The Half Brother: A Novel (68 page)

Peder was equally silent on the way home, and I was too, be- cause I had my own thoughts going through my head — I was going to write — and the thought was of such immensity that there was barely room for anything else. But when we went our separate ways, Peder said something after all. “I think we really have to look after Vivian,” he said. “We always look after Vivian,” I retorted. All at once Peder gave me a hug. “Good night, Barnum. Tomorrow we’re damn well going to ditch school.” And I walked the last part of the way alone up Church Road. It was a strange evening. I stopped at Marienlyst and looked around me. All this was mine. This was my world. The streets I walked in, the wood behind the town, the skies above the roofs. This was what I’d write about. It was here my characters would live — Esther from the kiosk, the Old One, Fred, Mom, Peder and Vivian, Dad (even though he was dead) — every one of them would have their place here, both the living and the dead. Then Fred appeared. He came across the grass, walked right through the little city where once upon a time we learned the Green Cross Code — through the small streets, the small pedestrian zones no larger than the lines on the pavement, over the sidewalks and between the tiny houses that were supposed to resemble real ones. And when I saw him walking like this, an idea came to me, my very first idea. Fred stopped in front of me. “You look a bit sad, Barnum.” “I was just thinking,” I told him. “Thinking? About what? Something sad?” I had to tell him. “I was thinking about everything I’m going to write.” Fred bent closer. “Write?” “I’ve made up my mind, Fred. I’m going to write.” “Write what?” “Film scripts,” I told him. Fred looked in the opposite direction, as if he were afraid someone was following him. But we were the only ones at Marienlyst that evening. “I’m tired,” he said, and laid his hand on my shoulder, and we walked like that the rest of the way home. Mom came rampaging out of the living room when she saw that Fred had finally appeared, but he just went on into the bedroom without so much as saying good morning. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “Just went for a walk,” Fred said, and banged the door behind him. “For five days!” she shouted after him and then looked at me instead. “Just went for a walk,” I repeated. And Mom smiled nevertheless; she was glad Fred had come home, despite the fact it had taken five days. And that was what we’d go on saying, time after time, when he began disappearing and finally had vanished for so long that he was declared dead —
Freds
just gone for a walk.
And it came to me that it was Vivian who’d first spoken the words earlier that evening, she’d said she’d just gone for a walk. “Shall I make you some supper?” Mom asked, and then I realized she really was in a good mood. “No, thanks,” I said, “but do you know if we have a book called
Hunger?”
Her smile became one of wonderment, and she turned toward Boletta, who’d already gotten up from the divan and was making her way slowly toward us. “Unfortunately, we burned that particular novel,” Boletta said. “Burned?” “The author was a troublemaker during the war, Bar-num. His books were no longer fit for our shelves. So we dumped his collected works right here in the stove.” Boletta had to support herself against my shoulder. Soon we’d be as small as each other. She gave a deep sigh. “But now I regret having done it. Even troublemakers can be good writers.”

I thought about that when I went to bed, and it served to strengthen my resolve.
Even troublemakers can be good writers.
Then I could manage it too — I, Barnum, the height of my own pen. I got up again, sat down at the table, switched on the lamp, got out a pen and pad and wrote:
A boy is walking slowly down a street. He’s bigger than the houses. He’s taller than the traffic lights. He stops at a corner. He’s all alone.
That was as far as I got, because I’d forgotten that Fred was there. “What are you calling the thing you’re writing?” he asked me. “’The Little City,’” I told him. “Fine title, Barnum.” I was so happy I put out the lamp. “Aren’t you going to write any more?” “I’ll wait until tomorrow.” “But why?” “I don’t know how it’s going to continue.” “You’re the only one who can know that,” Fred said. I curled up under the quilt. It was a long time since we’d talked together like this. I’d keep this conversation safe.

I closed my eyes. I’d smile myself slowly to sleep. Then I heard Fred coming and sitting down on my bed. He could ruin everything now. But he didn’t. What he said made our conversation all the more significant, and I knew I’d never forget it. I grew afraid all the same. “I’ve been doing some thinking myself,” he said, his voice low. “Thinking about what?” He was silent a good while. “That I’m going to find the letter the late Arnold Nilsen sold.” That was how he expressed it — the late Arnold Nilsen. I opened my eyes. Fred leaned right over me, very close to my face. “Don’t tell anyone, Barnum.” “No,” I said. “Don’t tell a soul.” I held up my hands so he could see my fingers. He gave a laugh, got up and stood there looking down at my pad, which was just visible in the golden glow of the streetlight that shone in through the curtains in a narrow, shimmering beam. And he began to read aloud; he read carefully and clearly
“A hoy is walking slowly down a street. He’s bigger than the houses. He’s taller than the traffic lights. He stops at a corner. He’s all alone.”
Fred read the first thing I’d written without making a single mistake — not one syllable did he get wrong. I didn’t dare say anything. I might begin to cry. That mustn’t happen. Whatever happened, it mustn’t be that. Fred closed my notebook and lay down once more. We lay there in the dark with a line of chalk on the floor between us. “He’s all alone,” he breathed.

Fred was sleeping when I got up the following morning, or at least he appeared to be. Mom padded around the apartment, her voice low, hushing us at the slightest noise lest Fred be wakened. I didn’t go to school. I went to Sten Park and sat up at the top of Blåsen. I got out my notebook, pen and packed lunch and hid my schoolbag under a bush. It was a fine day. The air was clear and cool, but not cold. It was as if everything was brought closer — Ekeberg Hill on the far side, the gray buildings, the church towers. The city became smaller and smaller. I started writing.
He is all alone. The light changes. But there are no cars there. He goes over the pedestrian crossing. The yellow lines are smaller than his shoes. He goes into a shop and has to stoop right down to get in. Its a flower shop. He’s all alone there, too. He calls out, “Is there anyone here?” But no one answers. He starts picking flowers from vases, and they stick up just over his fingers. He leaves some money on the counter and goes out. And in the same moment he leaves, all hunched up, he’s blinded by a dazzling light and has to shield his eyes. A voice shouts out, “You’re under arrest!”
I felt hungry after all this and had a slice of bread with sausage and cheese, and as I sat up there like this on Blåsen, on a hilltop of dead horses, right in the middle of my story, I noticed something happening over on St. Hans Hill, the other point of elevation in the vicinity, and soon enough I saw what it was. It was the group making the movie. They were back in business. Here I was sitting writing and there they were making the movie, each of us atop our respective hills. I packed up my stuff, climbed down the steep path and ran over in their direction. By the time I got there they’d already stopped for a break. I recognized Pontus. He was sitting on a bench, resting against his shiny trouser knees, agitatedly smoking a cigarette. He looked just as beat as he had the day before. The director sat in his own chair eating sandwiches while he leafed through the script. The same policeman was in evidence too. Surely walking there wouldn’t be banned? I went along the path through the trees and lessened my pace when I got close to Pontus. He glanced up and drew a thin finger behind his glasses to scratch his eye. All at once he threw away his cigarette and said something. “Would you be so gracious as to tell me what time it is?” I halted, quite taken aback, and just managed to roll up the sleeve of my jacket. “It’s ten o’clock,” I said. Pontus shook his head. “No, it is not! It’s two!” I had to take a second look. My watch said ten. “It’s ten o’clock,” I repeated. Pontus got up and became really infuriated. “You are completely mistaken. It is two o’clock. Correct your watch accordingly, my good man!” I heard the sound of laughter from up by the camera. “Would you like a sausage sandwich, Pontus?” I asked him. Pontus was momentarily staggered, taken off guard — you could have knocked him over with a feather. He sat down once more. “And what’s your name?” he asked. “Barnum,” I replied. He nodded and didn’t take his eyes off me. “Pontus and Barnum. Sounds like an old pair from the silent films. Is your name really Barnum?” “Yes, I was christened Barnum by the vicar on R0st.” “But I’m afraid I’m not actually called Pontus. My name’s Per Oscarsson.” He stretched out his hand. I took it. It was more or less like shaking a bunch of bones. “Thank you, Barnum. I’d love to have a sausage sandwich. But I’m afraid it’s not possible. I’m playing a hungry madman in this film, so that means I have to be hungry.” “I see that,” I said. He let go of my hand and pointed down at his shoes. They were equally thin. “I’ve walked bare-legged from Stockholm to Oslo,” he said. “Do you know how many miles that is?” I shook my head. “Nor do I. But it’s a lot.” Pontus leaned back on the bench. “I’m hungry,” he sighed. “I barely know where I am.” “You’re on St. Hans Hill in Oslo,” I told him. Pontus nodded slowly. “Thank you, Barnum. That means we’re off to Palace Park later today.” He gave a deep sigh. “Next time I want to play a fat king.” A lady in expansive pants came down to where we were. She had with her a case containing various tubes and something that resembled a shaving brush. “The maestro’s waiting,” she hissed. Then she began bringing out Pontus’ features — she darkened his stubble, made his hair thinner and his eyes even wilder-looking than they already were. While she was doing this, the maestro got up and shouted, “Would all intruders leave the set at once!” The maestro was the director. Intruders meant me. “What’s the time?” I asked quickly. Pontus took out his pocket watch, smiled, and with great ceremony opened it. There was nothing inside at all — it was like a silver shell with the flesh scraped out. Pontus smiled. “The time is precisely five minutes to twelve.”

I ran down to Solli Square, but at the last corner I slowed down and sauntered the final bit of the way. Peder and Vivian were under the tree already I was in good time. I snatched up a couple of leaves and studied their fine patterning; veins on a green sheet. Peder and Vivian came over. “Barnum’s in plenty of time today!” Peder exclaimed. I dropped the leaves carefully down onto the ground again. “They’re in Palace Park,” I announced. “And how do you know that?” I shrugged my shoulders. “I was talking to Pontus.” Vivian put her head to one side. She tended to do that when there was something she didn’t get, as if somehow that would help, having her head at an angle. The corner of her eyes were red; thin sores she’d tried to brush away Perhaps she hadn’t slept the night before? Perhaps she’d sat up reading the rest of the novel to her mother? “Pontus?” she asked quietly. “The main character in the movie. I met him on St. Hans Hill.” Peder took a step closer. “You mean it?” “Of course I do!” Peder began whirling his arms. “So what was he like?” I thought about it a long while. Peder was bursting with curiosity. “Pontus was hungry,” I said. Together we went down to Palace Park. Nothing was happening there. Only King Olav was at home. Perhaps he’d been told to keep away from the windows. I couldn’t get these thoughts out of my head.
What does it take for us to believe in the things we see? Did Pontus speak Swedish because we were still part of Sweden? How much can we really see? And if a plane crossed the city, would everything have to be done from scratch? This was my thought
—
how much do you have to lie before someone believes it’s actually the truth?
“I’m hungry, too,” Peder said. Slowly he started down toward the kiosk by the National Theater. He’d grown fatter again in the wake of the summer. We could hear his labored breathing all the way to where we were standing. There was a faint smile on Vivians lips and she was about to say something, but then didn’t in the end. We sat down in the leaves behind the largest of the trees so the guards wouldn’t see us. Vivian was silent. When I looked at her for any length of time she almost became transparent, as if her skin was water I could have leaned right into. I suddenly remembered what she’d said, that she’d been born in an accident. “What is it?” she asked. “Nothing,” I whispered. I wanted to move closer to her, but she leaned away and instead brought out a book from her shoulder bag. She then gave it to me. The book was
Hunger
by Knut Hamsun, the troublemaker. “You can have it,” Vivian said. “Have you finished it?” She nodded. “Many thanks,” I said. I leafed through it a bit. I didn’t find Pontus anywhere. “How does it end?” I asked her. “The main character leaves town,” Vivian told me. “Does he come back?” Vivian looked down. “That I can’t tell you. It’s not mentioned.” “It sounds like a pretty sad ending,” I said. Vivian looked at me again. “You think so?” But I couldn’t say any more, because at that moment Peder was coming back and had bought enough food for a fortnight — he had half the Freia chocolate factory with him and hadn’t forgotten to get himself real gingerbread and peppermint drops (Vivian’s absolute favorite, even though her slender figure was none the worse for them). “The probability of one of two events occurring is equal to the sum total of each of the events’ probability,” Peder said, and let three packets of chocolate twirls tumble into the leaves. “In other words, are we going to choose chocolate or hunger?” We started with chocolate. And someone must have taken a picture of us there without our noticing, because several years later I came across a photograph in
Who What Where,
and I gradually started to recognize the three blurred figures who sat there all hunched over scrabbling in the leaves. It was ourselves — Peder, Vivian and myself — and we had a kind of sly look as if something nefarious was going on, rather than just the eating of a few twirls in the autumn leaves. And under the picture was this caption:
The first young people to seek out the drug scene in Palace Park, in protest against what they called the dance of death around the plastic god and the golden calf.
And it was then I understood, once and for all, abashed and perhaps amused too, and yet with a degree of sorrow, that it’s the eye that decides what it wants to see. The eye twists the world, and everything you see now and will see in the future has revisionist power.