The Half Brother: A Novel (24 page)

Arnold Nilsen doesn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night. And when his alarm clock goes off, he doesn’t get up, he just lies there. Then he hears something beyond the door — an anxious noise — they’re talking quickly and quietly, as if they can’t quite make up their minds, and in the end Vera looks in on him. “Are you ill?” she inquires. Arnold Nilsen has to turn his face to the wall so she won’t see he’s on the verge of tears, because someone cares about him, someone wonders how he is, and he’s almost overcome by such concern. “I’ll stay home from work today,” he whispers.

Vera quietly shuts the door and passes the message on. Arnold Nilsen is quite well. He’s just going to stay home from work that day. They don’t quite know what it is he’s going to stay home from. He just remains lying there on the divan and stays home from work. Boletta goes to the Exchange. Fred goes down into the yard. The Old One and Vera wash sheets. “If it’s life he lives off, it must be life he’s staying away from,” the Old One says. Vera hushes her. “Don’t tell me to be quiet! I’m only quoting his own words. Has he said anything to you?” The Old One pulls at the sheet so violently that Vera loses her balance and has to be supported by her grandmother. “Said anything?” “Yes, about what he does. What he has done. What he’s thought of doing. It can’t just be poems he whispers in that little ear of yours!” Vera sits down on the edge of the tub. “I don’t ask him. And he doesn’t ask me.” The Old One sighs and lays the cloth in her lap. “We just have to hope he isn’t another night man.”

Arnold Nilsen’s breakfast is waiting for him when he comes into the kitchen. The apartment is silent. He’s alone. It’s the first time he’s been alone there. He takes his coffee cup with him over to the window and looks down into the yard. Vera and the Old One are hanging the wash out to dry — great white sheets that they stretch and throw over the clotheslines, and then attach with clothespins they have in bags around their waists. All this Arnold Nilsen ob- serves. Its an ordinary morning in the summer of 1950; soon the sun will fill the whole of the yard. Some boys are repairing their bicycles over by the gate; the lame caretaker is standing facing away filling a bucket with water, and behind everything is the sound of someone playing a simple tune on the piano, over and over again. Vera and the Old One laugh as a stray gust of wind blows in and billows up the sheet they’re holding and all but carries them off. Arnold Nilsen sees all this. He is a witness this morning. A witness to this humanity — a bucket that has to be filled, a bicycle repaired, sheets dried in the sun. His first anxiety has passed. Instead he is filled with wonderment, and that too is a sort of anxiety — he is filled with wonderment at all this that is becoming his. He is a man on the far edge of his youth — soon it will be gone — he’s almost thirty, and the world is growing smaller and smaller around him. This is his world, and he is a witness to it. He must forget everything that has been and begin remembering anew. Then he notices that Freds sitting in the only corner where shadow remains. He’s sitting there staring. He tears this morning to pieces. Vera calls him. Fred doesn’t move. She calls again. But Fred remains sitting there, in his dark corner, and when it gradually begins to fill with light he covers his eyes.

Then the doorbell rings. Arnold Nilsen puts down his cup and hesitates. He doesn’t officially live here. His name still isn’t on the door. The bell rings again. He looks down into the yard where the Old One’s squatting down and hugging Fred. Arnold Nilsen goes out into the hall and opens the door. It’s Arnesen. He pretends to be surprised. “Are none of the ladies home?” he asks. “They’re down in the courtyard hanging out the wash. I can get them if you want.” But Arnesen just waves his hand and is past him in a flash. “I know the way” He puts down his briefcase on the floor in front of the clock, takes out the key to it and then turns toward Arnold Nilsen. “They say it’s you who’s the owner of the new car.” Arnold Nilsen nods. Arnesen smiles. “And what sort of horsepower does an engine like that have?” “A hundred fifty.” “A hundred fifty? My word. So it can drive faster than the law actually permits?” Arnold Nilsen laughs. “A fast car can go slow too,” he says. “True enough. As long as one doesn’t give in to temptation. And each and every one of us has the power to do that. When no one’s looking, I mean.” Arnold Nilsen says nothing to this. Now it’s Arnesen’s turn to laugh. “Well, here I am standing talking on the job without actually introducing myself. I’m Mr. Arnesen, the insurance agent,” He proffers his hand, clasps the stiff glove, and lets go of it immediately. A shudder passes through him. “An accident?” he inquires. “The war,” Arnold Nilsen replies. Arnesen smiles, turns away, pulls out the drawer under the clock and collects the money in a leather bag that he then places in his briefcase. Arnold Nilsen observes the speed and flexibility of the man’s fingers; he’s seen it before, but he knows that no one’s ever quick enough, that there’s always someone who’ll catch you, sooner or later. You make a mistake and drop everything on the floor; you tremble a tiny bit and blow off your arm. “Is it your wife who plays the piano?” he asks. Arnesen pushes the drawer into place and looks at him. He isn’t smiling any more. “Does it disturb you?” “Not in the least.” “But you think that she should practice something else?” “That hadn’t crossed my mind.” “If you live here long enough, it will cross your mind.” Arnold Nilsen produces a banknote from his jacket pocket and drops it into the briefcase. “Now I’m insured too,” he says. Arnesen snaps shut the lid. “Yes, you might need to be.”

Arnesen retreats with a bow but doesn’t offer his hand this time; he’s felt the artificial fingers once. Arnold Nilsen remains standing by the oval clock — it’s six minutes past nine. Then he hears the others in the kitchen. He goes to meet them. “Arnesen’s been here to collect the premium,” he tells them. The Old One looks around. “Yes, I felt it had grown cold here,” she murmurs.

Fred runs out into the hall, climbs onto a chair and shakes the clock. There’s almost no sound, only Fred laughing, almost screaming, as he shakes and shakes the clock, until in the end the Old One has to tear him away and reposition the hands. Arnold Nilsen produces another note and gives it to Fred. “You can have that to put in the drawer.” Fred stares at the curled blue paper. “I want money,” he says. Arnold Nilsen laughs and instead fishes out a coin that he bites into hard before giving to Fred. “You’ll hear when this hits the bottom all right!” For a long time Fred rubs the coin against his thigh and then drops it in his pocket. “You have to put it in the clock,” Vera tells him. “So nothing will happen to us.” Fred shakes his head and wants to get away. Vera holds him back. “At least you can say thank you. Say thank you very much, Fred!” “It doesn’t matter,” Arnold Nilsen assures her. But Vera has made up her mind that Fred will do as he’s told. “Say many thanks!” she shouts. “Or else give the money back!” Fred’s mouth is clamped shut, and his hand’s knotted deep in his pocket; he twists away. “Say many thanks!” Vera shouts and refuses to let him go. At that point the Old One comes between them. “Let him be,” she says, and puts some money into the clock for all of them.

That evening Boletta and Vera bring in the dry laundry. The sun is shining low from the other end and has lifted the light from the yard. They carry the basket down to the mangle in the basement, put the first sheet between the rollers and have to join forces to turn the handle. When the next one has been put through and smoothed out, Boletta asks, “Has something happened to Fred?” Vera rests against the handle. “I can’t talk to him. He won’t listen to me any more.” Boletta folds the sheet and places it in the basket. “Hes just a bit confused,” she says. “And then it’s easy to become angry.” Vera’s close to tears. She covers her mouth. “Perhaps it’s best if Arnold leaves,” she murmurs. Boletta smiles. “Oh, it wasn’t exactly that I was thinking of.” She puts her arm around her daughter. “Fred isn’t used to hearing you laugh.”

At that moment they hear someone coming along the passage and they know at once who it is. One shoe drags continually, delayed and out of step, scraping along the stone floor. He stops in the doorway. It’s the caretaker, Bang. He lets his gaze rest on the pile of sheets. “You can never have enough sheets,” he says, and that’s all he ventures for a time. Boletta turns away and sprinkles some water on the final sheet to go through the mangle. The caretaker focuses his attention on Vera. “Would you like some help to crank the handle?” Vera shakes her head. “No, thanks.” He smiles and goes closer. “There are obviously more to lay the table for these days.” Vera turns the handle with all her might and the sheet disappears between the rollers. “It must be a comfort indeed to have a man in the house at last,” Bang continues slowly. Suddenly Boletta whirls around once more, and the two of them stand almost eyeball to eyeball. “Now you just take your foot with you and get lost!” she tells him. The caretaker limps backward, speechless and hurt, and hurries away through the basement. Boletta and Vera look at one another, hold their breath as long as they can, and finally burst out laughing. “That was just like listening to the Old One!” Vera said, laughing still. Boletta has to be supported by her and can hardly speak. “Oh, dear,” she gasps. “Have I really begun to be like my mother!”

When they go back again with the sheets, the Old Ones already gone to bed. She says she feels washed out and dizzy; she wants to see Dr. Sand, Dr. Schultz’s successor and his complete opposite — a confirmed teetotaler who uses mouth swabs and cortisone. She has pain behind her forehead. She feels strange right down her arms. “You’ve infected me with your headache and your bruised elbows!” she accuses Boletta, and wants to be left in peace. They leave the patient be and next morning the Old One’s up before the others, orders a taxi, and won’t be dissuaded by Boletta and Vera, who hear her telephoning and come to her aid. She doesn’t want anyone’s company and most certainly doesn’t want to be driven in Arnold Nilsen’s car. No, she’ll manage the last part alone, just as elephants step aside to die with dignity without troubling the rest of the herd. “You’re making a fuss,” Boletta giggles at her. “There’s nothing wrong with you!” But the Old One gives her an angry look, goes down to the taxi and seats herself in the back. She asks the driver to take her around the corner of Jacob Aall Street and stop there. “That’s a hundred yards,” he says. “And I’m paying,” the Old One replies. And I would love to say that it was the same taxi driver as on the night when Fred was born, but it wasn’t. Things don’t happen like that, but had it been the case the narrative might perhaps have turned and taken another direction, or the reader would believe it was a lie, an invention, and therefore doubt the rest of our story too, and probably give up on it for good to seek out more reliable accounts. All the same, I wish it had been the same driver, because I’d love to have heard the conversation between the Old One and him. Perhaps she’d have invited him back later that day for a cup of tea or coffee; they could have told each other about the intervening time since they stopped at the junction of Church Road and Ullevål Road and a very bloody child came into the world in his backseat. Afterward, he could have greeted Fred, the boy he himself had christened, for hadn’t they kept the first name that had been spoken in that holy taxi? Yes, this indeed is Fred. But the driver’s someone else, an older man who continually draws his fingers over his untidy and not entirely clean mustache. “Are we waiting for someone?” he inquires. “That is something you needn’t concern yourself with yet,” the Old One replies. She’s keeping an eye on the Buick parked on the other corner. There still hasn’t been any sign of Arnold Nilsen. For a moment she’s worried. Perhaps he’s taken the day off again? The meter in the taxi keeps clicking. Then at last he appears, gets behind the wheel, and swings out into Church Road. “Now you will please follow that car,” the Old One tells the driver, while she herself sinks as low as possible in the seat so there isn’t the faintest risk of being spotted.

Arnold Nilsen drives through Majorstuen and down Bogstad Road. It’s spitting rain and he’s driving with the top up. A few souls are waiting outside the “pole” with their hands in their pant pockets and with their heads bowed. The pigeons on the Valkyrie take off like a shoal of fish and alight on their chosen cornices. A baker brings out loaves to his delivery van and the fresh crusts steam with heat. The city is awake and sleepless in the mild rain. And Arnold Nilsen just drives on unsuspecting through yet another morning. He parks in a backyard in Gr0nne Street, and walks the last part of the way over to Coch’s Hostel. The Old One has stopped the taxi at Park Road, and from there she can observe him ringing the bell and gaining admittance. She waits. She has time enough. The meter reaches an unheard-of sum. She has sufficient to pay. The driver moves his finger back and forth beneath his nose. But it’s patience she doesn’t have enough of. She pays and hurries across the street to the lugubrious doorway. This is Arnold Nilsen’s emergency exit and his back door, she thinks to herself. His smokescreen. Or else he has someone else with whom he amuses himself, that little stain of a man. Whatever the reason, he’s going to suffer for it. The Old One rings the bell of Coch’s Hostel. Eventually the door opens a little, and a fat woman with heavy eyelids peers out. “I’m here to see Arnold Nilsen,” the Old One tells her. The woman looks embarrassed. “Don’t know him.” She’s about to shut the door again, but the Old One has no intention of leaving Coch’s Hostel with her mission unaccomplished. She puts her shoe in the door, grabs hold of the woman’s ear and twists it. “You shouldn’t lie to elderly ladies,” she hisses. “Take me to Nilsen’s room!” The Old One’s admitted. They climb a steep staircase to something that resembles a reception desk, with a counter that has ashtrays and old newspapers on it, and a board from which hang two keys. The place smells of tobacco and moldering mattresses. Three men sit in a windowless room playing cards and drinking beer. They glance at the Old One, uncertainly, before hunching over their bottles once more. “You’ll find him in 502,” the fat woman says, massaging her ear. “But why didn’t you say that to begin with?” the Old One says brightly. “Because our guests demand complete privacy,” the woman replies, raising her eyebrows. The three men titter from their room. “Yes, I can believe that,” the Old One says. “But now it’s going to be anything but complete for Arnold Nilsen!” With that she proceeds up to the fifth floor and comes to a long, narrow corridor with tall windows on one side and doors on the other. Outside one door there’s a pair of shoes. Slowly the Old One goes down to the end of the corridor, where she finds Room 502. At first she listens and hears extraordinary gusts of wind coming from inside the room, gusts that rise and fall in strength. She peers through the keyhole and sees clouds scudding past. Then the Old One stands tall and hammers on the door. “I’m not to be disturbed!” Arnold Nilsen shouts. “How many times must I make that clear!” “One more time!” the Old One shouts back. There’s silence in Room 502, total silence. Then Arnold Nilsen opens the door and looks out at her, pale and disheveled. “Well, you’d better come in.” The Old One walks past him and stops. The bed is made. A whole assortment of tools are lying on the floor. Various designs are unfolded on a table by the window, the curtains of which are drawn. The shade has been removed from the standard lamp, and the bulb sends golden light in every direction. No one else is there. But in the center of the room there’s a tall stand with a propeller on it that almost resembles a crooked star, and a ladder leads up to the top of it. Arnold Nilsen shuts the door. “You’re looking at my windmill,” he whispers. The Old One turns toward him. “A windmill? Have you been keeping a windmill hidden in Coch’s Hostel?” He puts the shade back on the lamp and stands by the window. “It’s taking time to finish it,” he says, “with only one hand.” The Old One circles the windmill and doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. As a result she feels bewildered and in the end sits down on the bed. “Are you making it yourself?” she asks. Immediately Arnold Nilsen shows her the drawings, but all this geometry is meaningless to her and she pushes them away. “You don’t understand wind down here in the south,” he tells her, “because you don’t really know what wind is! You think its windy when it blows a bit in Frogner Park. Oh, no!” He climbs up a few steps on the ladder, pushes the wheel into motion, and the same sounds can be heard, of gusts of wind, and the Old One has to lean backward so as not to be hit in the head. Arnold Nilsen laughs. “The wind is like a mine, a mine under the skies! There one can find the purest, most flowing gold that’s to be found.” Suddenly he grows serious and comes down the ladder again. “You aren’t sick,” he murmurs. “You followed me.” “Of course!” the Old One responds. “I wanted to know what sort of man you really were!” “You thought I had someone else apart from Vera, was that it?” The Old One says nothing. Arnold Nilsen sits down beside her. “And so you found me here with a windmill instead! What sort of man do you think I am now?” The Old One gets up and goes over to the window. “Have you heard of the elephants in the mountain country of Deccan?” she asks him. Arnold Nilsen shakes his head. “It’s at the very top of India. The train runs there between the various borders and has to cross a great plain where the elephant herds range. On one occasion a young elephant was run over by the train. Are you paying attention, Arnold Nilsen?” He nods, and the sweat glistens on his forehead. “Yes. I’m hearing everything you say and more.” “Good! Because when the train was on its return journey, the mother of that elephant was standing at exactly the same spot, waiting. She attacked a train engine and twenty-five passenger cars. Because she was determined to avenge the death of her young one. She was determined to derail a whole train.” The Old One sits with him once more. “Who do you think won, Arnold Nilsen?” she asks. He doesn’t answer her immediately. And when he does, it’s to answer another question. “Perhaps that’s why a hair from an elephant’s tail is lucky,” he whispers. For a long while the Old One sits in silence. “I don’t know what sort of man you are, Arnold Nilsen. I only know that you’re to be careful with Vera and Fred. They are very fragile, both of them. Is that understood?”