The Half Brother: A Novel (83 page)

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
had changed his mind, crawled back through the shattered window and demanded chewing gum and electric shock treatment. “Well, well,” was all she said, and turned away to face the pale green wall. A couple of nurses came and put Esther in the other bed. It was now ten past twelve. I suspect they’d fed her some pills because her hands were heavy as saucepans. I sat with her for a bit. I figured her mind had gone walkabout again, yet when she suddenly spoke it was with a tired clarity, in the same way that a moment of real clear-sightedness can be imparted just before sleep comes — a flame that makes the dark visible. “Your father was a no-good man,” she said. I let go of her hand. “What do you mean?” But the flame diminished and spread a great shadow through her. “Even though he had nylon stockings with him,” she breathed. Then Esther fell asleep, and that was the last time I got a sensible word out of her. And when I stood once more in the rain in Stor Street, my eyes searching for a taxi because now I really had to get to the Royal Infirmary with the container (it was almost ten to one), someone tooted loudly several times and a wreck of a car screamed to a halt in front of me, sending a wave of mud over my shoes. It was a Vauxhall. And it was Oscar Miil who rolled down the window. “Do you want a lift, Barnum?” I climbed in. He patted my shoulder. “Where can I take you?” he asked. “The Royal Infirmary,” I told him. “Quickly!” The smile vanished. “You’re not sick?” he asked. “I just have to deliver some goods there,” I said. Oscar Miil tore at the gear shift, kicked the pedals, and the car backfired and leaped out into Stor Street so I had to clutch hold of the little container with both hands. Only one of the windshield wipers was working. Mercifully it was the one on his side. He had a small window through the rain, and he swung up toward the Central Cinema. “Are you working as a delivery man?” Oscar Miil looked at me, and I wished he’d keep his eyes on the road instead. “A delivery man?” “I thought you were going to deliver some goods there?” I laughed. “A sperm sample,” I told him. “I have it here in my inside pocket.” He hunched over the wheel. “It was good that you and Vivian found each other,” he said. “Thank you. It came to be as it came to be.” “You two’ll have a wonderful child, I bet.” He tried to roll up the window, but it was obviously stuck fast. We were driving in a Vaux-hall full of rain. “Do you hear anything from Peder?” Oscar Miil asked. “No,” I told him. “Do you?” “He’s called a few times. But he likes to phone in the middle of the night.” Oscar Miil didn’t say any more before he’d crashed to a halt outside the Royal. It was five to one. “Everything’s fine,” he said. “With Peder?” Oscar Miil turned to face me once more. Rain was streaming into the car. “With all of us,” he said. And then he pointed at my face. “You ought to do something about that eye of yours, too,” he said. I felt my weighty eyelid tickling. “And you ought to do something about that window,” I told him. He put his arms around me and hugged me. “We’re all fine,” he said again. “Yes,” I said. “Of course. Things are fine.” And I wasn’t sure who was comforting whom. Finally he let go of his hold; I crawled out, and Oscar Miil went on his way in the cramped Vauxhall, tooted the horn three times and vanished around a corner. I waved even though I couldn’t see him any more, but only the rain that trickled down my good eye. Then it was as if I suddenly remembered why I was there. I’d made it. I entered this worn, sick city where no one can escape the smell of garbage and soap. The sound of sirens disappeared into the distance and came closer all the time. Doctors moving from one department to another ran beneath black umbrellas. It was like some tragic musical. I had to ask a caretaker the way. He pointed in the direction of a particular entryway, and I found the correct lab in the backyard there. I took the elevator down to the basement, the service elevator. The arrow in the little glass display on the side had stopped at H; it no longer worked, H was the last letter in the elevator’s alphabet. But it kept descending nonetheless; I lost count, and when it landed my ears were plugged. I pushed the gate to one side and shuffled out into a green corridor. I saw a thin man in a white coat disappearing into a room. I hurried after him. Dr. Lund’s name was on the door. I’d got there. I’d made it. I knocked. The thin man, Dr. Lund, opened the door himself. “Barnum Nilsen,” I said, and handed over the container. He held it up to the light. “Wait outside,” he told me. I found an unoccupied seat further down the corridor. I sat down. There were two men waiting there already. They were both older than me, perhaps getting close to forty. But we were of average age all the same. Because here everyone was ageless. We were all the same. We were equals. We glanced at one another — embarrassed, maybe even shamefaced — before looking away somewhere else, to some mark on the linoleum, an empty hook on the wall, a light that flickered and finally went out altogether. None of us said anything. There was nothing more to be said. We had delivered our seed. Somewhere else our women were waiting. They were waiting for an answer. Could one of these cells penetrate an egg, merge with the nucleus and begin the laborious building up of a new life? In short, were we men who were fit for it? I fall asleep. I dream I am in a boat heading for a steep, green coastline. A black bird rises up in front of the bow, spreads its wings and smothers the sun. I get up, lift an oar and hit out at this sleek, black bird. I fall down. I lie in the bottom of the boat with the sail over me. I rummage around for a knife with which to cut myself free. I’m awakened by a nurse. “You can come now,” she murmured. I followed her into the lab. The two other men have gone. The doctor was standing with his back to me, bent over a microscope. The room was white. The shelves along the walls were full of test tubes and thin glass containers. Then he spun around abruptly to look at me. “Are you a truck driver, Barnum Nilsen?” he demanded. “A truck driver? I haven’t even passed my drivers test.” “Do you often wear tight pants?” “No, I tend to prefer loose pants as a matter of fact.” “Do you have any siblings?” “Yes, one brother. Half brother.” The doctor pushed a pair of thin glasses into place over his stiff nose and leafed through some papers. “Is there any history of madness in the family?” “Madness? Not that I know of.” “So you don’t know then?” “No one’s mad in my family.” “Have you ever had gonorrhea?” “What?” “Syphilis?” “Syphilis? Never.” “Are you a hypochondriac?” “No.” “Hysterical?” “No!” I exclaimed. “Do you drink a lot?” I had to find the wall for support. “Only when I do drink,” I breathed. “And how often is that?” “Special occasions.” “Don’t develop bad habits, Barnum Nilsen.” “No, doctor.” He came closer. “Because in alcoholism all mental faculties will be lost, and all that will remain will be the unbroken torment of a ceaseless desire for alcohol, whereupon death for the remaining shell of a body will be an inevitability. Do you understand, Bar- num Nilsen?” “Yes,” I breathed. “What do you do for a living?” “I write.” “And then you’re seated, of course?” “Seated?” “You sit down when you’re writing?” “Yes, I always sit when I’m writing.” The doctor whips off his glasses. “We can see that,” he said. “What can we see?” I murmured. “Look here,” said Dr. Lund. He pointed to the microscope. I went over and put my good eye to the lens. I’m not sure if I shrieked or not. It was my own sperm I was seeing, magnified a thousand times. And this was my first thought:
A gnat in mustard.
Yes, like a gnat in mustard. And the gnat wasn’t moving. I heard the doctor talking — far, far away. “The testicles are a precious bag, Barnum Nilsen. And yours is empty.” I straightened up. “Not a hope?” I asked him. He shook his head. “You can have a good life without children too. Just don’t allow cynicism to get the upper hand.” And then I noticed that he wasn’t called Dr. Lund after all. On a shining I.D. badge attached to his white coat were the words m. s. greve. director of the royal infirmary. He shook hands with me, and the nurse disposed of the container in a special wastebasket. I found my way to the elevator. It brought me up through the various levels. I pushed the gate to one side and ran out onto the sidewalk. The clouds piled over the roofs and spires, carrying their rain with them, leaving the heavens high and clear like a blue dome over the city. The light made the streets glimmer like rivers. People stood on the banks looking up with surprise and gratitude at the sun. I had to shield my eyes, blinded and naked. I remembered the dread I’d experienced down in the basement. Now I knew what it meant — the cormorant shits on the rocks so it can find its way back. I went up to St. Hans Hill. I stood in the middle of the crossroads. I had 200 kroner in my pocket. I thought to myself — flowers or beer? I had a pint at Schroder’s and with the rest bought some roses — twelve roses with long stalks. Then I go on home to Vivian. She’s waiting for me. I see an impatience in her. There’s a fever in her eyes. She gets up as soon as I come in. I hide the bouquet behind my raincoat. And before I can say anything she beats me to it. “There’s a letter for you, Barnum.” She holds out the envelope. It might be from Peder. No, because then it wouldn’t have been for me but rather the two of us. It must be from Fred. “Who’s it from?” I ask her. “Norwegian Film,” Vivian says. “Norwegian Film? Why should they be writing to me?” Vivian shrugs her shoulders and grows more impatient still. “Aren’t you going to open it?” I take the envelope. Norwegian Film is written in the corner together with the oval logo that must represent an eye with winding film in it. I pull out the sheet inside and read it. I can’t fathom it. The words don’t register with me. Is this how Fred’s blindness was with words, when the letters suddenly stop functioning as they should? I give the letter to Vivian. “You read it,” I breathe. And Vivian reads it aloud.
“Dear Barnum Nilsen, Its a pleasure to inform you that ‘Fattening has won first prize in Norwegian Film’s film script competition. The jury has remarked that your script possesses an originality, a
joie de vivre
in terms of its narration, and a personal expression which gives free rein to the authors bizarre fantasies that may be interpreted as a representation of a perverse, gluttonous and oppressive society. The prize will be awarded at the premises of Norwegian Film at Jar on October 1 at 1
p.m.”
Vivian lets the letter fall to the floor and looks at me, her head to one side and a smile on her lips. I can barely speak. “Did you send in my script?” She nods. “You’re not annoyed?” I laugh out loud. “Of course I’m not annoyed. I’m thrilled!” She comes closer. “Are you crying, Barnum?” I shake my head. I’ve started crying. I can’t help it. And Vivian puts her arms around me and I stand there crying. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “Me too,” I whisper. And Vivian puts her lips to my ear. “How did it go today, my beloved boy?” And I don’t want to destroy this moment. I don’t want to bring down the good news with bad. We have an equilibrium. Never have we been so vulnerable. We mustn’t be thrown now. “Fine,” I tell her. “Fine?” “Everything’s all right. The goods have been approved.” Vivian’s lips are moist against my face. “I knew it when you came home with flowers!” We pull out the bed, tear each other’s clothes off and make love with a wildness we’ve never known before, not even on that evening in Frogner Park. There’s no awkwardness. We gamble everything on one card. All at once I become afraid of injuring her, but she only wants me all the more. This is both panic and exuberance — their fusing in a higher sense. Afterward there’s stillness. I light a cigarette and read the letter from Norwegian Film, to check one more time that it’s true. It is true. I can see it with one eye. I’ve won. I lie down beside Vivian again. “What did Dr. Lund say?” she asked me. “That my sperm are lining up to visit your egg.” Vivian acts as if she’s angry. “Tell me properly what he said!” “He said that the testicles are a precious bag!” I give her a quick kiss, and her mouth is soft as a jellyfish. Vivian laughs and suddenly takes hold of my balls. I moan. “Then do you have any more in your precious bag?” she murmurs. “Per Oscarsson can play the farmer,” I tell her. “Or the school doctor.” “This child will have a good life,” Vivian says. “And Ingrid Vardund can be the mother,” I go on. Vivian strokes her hand over her tummy. “This child will have a good life,” she says again. “Of course.” “Not the kind of childhood we had,” she continues. I get up. “What do you mean?” Vivian looks up. “Better than we had, Barnum,” she whispers. “Better than ours.” I lie there quiet for a moment. “I had a fine time as a child,” I say. Vivian smiles. “Who’ll play you?” she asks. I fetch the flowers and put them in water, and go out onto the stairs to throw the wet paper in the garbage chute. I take with me M.S. Greve’s
Medical Dictionary for Norwegian Homes
and throw it away too. The last word in the book is
Oysters. Oysters can become poisonous when the water about them is stagnant and impure.
When I come back, I see for a moment the remains of the sun before it vanishes behind the oval, blue shadows between the trees and fills the room with a warm, red hue as if the flowers themselves have illuminated the floor and ceiling. Vivian lies with her legs along the length of the wall so my juices can run all the swifter through her system. I sit down on the edge of the bed. I put the bouquet down on the pillow. She takes my hand in her own. And just before the room sinks into darkness, I think to myself that the fragrance of these flowers is so powerful that just one single drop from their petals could perfume the sea, turn it as ethereal as rose oil.