The Half Brother: A Novel (59 page)

The title of the movie is
The Big Sleep.
It’s an over-18 and we’re allowed in. It hasn’t begun yet. We sit in row 14 of Rosenborg Cinema — seats 18, 19 and 20. As I carefully put my arm around her, as the light starts to dim, I meet Peder’s hand, because he’s done exactly the same thing — put his arm around Vivian. She leans back in our arms, and that’s how we sit. My polo shirt is making my neck itch, but I don’t dare scratch myself now. The theater’s only half-full, and everyone’s older than we are. A man in a black jacket and wearing dark glasses stands in front of the screen and says something to the effect that this isn’t just a classic film it’s damn well meatier than Ibsen’s collected works, and that those who don’t get who the murderer is will have to pay double the membership fee this coming fall. Welcome to outer darkness. Low laughter in the cinema. We laugh low too because now is the moment for low laughter. We laugh lowest of everyone. “Cool,” Peder whispers. “Cool,” I whisper. Someone turns around and tells us to be quiet. We sink into our seats and don’t say another word for the next 110 minutes.

And how often have I seen
The Big Sleep
since? I’ve lost count, but that was the first time, and what can compare to the first time? Nothing. Everything else is a repeat, a copy — plagiarism. Afterward it’s just a continuation. Next time it’s just a shadow. But the first time is real. You are present, you are suddenly there in your own life; you can put your finger on the moment and feel the pulse of time. And at the same time you know too that the moment has passed, slipped away in the pulse’s muddied wake. But not yet, not yet, because this is the first that we see — the cigarettes in the ashtray, two cigarette ends left lying there, and the white letters against the all but gray screen: Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Then we see a nameplate on a door — Sternwood — and a rather stubby finger, Bogart’s wrinkled finger, ringing the bell. The door is opened by a formal servant, and Bogart is admitted; when the servant is going to announce to the General that Marlowe has arrived, a lady in a short white skirt appears, who looks as if she could pick up a tennis racket at any moment. At first I assume that this is Lauren Bacall, but it isn’t — it’s her little sister, Carmen Sternwood, played by Martha Vickers. And it’s she who gives the line I can never forget; Martha Vickers looks at Bogart, who isn’t exactly feeling at home there, in the cold atmosphere of a rich man’s world. She weighs up this strange fellow and says,
You’re not very tall, are you?
Bogart curls his lips like thin paper over his teeth and answers
I
try to be.
This movie is an over-18. I can hear the audience laugh — no, chuckle. No one laughs here, they chuckle; all the shoulders bob up and down. That’s how one laughs at a black-and-white over-18 movie. And the lady in the short skirt suddenly folds herself into Bogart’s arms, and I think to myself in a flash (for my thoughts are flying in all directions now) that this is what the Chocolate Girl must have looked like, the Chocolate Girl at Circus Mundus that Dad told us about. Then the servant’s standing there once more, and Bogart has to push her gently away, and in the next scene he’s in a greenhouse and the General’s sitting in a wheelchair.
How do you like your brandy, sir?
he asks.
In a glass,
Bogart replies. There’s another ripple of chuckling and more bobbing of shoulders, and it’s now he’s given his commission. My shirt’s sticking to my skin; I drift away and stop following, but it doesn’t matter — I feel instead the cold in the heat of the greenhouse. Bogart is sweating liquid ice — he could mix his drinks with it — and I try to work out how tall he is. He doesn’t seem particularly tall — Martha Vickers was right — but perhaps he appears even smaller because he’s hoisted up his pants so much, almost to his chest. I don’t have time to think about anything else, because on the way out Bogart’s shown into another room by the servant. It must be a bedroom, because there’s a bed there, a four-poster, and over by the window there’s a table covered with bottles. By that table a woman is standing pouring a glass to the brim, and when she’s done she turns in Bogart’s direction. Its Lauren Bacall. We see Lauren Bacall for the first time. Peder’s fingers run over my hand. I turn to look at Vivian. She doesn’t move. It’s as if she’s slowly breathing in, inhaling all the air there is. And Lauren Bacall looks at Bogart — she glows, glows in black and white, and her nostrils flare like an animals, the nostrils of a lioness. And she laughs — Bacall’s laughter — she mocks him,
You’re a mess, aren’t you?
And Bogart just answers,
I’m not very tall either. Next time I’ll come on stilts.
And maybe it’s impossible to describe that first time, which one always does afterward, in another light, in another time. Perhaps the moment is just like a stamp that loses its jagged edges and that slowly but surely rises in value in your private collection, the collection you’ve insured for more than your children. You can’t collect everything, the whole world; you have to choose — some things you reject or exchange. Perhaps this time in Rosenborg Cinema — in row 14, seats 18, 19 and 20 — with the restless gray light over our faces, there where we’re sitting none the wiser (both on the outside and the inside at one and the same time), perhaps it’s just a scene onto which I put new subtitles. Or for which I make another voice-over — with
my
voice, the one that speaks to me throughout my life, my days, my years — so that the scene fits in with the rest of my story? But this I know is true — I saw it. I heard it. And I can’t forget it. When I next look at Vivian, I see she’s crying.

Afterward we walk through the warm streets, where fathers are washing their cars and mothers are standing in windows, leaning against the sills, laughing at something. Perhaps they laugh at the dedication and vanity of their men who see their own reflections in shining hoods and gleaming hubcaps. It’s like a sort of interval, and everything’s in color again. Little kids with Band-Aids on their knees and far too big handlebars turn and pedal back on their bikes when their mothers whistle to them. We are somewhere else. We go
alongside
everything. “Not much of a movie,” Peder says. “No, not much at all,” I agree. “Damnation.” “Yes, damnation,” Peder says. “Not at all.” Vivian says nothing; she’s silent, soundless, moves quietly along. Peder and I walk her home. She says nothing there either, just disappears up the steps adjacent to the church, and I think I see a fluttering in the curtains on the second floor, a shadow that closes them even tighter. The lights go out. Nothing else happens. Then we cross Gimle Road and a woman laughs loudly in the restaurant at the Norum Hotel, and from a room we hear strange music disappearing behind us in the softly falling darkness. “Vivian was crying,” I say, my voice low. Peder nods. “I heard her. She was crying.” We go on a while without saying any more. I feel troubled inside. “Why was it she was crying?” I ask. Peder shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe she thought the movie was sad.” “Maybe. Did you think it was?” “I didn’t understand a damned thing,” Peder answers. “Did you?” We stop outside his house. I shrug my shoulders. “Lauren Bacall was pretty beautiful,” I breathe. Peder smiles. “Lauren Bacall is pretty beautiful.” “Yeah, Jesus Christ,” I say “Did you see those nostrils, huh?” Peder looks at me and starts to laugh. “You didn’t understand a damned thing either. You didn’t even get the title of the movie.” We laugh a bit more. Then we stop. “All right, what was her name?” I ask. “Her name was Vivian,” Peder says.

That’s how I run home that bizarre night, with all those names on my lips. And as I run (because perhaps someone’s behind me, coming to beat me up), I think about what Dad used to say, that it’s
not what you see that counts but rather what you think you see.
And what did Dad think he was seeing when the discus came whistling right at him and Fred stood in the circle, rooted to the spot, following the same discus with his eyes? What was of greatest importance then, what he saw or what he thought he saw? Mom’s already asleep. There’s no sign of Boletta. Fred’s lying in bed. He hasn’t moved. I sit down beside him. “There’s people who want to talk to you,” I tell him. Fred tilts his swollen, blue face on the pillow. “Who?” he whispers. “Two guys. They waited for me outside school.” Fred’s quiet for a bit. “What did they look like?” he asks me slowly. “They were identical,” I tell him. Fred laughs and has to hold his hand over his mouth. There’s blood between his fingers. Then suddenly he puts his hand on my shoulder instead. “They didn’t do anything to you, did they Barnum?” And I’m so moved by this depth of care for me when he’s lying there beaten to a pulp that I can barely utter a word. I just shake my head. Fred takes his hand from my shoulder. “What did they say Barnum?” “They asked if you were alive,” I reply. Fred has to hide his mouth again while he laughs, and he has tears in his eyes. “They asked that?” he breathes. “Yes.” “And what did you say?” “That you were alive, Fred. And then they asked that you meet them in Sten Park. At ten.” Fred doesn’t move for a time. I wished he’d been asleep. “What’s the time now?” he asks me. “Half past nine. You’re not going, are you?” “Out of the way, Barnum.”

Fred gets up out of bed. I have to support him. He can barely stand up. I have to dress him. He’s blue and swollen over his whole body. Fred laughs. I dress him. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have said they’d asked about him. “Don’t do it,” I whisper. “The white shirt, Barnum.” “Please, Fred.” “I want the white shirt, Barnum.” I find his white shirt in the closet, put it on him and button it up, apart from the three top ones. “I’ll come with you, Fred.” “Fine.” He says no more than that. That’s fine. But neither of us is fine. We slip out. Mom’s asleep. Boletta hasn’t come home. We go over to Sten Park. The city’s still. The darkness is soft. The lilac bushes are glowing. We go up onto Blåsen. I have to push him the last part of the way. We sit down on a bench there. Here we can see just about everything, but few can see us. There’s no one to see. “Have you heard about the Night Man?” I ask him. Fred doesn’t reply. He’s scouting. “The Night Man buried horses here, Fred. Dead horses. But by day nobody could see him.” “Shut it,” he whispers. “It’s true,” I tell him. “You believe in crap like that?” And then they come. There are four of them; slowly they come up behind the church. They look around, quickly, restlessly, urgently. They walk close together, in a huddle, almost indistinguishable from each other — except that I recognize two of them, the twins. I point. Fred shoves my arm away He remains where he is. I have the urge to run. “Wait,” he breathes. He smiles. “Now we’re the night men, Barnum.” Fred wipes away the smile and gets up, like a cripple. We go down the steps, to the fountain in the corner. We can see them. They can’t see us. They stand over by the merry-go-round. “What time is it?” he whispers. I show him. It’s ten. Fred nods. He begins walking. But the gang up there have spotted him. One of them shouts his name. Fred stops. I stand right behind him. His white shirt is shining. I think I know why he wanted to wear that particular shirt. He stands utterly still. They size each other up, Fred and the gang by the merry-go-round. There are four of them. Fred and I make two. Well, one and a half. No one moves. We’re statues in Sten Park. Who’ll hold out longest? Who can bite this night into themselves? Who has the greatest stamina when it comes to waiting? It’s Fred. The others start walking slowly down toward us. Fred has his hands on his back. His white shirt’s shining. He doesn’t move. They don’t stop until they’re a couple of yards away They stare at him. I can believe Fred’s smiling, smiling with his shattered mouth, but I can’t see because I’m standing behind him. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” one of them says; he has a black eye, perhaps given to him by Fred, and for a moment I imagine he’s going to fly at him, but instead he steps backward to stand between the twins. And the fourth one comes closer still. He puts his hand in his pocket. A tremor passes through Fred, from elbow to shoulders — an electric shock. Then the calm returns. The other guy gets out a packet of Teddy, takes out two and gives one to Fred. “The name’s Erling,” he says. “But most folks call me Tenner.” Fred gives an almost imperceptible nod and takes the cigarette. Erling, whom most people know as Tenner, sees me in the shadows behind Fred. “You want one too?” he asks. “He doesn’t smoke,” Fred tells him. I say it to myself,
How do you like your brandy, sir? In a glass.
Erling lights the cigarettes with a shiny lighter. They stand for a while like this, smoking silently — never before has it taken such a time to finish a cigarette. The moon disappears, and finally they drop their cigarette butts down on the ground, use their shoes to put them out so the sparks fly in all directions — it looks as if their feet will catch fire. Then Fred puts his hands behind his back again. Erling looks at him. “Can you punch as well?” he asks. He asks if Fred can punch. I see him unfolding his hands behind his back. “Maybe.” The guy looks at Fred for a bit. Then he turns in the direction of the others. “Come here, Tommy.” And the one with the blue eyes goes over to Fred and stands right in front of him. Fred hesitates. Then he punches. But the one called Tommy makes a quick feint with his upper body, like a swimming stroke, and the punch just grazes his temple. “Ow,” Tommy says, and goes back to join the twins. Erling stares at Fred long and hard, and takes out his cigarettes again. I haven’t the slightest idea what will happen next. Freds thrown a punch but missed. He turns to face me, and I can see the sudden bewilderment in his crooked face, because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen now himself, what the next move will be — and his bewilderment makes me doubly afraid. Erling, Tenner, shakes out two more cigarettes. “You’re better at getting hit than hitting,” he says. Then Fred punches again. It’s just as if I feel the blow, feel it hitting home; I tremble, am shaken by happiness and fear. Erling folds up and lies on the ground as his cigarettes roll down the slope. And all at once I think to myself,
Now well bury the dead horses.
Fred keeps standing, his hand bleeding. Tommy and the twins come a step closer, and Fred raises both hands; it’s hard for him to get them up. But they’re not about to attack him. Instead they start counting. Slowly they count to nine, and before they reach ten Erling gets up again, smiling. “Not bad,” he says. “But you’ve got a lot to learn. Shall we take a pew?” Erling and Fred go over to the bench by the playground and sit down there. The two of them talk together. I can’t hear what they’re saying. Tommy picks up the cigarettes. The twins comb their hair. I don’t move. I’ve got no idea what length of time this’ll take. Fred and Erling haven’t finished. It’s mostly Erling who’s doing the talking. Then they sit there silent for a moment, and when they get up they shake hands, as if they’ve agreed on something. Erling, Tommy and the twins walk down past the toilets. Fred goes on around Blåsen. I run after him. “Did you become friends?” I ask. Fred doesn’t reply. “But how did they know who I was?” Fred stops and looks at me. One of the wounds in his face has broken open. “Huh?” “How did they know I was your brother, Fred?” “Everyone knows who you are, Barnum,” he says softly. “How? How does everyone know who I am?” Fred wipes away the blood and thinks. “Just forget it,” he whispers and walks on. But I can’t forget it. Does everyone really know who I am — not just at school but across town, on the other side of the river, in the last dark alleyways of Vika and all the way down to the harbor? But Fred doesn’t want to talk any more. And when we get home Mom’s standing enraged in the hall, utterly distraught. “Where have you been?” she shrieks. Fred goes straight past her, and it’s me she pins to the wall. “We just went for a walk,” I tell her. Mom looms over me. “A walk? In the middle of the night?” “Fred had to get some air, Mom. He could barely breathe. Because of his nose.” Mom lets go of me and hugs her nightie around her instead. “You’re going to be the death of me,” she breathes. I try to put my arm around her. “No, Mom,” I tell her. She stamps the floor. “Yes, you are. Just keep going. Killing me. Disappearing in the middle of the night in a white shirt and with a concussion!” She looks at me sharply. “This has nothing to do with him being knocked down? Has it?” I shake my head and meet her gaze. “Do you miss Dad?” I ask her. And I see how her face begins to crack that very moment, and the thought comes to me, before she leans against my shoulder, that we have so many different faces. We change them all the time; we carry them with us, as many faces as we can carry — faces and names. And she smiles, and her breath is wet. “Yes, I do indeed, my love. I miss your dad.”