said.

Boletta came back with the coffee tray and a bar of milk chocolate. Arnesen immediately broke off a piece and sucked it, and put four spoonfuls of sugar in his cup. The Old One was on the point of walking out, but Boletta restrained her. “What was it like in Grini?” she asked. Arnesen clamped his eyes shut and swallowed. “It was worse for my wife. She had to wait with all that fear and uncertainty.” Now Arnesen could see clearly again, and he cleared his voice with more chocolate. “But she came through it. Women can be stronger than you think. That’s certainly something the war’s shown us.”

He gave a quick glance in the direction of his coffee cup. Boletta poured him some more, and the Old Ones sigh was even deeper. “Waiting is a privilege we more than willingly surrender.” But Arnesen wasn’t listening any more. His gaze ranged around the whole room again, and suddenly he asked, “Isn’t it smaller here?” Boletta put her cup down. “Smaller than what?” “Than the apartments on the other side of the block?” The Old One secured the last bit of chocolate before Arnesen got his hands on it. “It’s possible they
are
larger,” she admitted. “But we have more sunlight up here.” “I wouldn’t be certain of that. We ourselves have a south-facing balcony.” Boletta and the Old One leaned forward. “We?” Arnesen smiled from ear to ear, and his arm sailed through the air like a conductor’s. “I’ve got the corner apartment on Jonas Rein Street. The one where that poor Jewish family lived.”

The Old One got up. Her hair scattered softly over her shoulders. “Is Arnesen telling us we’re neighbors now?” He lifted his cup with two fingers and looked about for more sugar. “By rights we should have moved in before the summer. But first my wife wanted everything in place. You know what its like, don’t you?” Arnesen found the sugar bowl; he put two more spoonfuls in his coffee, pursed his lips and slowly drank. The Old One remained on her feet. She was shaking. “No,” she said loudly, “we don’t know what it’s like. What is it like?” Without a sound he put down his cup, and suddenly his tone was very confidential and quiet. “A piano, dessert spoons, an ironing board. And a crib. All the things that make a home. My wife is expecting our first child, you see. After all these years.” “Shall I fetch more sugar?” the Old One asked. Arnesen looked up at her. “No, thank you. I’m quite full now.”

Boletta had to cling on to the table. “Are you quite sure they’re not coming back?” she breathed. “Who?” “The Steiner family. Rakel. Their daughter.” A shudder passed through Arnesen as though the teaspoon had given him a shock. He dropped it on his plate. Then he leaned back and almost sounded offended. “But of course. They never came back from down there. Everyone knows that. There isn’t even someone to whom we can give insurance money. Unfortunately.”

The Old One looked past Arnesen, who sat sunk in his chair with a sad smile, and it was then she saw Vera. Vera was suddenly standing by the bedroom door, staring in at them, and as the Old One saw her Vera hid her face in her hands and blood flowed out between her fingers. She collapsed onto the floor, and now Boletta and Arnesen had turned too; they saw Vera and the blood that gushed from her mouth. Arnesen upset his coffee cup and the sugar bowl; Boletta reached her daughter in a single bound, and for the second time since the end of the war the Old One had to call for Dr. Schultz from Bislet. Arnesen just stood by his chair unable to take his eyes off Vera — her nightgown, the skin that was almost transparent, the blood pumping from her mouth. Now he had something to keep secret on his rounds — but if someone pressed him he could perhaps let slip a word or two, about Vera lying on the floor twisting with spasms as she babbled between mouthfuls of blood. And those who listened to the tale he had to tell (perhaps the caretaker), would at once hunch closer and demand,
But what did she say? Did she mention any names?
Then Arnesen could guard his precious lies and keep quiet until neither he nor his audience could stand it any longer. Many years later I heard this one day when I was coming home from school and took a shortcut through the laundry rooms in the basement. The caretaker was standing there by the mangles telling stories to the women from the block, because he’d made those stories his own now — he’d converted his lies for a new currency. “The blood was foaming all around her mouth,” he hissed. “It was a red foam, and she was hitting out with clenched fists like a wild animal!” “But what did she say?” the others wanted to know. “Did she mention any names?” But the caretaker couldn’t say any more than that.

The Old One put down the receiver. “Dr. Schultz is coming right away,” she said. Boletta was crying, and Vera lay quiet in her arms. “She’s got an ulcer from eating so little! I’ve been saying that the whole time. That she must eat!” The Old One turned toward Arnesen. “Now we’re done with one another for this occasion. Pass on greetings to your wife.” But Arnesen had no wish to go. Arnesen didn’t want to miss out on any of this. He tidied up the sugar he’d spilled and put his coffee cup back in its place and dried the cloth with his large handkerchief. He did everything quite slowly and he took his time. He even wanted to help Vera into the bedroom. “I did my first-aid training in the army,” he said. Then the Old One pointed in the direction of the hall and the outer door. “I see your coat’s still hanging there. You can take it on your way out.”

But first Arnesen had to count the money yet again. He had to open the briefcase and check the total, coin by coin and note by note. When the Old One came out of the bedroom and Vera now lay in bed, Boletta weeping and ages late for work, Arnesen was still standing in the hallway, his coat over his arm, twisting his hat like a rat between his hands. “Is the poor little girl any better?” he murmured. “Does she often suffer attacks like that?” “Vera’s had pneumonia for several weeks now. I said goodbye.” Arnesen’s smile was all but imperceptible. “Pneumonia? It’s possible the firm might want to see a medical certificate before deciding the premium.” The Old One opened the door wide. “We have already called the doctor. For the third time goodbye and farewell.”

Arnesen bowed, picked up his briefcase and slowly went out toward the stairs, where he stood buttoning up his coat. The Old One was about to shut the door but suddenly changed her mind and caught hold of his arm. “How can you really be so sure the Steiners aren’t coming back?” “Because they’re dead! I told you that. Don’t you read the papers? And there’s no point letting the apartment lie empty.” The Old One let go her hold of him, and he immediately began rummaging for something in his pockets. It was a clipping, a photograph. “Look at that,” he told her. “It’s from the journal
Vecko.
That’s Mrs. Steiner and her daughter Rakel, isn’t it?”

The Old One took the picture from him and raised it closer to her eyes. It was them. A huge sorrow and an equally huge anger suffused her. It was Rakel and her mother. Her mother is dying or perhaps already dead — skin and bones, clad in rags, the skin stretched taut over her skull, her eyes far too large and staring toward the camera or God or their executioner. And Rakel is holding her mother’s hand — she is all but naked, her shoulders sharp as wishbones. She is clinging to herself, crying, screaming — her mouth an open sore in her young girls face which is already old, ageless, gone beyond time. Death is closing on her too, a crippled child, and this is what the picture shows — the dying clinging to the dead. Underneath the photograph are written these words:
The dreaded Ravensbrilck camp. Eventually the concentration camp became too crowded and some no longer had any prison garb.
That’s all. The Old One has to support herself against the wall. “And you go around with this in your pocket,” she said in a low voice. “You should be ashamed of yourself.” “I only saw that it was them,” he mumbled. “So I cut it out. May I have it back now?” “No,” the Old One said. “I’m keeping this picture. For as long as you live in their apartment.” Arnesen put on his hat and slunk off. The Old One let him pass. “I hope one day well all sleep soundly again,” she said.

At that moment they heard Dr. Schultz down below on the stairs, his footsteps heavy, his hand on the banister. Arnesen glanced at the Old One. “Thanks, but I myself sleep perfectly. Except when my wife lies awake.” Then he quickly went downstairs, and as he passed Dr. Schultz, who was thinner than ever but sober that day, he gave him his card. Dr. Schultz stood there a moment, read it and shook his head. Arnesen had stopped on the landing below; he stood holding his hat and was smiling again. “Call whenever it’s convenient, Doctor!” “But it isn’t convenient. Unfortunately there’s nothing I want to insure.” Dr. Schultz put the card in his pocket and climbed the last of the stairs to the Old One, who was waiting impatiently. She pulled him inside and banged the door shut behind them. “She’s in the bedroom. Hurry! There’s no need to take off your shoes!”

Once again Dr. Schultz chose to be alone with Vera while he conducted his examination of her. The Old One and Boletta waited in the living room. They said nothing. They listened. It was so still, almost as if Vera’s muteness had filtered into the furnishings themselves — the walls, the lampshades, the carpets, the pictures — to give everything a darker shade and a deeper smell. There was a draft from the door onto the balcony, a cold shudder about their feet. The wind thrashed the leaves from the trees in Church Road. The first summer after the end of the war had well and truly disappeared beneath its own foliage. Denmark beat the Norwegian national squad 2-1 in Copenhagen. The bombs had fallen on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and man’s shadow had been imprinted on the earth forever. And still Dr. Schultz remained with Vera.

The Old One got up, impatient. “I’m freezing! Whatever you say, I’m freezing!” Boletta sat with folded hands. “I haven’t said a thing,” she replied. “I’m still freezing,” the Old One told her. “Has the doctor gone to sleep in there? I’m going in to see!” Boletta held her back. “Let him be.” “Well, I’ll light the stove instead. Tonight I’m having warm Malaga, and Vera’ll have some too! With quinine!” Boletta let her go. “You do that, Mother. Light the stove.”

The Old One lit a match, dropped it through the hatch and opened the damper. Soon they could feel the growing warmth, and the Old One laid her hands on the insecure surface of the hob and sighed. “I don’t want to be insured with Arnesen any longer,” she said. “And that’s final.” “Don’t be silly,” Boletta replied. “Then he’ll take the clock too.” “That can’t be helped. I just cannot abide him!” Now it was Boletta’s turn to sigh. “You’ve become nothing but a moan. That’s a fact. A moan!” The Old One stamped her foot. “I have not. I’m only saying that I can’t abide Arnesen!” “And you can’t abide Dr. Schultz either. You’re insolent to the bunch of them!” The Old One whispered over her shoulder, “But what is that idiot doing? He was sober when he went in, wasn’t he?” Boletta had got herself worked up now and wouldn’t let it go. “Nor can you bear the caretaker!” The Old One chuckled by the stove. “And what sort of sport was it that fool did when he was young? The triple jump! That ridiculous creature! And now you’ve gone and got your headache again, and you should just give your tongue a break.” “You don’t like anyone any more!” Boletta shouted. “That’s not true.” “Then tell me someone you like. If you can still remember the right name!” “With pleasure. I like Johannes V. Jensen!”

The Old One interrupted herself with a little squeak and brought her warm hands against her breast, almost as if she’d burnt her fingers on the stove. Boletta got up quickly. “What is it, Mother?” The Old One pointed at the small, sooty stove window where the flames rose tall and golden. “We’ve burnt Hamsun,” she whispered. “There is Hamsun burning.”

At the same moment Dr. Schultz came out of the bedroom, and he came quietly. He closed the door behind him, went in to the two women in the living room and carefully put down his bag. He remains standing like that for a time, looking down at his galoshes. One of them hasn’t been cleaned, or perhaps it’s because he stood in a puddle on the way over.

At last Dr. Schultz looked up. He spoke at length, his voice low. “Vera has again lost a good deal of blood.” The Old One took a step closer, her breathing heavy. “We know that. But this time she bled from her mouth!” Dr. Schultz nodded. “Yes, she’s given herself a nasty bite in the tongue.” Boletta sank down in the sofa and smiled. “She’s bitten herself on the tongue? So it’s not a stomach ulcer she has?” “Oh no. It’s anything but a stomach ulcer. Pardon me, but is it particularly warm in here?” Dr. Schultz’s forehead was shining, and he drew one finger inside his crumpled collar to let some air in. The Old One went closer still. “Yes,” she said. “It is warm in here. As a matter of fact we’re burning the collected works of Hamsun.” “What did you say?” “But would you now tell us Vera’s condition!”

Dr. Schultz turned instead to Boletta. “There is nothing wrong with Vera,” he told her. “Except for ... I mean ...” He was suddenly quiet and looked down again at his ridiculous galoshes. The Old One was up on her toes. “Except for what, young man? Speak up, for God’s sake!”

Dr. Schultz, that young man of close on sixty, drew himself up as best he could. “How can I put it?” he began slowly and hesitatingly. The Old One was almost on top of him. “Well, I’ll tell you! Quite simply you’ll spit it out and not stand there stammering like a knock-kneed cadet!” Dr. Schultz drew his hand under his nose where the drop still hung and refused to be wiped away. “So you both know nothing?”