The Half Brother: A Novel (25 page)

Arnold Nilsen moves into Vera’s bedroom in August, and he hangs all his suits at the very back of the closet behind her dresses. He lies down silently beside her in the double bed. He stares up at the ceiling. He smiles. Perhaps he thinks that now, finally, the green sun has risen high enough and is shining on him. He breathes deeply, moved and wondering, and senses a sweet and heavy taste in his mouth. “I think I can taste Malaga in here,” he murmurs. And Arnold Nilsen turns to Vera, and she lets him come.

They got married in September, in the Majorstuen Church. Vera said she would prefer the ceremony to be somewhere else, since the same vicar as before was employed there. Arnold Nilsen peacefully replied, “If the wretch wouldn’t baptize Fred, he can hardly refuse to let us go to the altar! If he did, I’d haul him and his congregation up before the King, the cabinet and I don’t know who!” It rained that Saturday. The Old One, Boletta, Fred, Bang the caretaker, Arnesen and three bleary-eyed men from Coch’s Hostel were there. The vicar read the liturgy quickly and sulkily, and stared with revulsion at Vera’s white dress. And Vera resolutely met his gaze, smiling, but when Arnold Nilsen slipped the ring she had promised to look after for Rakel onto her finger, she bowed her head (to the vicar’s great satisfaction) and wept. And she knew then there’s no such thing as pure joy, and it’s perhaps for that very reason that we laugh.

I was born in March. I came into the world with my feet first, and I caused my mother great pain.

BARNUM

Baptism

“Barnum?” The vicar put down his pen and looked at Mom, who was sitting on the other side of the desk with me on her lap. “Barnum?” he repeated. Mom didn’t answer. She glanced instead at my father, who was slowly turning his hat with his fingers. “That’s right,” he said. “You heard correctly. We are decided on that. The boy’s going to be called Barnum.” Perhaps I screamed at that point. Mom had to comfort me. Mom sang there in the vestry. He took up his pen once more, impatient, and wrote something on a sheet of paper. “Is Barnum really a name?” Dad sighed gently at his ignorance. “Barnum is as good a name as any,” he responded. The vicar smiled. “You’re from northern Norway, Arnold Nilsen?” Dad nodded. “From R0st, Mr. Sunde. Where Norway puts the full stop.” I stopped crying, and Mom stopped singing. The vicar got up. “You’re perhaps rather more liberal when it comes to the giving of names up there. But down here we have our limits.” Dad gave a laugh. “Barnum is no northern Norwegian invention, my dear reverend.” The vicar pulled out a book from the shelves behind him. He leafed through it hunting for something. Mom gave Dad a kick and nodded in the direction of the door. Dad shook his head. The vicar sat down and laid the book on the table. “Is that the Bible you’re consulting?” The vicar didn’t reply. He read aloud. “It is expressly forbidden to confer a name that might become a burden to the one who is to bear it.” I started to cry. Mom rocked me and began humming. The vicar closed the book and looked up, his jowls taut. “The law pertaining to the giving of names from February 9, 1923.” The hat stopped turning in Dad’s hands. “But is it not the case that the name is shaming no one?” he inquired. The vicar had no answer to this. Instead he said, “I would ask you to find another name for the poor child.” Mom had already gotten up and was going toward the door. “He is no poor child!” she said. “And now we’re going!” Dad remained a moment longer. “This is not the first time the vicar has spited my children,” he whispered. The vicar smiled. “Your children? Are you the father of both?” Dad put on his hat. His breath choked him, and he could have cursed his crooked nose. “There are other vicars,” he hissed. “But only one God and one law,” the vicar retorted. Dad banged the door after him as they left, but out in the hallway Mom began to lose her nerve. “Couldn’t we call him something else?” she wept. Dad wouldn’t hear of it. “He’s going to be called Barnum, damn it!” Now I started crying again. And Dad tore open the door of the vestry and leaned his head and hat in. “We had a neighbor at home by the name of Elendius,” he shouted. “It would have suited you better!”

Dad never slept that night. He sat up brooding. He walked back and forth in the living room and kept the rest of us awake too. On several occasions he banged the table with his fist and muttered loudly to himself. Then there was quiet for a long while. By the time breakfast was ready he was standing in the kitchen, exhausted, but resolved, and preferred not to sit down. “I left a note for my parents,” he said. “That I’d return when the time was right. Or not at all. Now it’s time.” The spoonful of porridge that Mom was trying to coax into my mouth stopped in midair. She looked up. Boletta put down her teacup, and the Old One had to hold Fred to keep him still. “What do you mean?” Mom asked. Dad took a deep breath. “The boy’s going to be baptized on R0st!” he answered.

Dad disappeared for a couple of days. There were things that had to be sorted out first. On the morning of the third day he came back in a tailored black suit, a pale coat, and shiny shoes, with his hair — equally shiny — cut and sweeping over his brow. He kissed Mom and waved a whole bunch of tickets. “Pack your suitcase and get ready!” We left that evening on the night train to Trondheim. Boletta, the Old One and Fred came with us to the station. Mom cried in the departure hall. Fred was given a bar of milk chocolate by Dad, and the first thing he did was to throw it down onto the tracks. Oh, if only they’d just called me Arne, Arnold Junior or Wilhelm the Second! But no, my name was to be Barnum, and we had to travel to R0st to have it inscribed in the parish records. A conductor carried the suitcase to the sleeping car. Then the train gave a lurch, and Mom leaned out the window to wave while Dad held me in his arms. And I can still catch the scent, which I’m able to reconstruct, piece by piece, like some chemist in the laboratory of memory. Hair oil mixed with sweet cologne over rough cheeks; the powerful whiff of tobacco from the gloves, and the hint of sweat from the tight shirt collar. All this rises into a higher unity into the bitter-scented formality of the platform — leaving. I slept and could have no knowledge of all this. I was still beyond memory. I slept with my mother in the lower bunk, and Dad unscrewed the top of a hip flask and poured brandy into the tooth glass. He gave it to Mom, who could only stand to smell it. Dad drank it instead and breathed out. “Now the boy will get his rightful name,” he said. “And I will pick up all the loose threads.” He poured a second glass and emptied that too. “Cheers, my dear. Let’s make this our delayed honeymoon too.” Mom took his mutilated hand and whispered, since I was still sleeping and mustn’t wake up. “Do they know we’re coming?” Dad suddenly felt pain in his missing fingers. “They?” “Your parents, Arnold.” “I don’t even know if they’re still alive,” he whispered. And he sank down on the floor and stayed like that, on his knees, and leaned close to my mother’s breast. “I’m afraid, Vera. I’m so afraid.”

It’s raining in Trondheim. Mom carries me from the train. A conductor comes with a stroller, and I’m laid down in it. Dad has put his fear behind him. He gives the conductor some money and claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll happily carry the suitcase with the other items,” the conductor says, and quickly puts the money in his cap. “Good idea.” Dad pushes him away, and then exchanges the empty hip flask for an umbrella with a man waiting for the cafe to open. “What sort of items?” Mom asks. “Oh, just a little gift.” Dad laughs and opens the black umbrella over us, and thus I’m wheeled through the broad streets to the quayside. There lies the waiting vessel. Mom turns pale. Now it’s her turn to be afraid. “We can’t be sailing in that tub, can we?” she murmurs. But Dad doesn’t have time to reply at that moment, for a wooden crate at least twelve feet square with strong rope around it is being winched on board; it sways in the wind and is on the point of tumbling from the ropes that hold it. “Careful, damn it!” he roars. And eventually the crate is safely lowered onto the deck; the whole boat rolls even more, and the passengers standing along the rail applaud, and Dad gives a deep bow, as if he has personally lifted the precious cargo with his one and a half hands.

The captain himself shows us to our cabin. It’s low and narrow and the waves wash over the porthole. Dad pulls him to one side. “How long will we be berthed in Svolvaer?” “An hour,” the captain replies. “Excellent,” Dad says. And the captain proceeds to invite the Nilsen family to dinner at his table that evening at six o’clock. But Mom is as sick as a dog before we’ve even left the Trondheim Fjord and rounded Fossenlandet, the bow finally pointing north. Dad stands on deck, in the lee of the great wooden crate on which his name is written in red paint. He stands there under the black umbrella. The angst he has left behind him creeps back once more. He could go on land at the next port of call and vanish. He’s done it before. But no, it’s too late now. He has been through his winter darkness. He knows that. Now he’s visible. Now it’s June. They’re heading for the sun. They’re sailing out of the rain and into the sun. All of a sudden he begins laughing and throws the umbrella overboard; it flaps away like a wounded cormorant and vanishes in the waves. For who’s ever come back to R0st with a gentleman’s umbrella in their hand — only a lunatic or a ghost who didn’t know that the only umbrella that’s survived the wind on R0st had spokes made of halibut bones and had stretched over it the skin of four catfish. Dad puts his ear to the crate and thinks he can hear a weak whistling from within. Afterward he goes back down to the cabin. Mom’s lying on the narrow berth. The sweat’s pouring from her. “We’re dining at the captain’s table at six,” he tells her. Mom vomits. And as she does so, so do I, as if I’m still a part of her. We vomit together, and Dad has a busy time of things. He finds a female cabin steward who changes the sheet, mops the floor and puts two buckets by the bed. Mom is exhausted and drained. She just manages to hold me. “Come up,” Dad says. “It’s the walls that are making you seasick.” “Be quiet,” Mom whispers. “You have to look at the waves to be able to stand them,” he tells her. Mom groans. “Why didn’t we drive instead?” Dad becomes uneasy and has to wipe the sweat from his own brow. “Because there wasn’t enough gas, and anyway, the car’s at the garage just now,” he tells her. “And besides, they haven’t paved over the Moskenes whirlpool yet.” Mom manages a watery smile. “That was three answers, Arnold. And now I know you’re telling me tales.” Dad gives a laugh. “And now I know that you’re going to be better soon!” He gets up and looks down on Mom and me. Perhaps he notices now that I’ll come to resemble him in time, except for my eyes, which are blue. And it’s a moment of joy and unease, triumph and grief. “Ill ask the captain to send the food down,” he whispers. “No, you go up to join them,” Mom tells him. “Please.” And he does as she requests. Arnold Nilsen sits at the captain’s table. He eats halibut steaks with a buttery sauce and drinks a bottle of beer. He talks loudly and in American to some tourists, and proposes a toast to those around him. “What’s your business up here in the north?” the captain inquires. “I’m having my son christened,” Dad tells him. The captain lights a cigarette and looks at his gloves. “Then maybe its a church that you have with you in that crate?” Dad smiles. “Yes, you could well say that.” But he doesn’t disclose any more. He doesn’t intend to reward his curiosity with more answers. One truth is enough for that day. He loves being secretive, a well-hidden riddle speaking several languages. He keeps his mouth shut. They have coffee. The table begins to roll. The plates slide to the edge of the table. A bottle tumbles. The lamps flicker. The captain is dissatisfied with the conversation. “Didn’t your wife want to dine with us?” he inquires. “She’s unfortunately not able to cope with the swell,” Dad tells him. That was one more truth, he realizes at that moment. And often two truths can be too many, if they follow each other with too brief a gap. Either he should have told a lie, been rude or just kept quiet. Because at once the captain becomes considerate. “There’s a doctor on board who might take a look at the young mother,” he says. “Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Dad pleads. But the captain is already clapping his hands. “Dr. Paulsen!” he shouts. And an ancient, thin fellow with a worn collar, a crack in one of his spectacle lenses and only two buttons on his waistcoat, slowly turns where he’s sitting at the table in the corner. He pushes back his chair, and it’s almost as if he arises from another place in another time altogether and looks back through the hours and years that lie in the darkness. His mouth trembles. “Who?” he mumbles. The captain gives a wave. “Come here, doctor!” Dad hunches over his coffee cup. He has no idea why and he curses himself for it, but his fear grips him again; he can’t escape it — it’s quicker than he is. It’s this he dreaded. It’s this he’s looked forward to — recognition. But not like this, not in this manner, in such a miserable way. He wants it to be triumphant; unrivaled wonderment. And Dr. Paulsen comes toward them unsteadily over the sloping floor. He stops. The captain draws him closer. “We have a young woman on board who’s seasick, and she has a young child, my dear doctor. What would your advice be in this particular instance?” All at once the old doctor starts laughing. It’s quite inappropriate. It’s a drunken laughter that doesn’t know what it’s laughing at and in the end just laughs at itself. Arnold Nilsen ventures to look up. “So you think it’s funny that my wife is so ill?” The doctor coughs and dries his wet mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. “Gentlemen, no one has died yet of seasickness. It’s only a sign of human discomfort. Before one grows used to the movements of the ship.” Arnold Nilsen becomes overconfident. “A hat pin in the heart might help,” he says. Dr. Paulsen jumps, takes off his glasses, looks at Arnold, puts them on once more. “On the contrary, I would recommend some hard, dry bread and half a glass of wine.” He bows and returns to his table. Arnold Nilsen, my father, gives a laugh, for he’s survived — he hasn’t been recognized yet. “Is that the ship’s doctor himself who came over?” he asks. The captain shakes his head. “No, Dr. Paulsen is himself ill,” he whispers. “He’s coming back after having been examined in Trondheim. Sadly, he’s dying.” And Dr. Paulsen stops there among all the tables and looks again at Arnold Nilsen, as if he can see something too through the broken lens of his glasses — a shadow, a loosened knot of time. “There’s no doubt your wife will be fine,” he says. “But for safety’s sake, I’d like to take a look at the child.” Dad brings his coffee cup down with a bang. “The boy’s fine! He’s in need of no doctor!” The captain comes around the table. “It’s best if you do as the doctor says. The swell’s set to get worse.” Together they go down to the cabin. Mom sits up in bed at once, taken aback and enraged when she sees the strange man. Dad has some dry slices of bread and a splash of red wine with him. He hurries over to her. “The ship’s own doctor has agreed to see if Barnum has come to any harm because of the choppy seas,” he explains. Mom draws a hand through her stiff, tangled hair and covers her shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” she murmurs. But Dr. Paulsen is already leaning over the stroller basket where I’m lying. He folds the blanket to one side. He presses his finger against my stomach, releases the pressure and just stands there like that looking down on me, silent. Mom grows anxious. Dad’s about to say something. But all of a sudden Dr. Paulsen starts crying. He stands hunched over the stroller, sobbing. And Dad takes the old man by the shoulder and pushes him out, and when he returns Mom’s sitting on the edge of the bed with me in her arms, her cheeks pale. “Why was he crying?” she whispers. “The doctor wasn’t sober,” Dad replies. “He wanted to offer his sincere apologies.” “Did you know him?” Dad dips the hard bread in the wine and gives it to her. “No,” he says. And Mom chews and chews until she has to be sick again. Afterward Dad holds her. “I was seasick every day of my childhood,” he says. “It hardened my stomach and made me humble.” He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye. “The doctor said, by the way, that he’s seldom seen a finer child.” Mom falls silent. The waves resound against the ship’s hull. The vessel sails a night farther north, and night itself slips away and lets in the light. We barely sleep. “The Arctic Circle is a boundary inside the head,” Dad whispers. “Can you feel us crossing it?” But Mom feels nothing except an overwhelming exhaustion and a deep sense of dislocation. Her brain is drained of blood, and I am outside latitude’s measurement; I am my own ruler, still nameless and on the way to my own baptism. Dad goes up on deck again when the vessel leaves Bod0. Dr. Paulsens standing down at the quayside, bent and trembling. He raises his hand. Then he turns for the last time and is swallowed up by the towns light. It’s early morning, and sunny. The fjord is shining; it breathes, a slow, broad wave that propels itself. He sees the mountains rising on the other side, in blue mist, as if they have broken free and are hovering somewhere between heaven and sea. He saw the very same sight before, when he first journeyed to the mainland. He has to keep hold of himself. He’s in the process of losing his grip, of falling. It’s too late to turn back now. The relief he had experienced for a time has turned to indifference and is like a kind of tipsiness. The captain hails him from the bridge. “How are your wife and child?” “They’re toughening up!” Dad calls back. The captain laughs and goes into the wheelhouse. The wall of the Lofoten Islands looms closer. The gulls hang in a screeching cloud around the vessel. And at Svolvaer Dad hurries ashore. After an hour he still hasn’t returned. The ship’s bell is rung for the third time. The captain’s uneasy The quayside is jam-packed, and the crowd is bemused by the vessel’s delay. It’s already a quarter of an hour late. A couple of boys who can run like hares are sent off to search for Arnold Nilsen, the short fellow with the shiny, black sweep of hair over his brow, and his pale coat and gloves. They have no luck; he’s not to be found at any of the pubs, at the hotel or the wharves for the fishing vessels. A half hour has now passed. The captain gives the order for the gangway to be drawn up and the moorings to be released. He swears. Is he to be burdened with an abandoned, seasick woman and a babe in arms for the rest of the passage, or should he send them ashore too? He swears again, and then suddenly there’s a movement over by the sheds. The crowd moves aside to make room. The voices grow quiet. The shouts die down. Hats and caps are raised aloft. Arnold Nilsen’s come at last. And not alone. Arnold Nilsen has with him the old vicar. He no longer resembles a black sail in the storm. He’s nothing more than a frail flower in the sunlight, barely managing to keep up with Arnold Nilsen, who has to stop and haul him along. The gangway’s lowered once more, and the captain himself helps the old vicar on board and gets him to the nearest seat. He turns toward Arnold Nilsen. “Is your wife that ill?” he asks, and smiles. Arnold smiles himself, and his reply is enigmatic. “If I have a church with me, then I have to have a vicar too,” he says. With those words he goes down to the cabin to fetch Mom, who carries me up with her into the light. “Say hello to my old friend,” he tells her. “He’s the best vicar in these parts and in the rest of the land for that matter!” Mom looks shyly at the little man who rises from his seat and slowly extends his hand to touch mine. I could swear that I felt a shock, a shock that passed through my mother too, and she curtsies; she holds me tight in her arms and curtsies for this old soul who has all but no voice left, just clear eyes full of energy and a cross around his neck. “I have sung too much,” he whispers. “I tried to drown out the storm.” “And did you succeed?” Mom asks him. “No,” he replies. And this is the bow, the bow between crying and laughter, curved in that old man’s smile when he says, as he does, “It would be a joy to baptize your child.”