The Half Brother: A Novel (27 page)

And not a seat remains. People are standing against the walls too, impatient in their shiny Sunday best. And there aren’t enough hymnbooks either this Sunday, and when they sing
God is God though every land laid waste,
they sing it faster than they’ve ever done before. The organist attempts to keep up with them for a while, but in the course of the second verse just gives up. They want to be over and done with it as quickly as possible so they can get to the matter at hand — namely what the Wheels little boy’s to be called. And that can’t be anything too insignificant when he’s made his way back after all these years in foreign parts, with the circus and then in silence, to let his boy be baptized by the retired vicar. But more than anything they want to be done with the sermon, the singing and the offering so they can find out what’s inside Arnold Nilsen’s crate, the mysterious crate that’s still standing on the jetty. Then at last Mom brings me forward, Dad hurries behind, and I’m the only one to be baptized that day. Some of the congregation get up on the benches at the back to get a better view. A hymnbook falls to the floor. The church warden pours some water into the font. Then a complete hush falls. And the old vicar is almost like a black sail once more in his robes and his collar, but he’s a sail without wind, lashed tight to the mast. For his voice is just as low when he dips his fingers in the water, the water that’s salty too, and lets it fall in drops over my head, and reads my right name so softly that not even Mom can hear him. There’s disquiet in the congregation. There’s muttering. Shoes scrape against the floor. And finally, as the old vicar’s drying my head with a rough towel, someone gives a shout and it turns out to be Elendius: What the devil is it he’s saying the boy’s to be called? Arnold Nilsen turns in their direction, and the faces are the same — the men with their hair combed back from their white brows, the women’s jutting chins and wary smiles, the children’s big eyes. These Sunday faces are the same faces he’s seen in every big top he’s been in, and he knows that if he can’t love these faces then he can’t love any others, and least of all himself. Arnold Nilsen stretches his arms aloft. “The boy’s name is Bar-num!” he shouts. “And now you’re all invited to the festivities!” I have been recorded. I have been accounted for. The church bells ring, and thus begins my life as Barnum; the party continues on the ground floor of the Fishermen’s Mission. Arnold Nilsen has ordered a mausoleum for his parents. Now he has no wish to be any less generous to the living, and tucks into every dish and every sandwich of the island population, who don’t ask for anything twice themselves. And in the medical report of 1950 from R0st penned by the local doctor Emil Moe, one may read that sobriety was encouragingly good on the island that year, basically because no one had the money to buy brandy. The exception was one Sunday in the month of June when wetting-the-head-of-the-baby festivities degenerated into a protracted bout of drinking, though mercifully the only damage was one sprained hand, some grazes and two broken dentures. Nonetheless the extent of the alcohol intake could be measured by the all too frequent visits to the district nurse to obtain the last rations of American orange juice. But the women swarm around Vera; the youngest girls want to hold me and are allowed to do so, while Dad stands with the menfolk who’re unbuttoning their stiff collars that itch in the heat and keeping an eye on the bottles being brought in. And Elendius has positioned himself between the two groups so that he’s able to hear what’s said in both places and doesn’t miss a single word. The glasses are filled and the men drink. “You’ve done well, Arnold Nilsen,” says the lighthouse keeper. Arnold Nilsen looks down modestly. “I certainly can’t complain,” he whispers, and pours out more drink, for the glasses look so terribly small in those huge hands. “But what have you done?” the church warden asks. Arnold Nilsen smiles. “I have done so much that there would barely be enough time to tell the half of it,” he answers. The men are very much satisfied with their brandy, but less so with the reply. “We’ve plenty of time,” the scrap merchant informs him. Arnold Nilsen remembers them even more vividly now, from the slopes when they scythed the grass and from the classroom — he remembers their names and their laughter. “Soon you’ll get to see something of what I’ve done,” he says placidly The men feel satisfied with this, because perhaps at last they’ll get to see what’s in the crate on the dockside. Another toast is proposed. Arnold Nilsen turns in Elendius’ direction and observes to his irritation that he’s creeping closer to the women. “Can’t you take your brandy any more?” he shouts. Elendius pads over, and Arnold Nilsen gives the inquisitive old chap an empty glass. “I’ll just give you a half since your hands shaking so much,” he tells him. Elendius smiles. “It’s you who’s the unsteady one. You’ve got even fewer fingers than you had before.” Elendius drains his glass and holds it out for more. Arnold Nilsen puts down the bottle. “Don’t remind me of the accidents that have befallen me on a day like this,” he replies in a low voice. Elendius is still waiting with his empty glass. “I remember all right that it was no accident when you lost your first finger.” “I lost the rest of my hand in the war,” Arnold murmurs and fills Elendius’ glass to the brim to make him shut up. But the brandy only makes him more talkative. “Yes, the war was certainly an accident for most of us,” he sighs. “By the way why did you not bring your other son here with you?” Arnold Nilsen closes his eyes. Everyone knows just about everything here. He listens to the wind. He grows anxious. Should he lie? He listens to the wind in the flags — it’s there in abundance, and he’ll show them all right. Amicably he puts his arm around Elendius. “He is my wife’s first son,” Arnold tells him. “And he’s being looked after perfectly well by my dear mother-in-law.” “Was your wife married before?” Elendius quizzes him. Arnold Nilsen shakes his head. “But let me tell you this, Elendius. My mother-in-law isn’t just anybody at all. She is no less than the director of the Telegraph Exchange down in Oslo and the one who makes it possible for you folks to telephone and talk your heads off with each other.” He laughs at his own pronouncements, and now the men have gotten rid of their jackets and are starting to go over in the direction of the women. Vera gets up and puts me in the stroller. I’m tired of the girls who can’t resist fingering my curls that are already growing like a fine halo from ear to ear. “I didn’t realize that such distinguished women worked in the city,” Elendius says. Arnold Nilsen almost feels sorry for him. “So you see how little you know, Elendius.” But Elendius won’t give up yet. Brandy has breathed life into his curiosity — already his head is a dictionary of gossip. “Then perhaps your father-in-law has an even more exalted position?” he asks. Vera turns in their direction, and Arnold Nilsen doesn’t have time to reply. She beats him to it with her honesty “I don’t have a father,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear her. For a few seconds there’s utter stillness. The glasses are empty again. Arnold Nilsen fills them and breaks the silence. “I am the only man in the family,” he laughs. Elendius hunches over his glass. “Well, well, you’ve just got it all, haven’t you, Arnold?” he says. At that moment Dad must have seen red. He lets fly with a clenched fist and the blow meets Elendius’ temple — but it isn’t Elendius’ wretched head that breaks, it’s Arnold Nilsen’s artificial fingers inside his glove. And before Elendius falls to the floor, Arnold Nilsen grabs hold of him, as if the blow had never been struck, as if his arm had taken it back — and the women don’t even have time to shriek. “Oh, and Vera’s grandmother is a famous Danish actress,” Arnold Nilsen says, and pulls his glove on more tightly still. “But perhaps you don’t know about her?” No one answers, and everyone’s stunned and silent. Arnold Nilsen gives a deep sigh. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. She was an international star in the days of the silent movies, unsurpassed on the silver screen, her face speaking every tongue.” He fills Elendius’ glass to the brim, puts his arm around his shoulder and looks about him. “She was married to the renowned Danish explorer and saver of many a life, Wilhelm Jebsen. You do know of him?” The men glance at one another and nod, just to be on the safe side. After a time, the church warden clears his throat. “Yes, what was it now that he discovered?” Arnold Nilsen lets go of his hold on Elendius. “I won’t exactly say that it was he who discovered Greenland, but he was sent into the ice floes to find Andre. But he was lost himself and never returned from the silence of the glaciers.” Arnold Nilsen puts his arm around Mom and gives her a long kiss. After that he goes outside for a breather, and, standing beside the flagpole, puts his fingers back together. A little later, the old vicar needs some air and sits down beside him. “It isn’t easy for someone to come back,” he says quietly. “No,” Arnold agrees. “Either one comes back too early. Or else too late.” The old vicar nods. “But it’s better than not at all,” he whispers. They sit together in stillness for a time. The celebrations continue inside. Two women have gone to fetch their respective cakes. Young boys rush after them begging to be allowed to share a bit. Quite suddenly the flags hang still. Yet just as suddenly the wind lifts them once more. “You have been a good man, both to myself and to others,” Arnold Nilsen tells him. “I’ve neither been better nor worse than anyone else,” the old vicar mumbles. “But I know that you’ve been one of the better ones. You bought one of Paturson’s cards, and you didn’t hold me back when I wanted to leave here. And you’ve baptized my son.” The old vicar looks down. “It isn’t always the case that good things come from the good,” he mumbles. Arnold Nilsen doesn’t want to think about that. Instead he says, “Now, I want to ask you another favor.” The old vicar nods and waits. Arnold Nilsen closes his eyes. “I ask you to forgive me,” he whispers. “But what for?” Arnold Nilsen turns away and doesn’t answer him. The old vicar sighs. “Are you thinking of when you left your parents?” he inquires. Arnold Nilsen shakes his head. “I’m simply asking for forgiveness. For all my wrongdoing.” The old vicar moves closer to Arnold. “I have to know what deeds God is to forgive you for. He keeps a strict account.” Arnold Nilsen is annoyed, almost enraged, over this particularity. He cries out, “In that case I ask instead if God can forgive everything?” The old vicar takes Arnold’s hand in his own, feels the loose fingers inside his glove, and for a second shivers. “Yes,” he whispers. “God can forgive everything.” Arnold Nilsen retracts his hand. “Thank you. That was all I wanted to know.” At that moment Vera comes out onto the stairs with the stroller and looks up at them. Behind her stands a scowling Elendius. Arnold waves and starts down in their direction. But the old vicar holds him back. “But God would want us to ask forgiveness of our fellow men first,” he whispers. Then Arnold continues over to Mom, who’s waiting for him. He stops in front of her, drunk with the wind, the brandy, my name and all the words of the old vicar. “What is it?” Mom asks, and stretches out her hand. Dad hesitates; he feels her fingers stroking his shirt and he hesitates, breathes deeply and turns instead toward Elendius. “Forgive me for hitting you,” he says. “My hand didn’t know what it was doing.”

Elendius looks the other way and rubs his forehead. “Just as well your fingers were made of sawdust or else you might have had a life on your conscience,” he mutters. But Arnold Nilsen laughs it off. “Go and get the strongest men you can find,” he demands. “I want the crate taken to Vedd0ya.” Elendius forgets he’s almost been finished off; he hurries away to find the right team, and soon all of them are standing down on the dockside watching the selfsame crate being taken on board the mailboat and transported over the sound to the steep, green rock whose wall juts up from the surf. And the islanders follow in their wake; there hasn’t been such activity in these waters since the winter fishing of 1915. But Arnold Nilsen grows anxious there where he’s standing at the bow. The wind is losing its strength. The wind is lessening. He’s able to light a cigarette without having to shield the flame. Finally they all go ashore and five men carry the crate to the highest plateau, and they don’t put it down before the sun is hanging in cobwebs of cloud and light above the horizon. The grass is wet and thick. The birds dive from their rock ledges, white and shrieking. The women remain standing down on the shore with the old vicar, watching their delicately balanced men with anxiety. But Mom carries me up to the top; she climbs with me in her arms and even Elendius looks on her with new eyes — this city girl used to her sidewalks and banister rails. And Arnold Nilsen is filled with a wonderful, passionate pride; he feels moved to tears, tears of joy, but he doesn’t cry — he laughs instead. The wind is on his side once more. The wind has just teased him a bit, played with the one who stood here once upon a time and swore he’d sell the wind that’s now blowing full in his face. And so they get there. The men have a drink. It’s time. Arnold Nilsen approaches the crate, reveling in every second, when he sees the women down on the shore waving to him (the same women, except for Aurora), as if all the dark years in between disappear in one benevolent, redeeming moment. Then he frees one side of the crate and drags out a creation none of them has seen the like of before. It resembles a scaffold with wings, a scarecrow with wheels on top. The men edge closer. They’re silent. They stare. Arnold Nilsen turns in their direction. Still no one says a word. Mom sits in the background, on the grass, and no longer worries about spoiling her dress. She’s silent too, and she rocks me in her arms. I’m awake and dizzy — everything there is too huge for my eyes — and I’ve often wondered if this sight of Dad out on the edge of the green plateau beside his fragile secret laid its imprint on the skin of my memory as an image I’d later develop. For that’s always the way I see him, my father, on top of Vedd0ya, there where he stands waiting for a rejoicing that never comes. Instead it’s Elendius who seizes the initiative. “What kind of creation is this you’ve dragged the whole way up here?” he demands. Dad looks at each of them, one by one. “It’s a windmill,” he says. But when he gazes out once more, toward the horizon and the sun that has fallen in a column all the way down, its neither an optical illusion nor a mirage he sees, nor is it the brandy that plays havoc with his reason. The sea lies still. Even the birds fall in disbelief. For the first time in as long as anyone can remember, it’s utterly windless on Røst. Arnold Nilsen waits. It has to change. But it doesn’t. The wheel on Arnold Nilsen’s lopsided windmill stands still. In the end the men climb down once more. Only Mom remains; Mom and myself. She sits with Dad, on the edge of Vedd0ya, in front of the windless windmill. They see the boats being pushed out and the men rowing their women home in the light and empty night. They sit there like that without saying another word. They wait for the wind. But it doesn’t come. Mom leans her head against Arnold’s shoulder, and I imagine she’s happy in that moment — she is in another world, and I am dreaming on her lap.