The Half Brother: A Novel (90 page)

The Viking

It’s the love of your life. Get a little and you want more. When you’ve had more you have to have a lot. And then you have to have the rest. There’s no halfway house. It’s all or nothing. You have mistresses all over town — in left luggage lockers at the East End Station, in a suitcase in the basement storage room, in an office drawer, behind Hamsun’s collected works, in the reservoir and the ventilation shaft, in the garbage chute, the bread box and the gutter, under the bed, in the dormant kiosk, the mailbox and your inner pocket — they are yours. And this great romance begins so beautifully, with a kiss — no, not even a kiss, just an encounter that doesn’t need to be more than the scent or the touch of her. And you remember falling in love for the first time in childhood — the sweet scent of Malaga — which you breathed deep and with which you loaded your dreams. Because this is all that’s required — this is the beginning and in the beginning God said
Let there be dark.
You find yourself a glass (because of course that’s what you’ll use — you want to show you have some style and the best of intentions). You’ll have a drink; no, not a drink, just a small one, a nip, as some tend to say, or a straightforward glass — the neutral name — a glass (so simple and easy). You’ll enjoy having one glass and so you’ve gone and found yourself a glass. It’s self-evident. And as you unscrew the top of the bottle and the rank smell of vodka, gin or whiskey hits you (whichever drink does the trick) and unfolds like some shining bouquet — you’re almost happy You stand on the edge of happiness, the bouquet in your hand; and this is perhaps the finest moment, for you can still wrap these flowers up again. But you’re only going to have that one nip, that stalk — or call it a rose from your lover — a silent invitation. And you carefully pour a measure into your glass, quickly put the top back on the bottle and replace it in the cupboard or up on the top shelf, as far away as possible. Because you aren’t having any more, you only need the one nip — and you believe in yourself when you take that glass with you into another room or out onto a balcony to sit down. You hold the bouquet in your hands. You still haven’t drunk a drop. But then you aren’t going to drink a drop. You’re just going to nip. Every drop will be cherished. You’re going to make this last. You’re just going to get its scent. And slowly you lift the flower toward your mouth, your dry mouth, and it’s this flower that’s going to water you.

Two days later you wake somewhere else. You think you’ve dreamed it all, but it happened. The flowers have withered. You’re thirstier than ever. You want to be loved but you’ve been abandoned. You are the empty vase. You raise your arm. Your hand is full of blood. You don’t know which bed you’re in. The room around you’s black. You try to think. You can’t manage. That makes no difference. The darkness looms nearer. If you don’t move, then you can put off this angst. But it’ll soon be there, because this angst is the one thing you can depend on now — you have your freedom for just a few more seconds. Then you hear something. It’s the sound of a windmill, spinning — a wheel close to your face going faster and faster. You hear an accident close by, a scream — a braking and a great silence. And you know then — it’s me who’s lying there, in Room 502 of Coch’s Hostel. Someone’s talking outside the door. The door’s locked. Someone opens it. “Fred?” I whisper. “Is that you?” Someone closes the door and opens the curtains. Peder looks down at me. “My God,” he says. Hastily, he closes the curtains again and chucks the empties and the shards of glass in the trash. He undresses me and he washes me. I have a cut in the thumb of my right hand. He cleans the wound and puts a Band-Aid on it. He has fresh clothes with him too. The fat one takes care of the little one. He opens the window to air the place. There’s snow on the sill. I’m shivering. Then he sloshes some cola and cough mixture into a beaker, crushes up a pill, and gives the whole thing a stir with his finger. I drink it. “I’m one of the night men,” I breathe. Peders standing facing away. “Night men?” “The family’s full of them, Peder. Men who disappear.” “You’re not completely gone yet, Barnum. As far as I can see.” “I’m well on the way,” I reply. “Where to?” Peder wanted to know. “Down. Away. Out. It’s one and the same thing.” Peder turns around. “And what if I were to tell you that there’s someone who wants you to stay?” I look down. “How did you find me?” I ask, my voice low. Peder sits down on the bed. “I always find you, Barnum. Haven’t you got that into your head yet?” I rest my forehead against his shoulder. “Perhaps I don’t want to be found,” I breathe. “Ill find you just the same,” he says. “I’m your friend. That’s the way it is.” We sit there like that for a while in silence. I want to cry but can’t. I try to laugh instead. “Don’t I have any choice?” I breathe. Peder shakes his head, as grave as he was before. “Vivian’s worried,” he says. I look up at him. “Are you the father?” I ask him. It happens so very quickly. Peder hits me right in the face. I tumble backward on the bed. He sits over me and pummels me. “Didn’t you hear what I told you?” he shrieks. “I’m your friend, you damn drunk!” I have to hold him. I don’t feel the blows. He thrashes his arms about him like a child with a tantrum. At last I manage to laugh. Peder falls still once more. “You’re welcome to hit me again,” I groan. “Shut up,” he says. I take his hand. It’s shaking. We lie on our backs in that worn, sloping double bed, staring up at the ceiling. There’s a huge hook in the middle of it, and the paint all around it is peeling and hanging in great flakes. “Dad used to stay in this room,” I tell him. “Was he a night man too?” “Dad was the worst night man of all of us,” I murmur. Peder’s silent a while longer. He’s the one holding my hand now. “Maybe the doctor who examined you made some mistake, Barnum?” “Dr. Greve never makes mistakes,” I reply. “And you still haven’t told Vivian?” I shut my eyes. It’s the lies that keep rolling — these black wheels that are impossible to stop. “Do you have anything to drink?” I ask him. “You’re cutting away your life, and alcohol’s the scissors,” Peder says. “Could you please stop talking like me?” Peder finally smiles, lets go of my hand and gets up. “Come on,” he says. “Where are we going?” “Out, Barnum.”

We go down to the reception area. Peder pays for two nights’ accommodation, cleaning costs and complaints, but it’s me the woman with the keys looks at the entire time — her mouth’s a tight-drawn ring. “I don’t want you here again,” she says. Peder chucks an extra fifty kroner note on the counter, leans forward and whispers, “He’s not coming back.” And we run out over the crossroads where the Old One was knocked down and killed on September 21, 1957; we run through the snow, which is starting to fall across our faces. And the moment is unchanged, for it’s here the picture was taken; when I turn around I see Fred sitting restless in the gutter, comb in hand, as if to brush back time. The Old One’s lying on the cobbles in a pool of blood; the driver clambers from his truck and people stream forward with silent screams before the snow covers everything once more. We’ve already sat down in the innermost section of Trucks, and the waiter appears at our table. Peder orders two hamburgers with fried eggs, coffee, milk and biscuits. I ask for a pint and a Fernet Branca. Peder looks at me once the waiter’s gone. He looks at me a long time. “We’re underway with the repairs,” he finally says. “Is something broken?” I ask him. “You are,” Peder says. The waiter comes back with my drinks. I lift the pint glass with both hands. This isn’t a lover, it’s an old whore who cackles at you as you pick off the petals on the only flower in the bouquet —
she loves you, she loves you not, she loves you
. . . The smaller glass just has medicine in it. “You remember what I promised Miss Coch?” Peder says. I light a cigarette. “Miss Coch?” “That you’d never go back there, Barnum.” “I hope you manage to keep your promise,” I tell him. The waiter sets the food on the table. I’m not hungry. But I eat. I have to go to the toilet to get rid of it again. Peder waits. He’s put a stack of papers and books beside his empty plate. I sit down. “Ready now?” he asks. I nod. “Ready for what?” Peder smiles and leans toward me. “The Americans invented the Western, the Japanese made the samurai films — Easterns, right — and the Italians gave us Spaghetti. What’s left for us, huh?” Peder answers his own question before I can open my mouth. “The Northern, Barnum.” “The Northern?” The waiter comes and clears the plates away. He puts down a pint for me without my having ordered it. Peder pushes the pile of books in my direction. “I did as you asked me,” he says. “What did I ask you? For a pint?” “I’ve done my reading, Barnum. I’ve read the sagas. Everything we need we can pinch from them. They’re just lying there waiting to be used. Action, drama, strong characters, love, death — you name it. Do you need anything more?” “I don’t do adaptations,” I reply. Peder looks at me as I drink. “You can use Odark’s words as voice-over,” he says. I keep my mouth shut. Peder grows impatient. He lays his hand on my shoulder. “This is our big chance,” he breathes. “If you don’t make a mess of it, Barnum.” I shake free of his hand. “And what have you thought of calling this thing?” I ask. “I’m selling it under the title of
The Viking, A Northern”
It’s my turn to look at him for a long while. “Selling?” “What I can say is that there’s incredible interest being shown in the project by officialdom and the business community. There are partnership companies lining up.” I feel incensed and bang the table. “You could maybe have talked to me first,” I tell him loudly. “Before you went off to scrabble for mammon.” People at other tables begin turning their heads. Peder sighs. “You haven’t exactly been available recently Barnum.” He fishes an envelope from his pocket and lays it down between us. “What’s that?” I inquire. “The one who opens it will see,” Peder replies. I slowly drink my beer. Then I open the envelope. There’s a check inside. There are several zeros after the number. I can hear Peder smiling. “Are you on board then, Barnum?” “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” I reply I raise my arm and order a bottle of red. There’s weariness in Peder’s expression. His eyes have a troubled look. “Off again?” he asks. “Call it research,” I reply. Peder gets to his feet. “You’ve got twelve hours to make up your mind, Barnum. And this time I won’t find you.” The waiter puts the wine in front of me. “Look after Vivian in the meantime,” I tell him. Peder bends down. “You’re pathetic,” he breathes. “I’m not going to play games with you any more.” And he goes without once turning around. I hide in the red bouquet. Then I notice Peder’s left behind some of his books. There’s Njal’s Saga, Egil’s Saga, and the Saga of Ramnkjell Frøysgode and the King’s Mirror. I leaf through the last of these. And I come to the chapter where the son asks the father about Greenland. And the wise father answers,
Greenland lies to the north, on the world’s edge, and it’s my belief that there’s no other land beyond, but that all that rings it is the mighty ocean. When conditions are bad there, it’s often with greater intensity than anywhere else
—
the wind sharper, the frost and snow more severe. For the glaciers are such that they send out a terrible cold. And there can be great rends in the glaciers of that land. Those who have been on Greenland bear witness to the fact that the cold has an intense power. And both land and sea bear witness themselves to the omnipotence of frost and cold, for the ice remains in summer and winter
—
both land and sea are covered in ice.
The waiter’s standing beside my chair. He’s clearing the tables. I show him the check and tell him I’ll pay the following day. He nods and lets me out. The snow’s glimmering. There are barely any tracks in it. I walk down to the office. Another letter has died a death. We are Brum & Miil. Peder’s sitting in the back. I figure he’s asleep. His face is all folded up like an accordion. In one hand he has a napkin for a hot dog, and there’s mustard on his white shirt. I get out the bottle I have hidden in the bottom drawer and pour us a glass each. “I’ll play with you,” I tell him. Peder comes to in his slow and labored way one eye at a time, while the double chins and the furrows slide into place. “I thought you were dead,” he breathes. “Only skin-dead, damn it.” I sit down on the sofa and balance the glass on my chest. My hearts beating. Peder just smiles. “What do you want to play?” he asks. “Viking. I’m on board.” I drain my glass. I’m alive. Peder chucks the napkin in the wastepaper basket and changes his shirt. Just buttoning it up leaves him out of breath. He’s got himself a new toy too — a fax machine. Paper slides out of it. Peder tears out the sheet that appears. It’s as though he’s standing there with the Dead Sea scrolls. He gives the table a thump. “Black Ridge in Hollywood is interested already” “Good stuff,” I tell him. A deep furrow appears at the top of his brow. “And we need a treatment ready by Christmas, Barnum. Can you manage that?” “To hell with a treatment,” I tell him. “I’ll begin the script.” Peder smiles from ear to ear. “What persuaded you?” “What does it matter,” I say. Peder shrugs. “I’m just curious, Barnum.” “I liked the father telling the son what the world’s like,” I answer quietly. Peder comes over to where I’m sitting. He draws his hand over my cheek. It’s a long time since he did anything like that. “Go home to Vivian now,” he murmurs. “All right,” I reply. “Make her laugh again, Barnum.” I look at him. “How?” “Maybe by telling her the truth?” he says. “The truth?” I repeat. Peder turns away. “That you can’t have children.”