The Half Brother

  One day Arnold is sitting on the dockside gutting fish. His father’s at sea. Arnold raises his knife. The knife is weighty in his hand. Time passes slowly and heavily. The old boys are keeping an eye on him. They mumble together about this half portion of a boy They tell the stories they’ve told all down the years. Soon the stories’ll be about Arnold. When they turn away, just for a second, perhaps because that lazybones Elendius is approaching to inflict bad news on them, Arnold loses hold of the knife and it slices his finger right to the bone. His finger is left hanging by a thread, a sliver of flesh, yet Arnold doesn’t cry out; he’s completely silent and just stares at his hand, at the index finger from which blood is pumping in great gouts. He hears the knife landing on the ground and the others getting up, and Elendius screeching so the whole island can hear, “The Wheel has chopped off his finger! The Wheel has chopped off his finger!”

  And it’s this Arnold remembers when he comes to with just nine fingers, that they called him the Wheel. Arnold is the Wheel and won’t be known as anything else. Everything that powers through the world has wheels — cars, trains, buses — even ships have wheels, and wasn’t the ocean itself one great wheel that rolled from coast to coast, and wasn’t the earth too a shining blue wheel spinning through the dark of the universe? Because nobody could forget that Arnold had rolled like a human wheel down the steepest slope, and neither did Arnold forget the promise he had made himself, there where he stood on the sea floor with the waves on his shoulders, that he’d get away from this island, whatever the cost. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, he only knows he has to do this one thing — get away. He is a wheel and he can’t stop. The road is his home. That’s the way he’s been made. And one night he steals out. He leaves a letter for his mother. His father’s fishing far out on the fjord. The nights are starting to grow lighter. For several weeks he’s been composing this letter, trying to find the right words and put them in the right order. It’s short enough, since Arnold Nilsen isn’t one to whom the written word comes naturally. This is what his mother will read when she rises early the following morning, startled by the silence of the tiny dwelling. She’ll see the piece of paper on the kitchen table. My dear mother. I’ve left home. I’ll return when the time is right, or never. You’ll find the boat on the other side. Good wishes to my father too. Loving greetings, Arnold.

  And Arnold slips out into the bright night. Quickly he goes down to the dock. Tuss follows him, confused and happy He strokes the dog and then sends it back up to the house again. He’s taken a loaf with him, coins he’s been saving for two years, and a drop of his father’s brandy. He looks around him. He sees everything he’s going to leave behind. He releases the mooring, and the night is still and his heart hammers. He cries with joy and sorrow. He has surpassed himself. He is bigger than himself. Soon there won’t be room for him. And while he rows with his nine fingers, he sings so as not to hear his own crying, God is God though every man were dead, God is God though every land laid waste. And the whispers are to be heard still about this voyage through the roughest and most dangerous of currents — a feat it was indeed, a miracle. Arnold must have had the Almighty Himself in his oars that night, and perhaps the feat cooled his father’s rage and grief — his half portion of a son taking on the ocean like a man, thereby transforming himself into a whole legend.

  And on the evening of the third day, Arnold stands in front of the church on Svolvaer and everything’s bigger than he’d imagined it would be. People live on top of each other in houses of stone. The lampposts are dense as a forest, and there’s electric light in the shop windows. But it amazes Arnold that it’s so quiet, that a town could be so still. Maybe they’re already asleep in towns by this time of day, Arnold thinks, so that by nighttime they’re rested. Because in towns everything’s topsy-turvy, the sun goes down when people get up. But then he hears something approaching, and indeed it’s several things, for the hillside is vibrating under him. Arnold turns and sees a whole procession of humanity trailing past on the opposite sidewalk, both adults and children. There are fishermen and tradesmen, women and men, dogs and cats, and every type of person imaginable, and as if this isn’t enough the vicar himself emerges from the church, the heavy door bangs behind him and he lifts the skirts of his robe so as not to trip over, and runs like a woman to join this amazing crowd turning down the main street toward the quayside. Arnold hides behind a lamppost and the vicar doesn’t see him. They’re on their way to the other side of the quay. There, on the rough ground between the sawmill and the silo, are booths and merry-go-rounds, blazing lights, a plethora of colors, mechanical horses riding around in circles, and a great tent pitched in the midst of it all, fastened to a hook in the heavens that is the moon, and above golden portals Arnold reads: circus mundus. He observes that everyone has to pay a uniformed gentleman with a neat mustache curled under his nose, and then they stream in, one after another, shouting and fighting and pushing each other over to get in first and find the best possible seats. Arnold’s left standing there in the dust, on the outside edge of the old soccer field. Soon he’s able to hear the playing of the orchestra, the neighing of horses, the trumpeting of elephants, the firing of guns, laughter and the crack of the whip. Arnold shuffles closer. There’s no one on duty now. The uniformed gentleman’s gone. Arnold remains for a moment beneath the ornamental portals looking about him one final time. A placard hangs on a post close by. Here one may find the famous snake-man, Der Rote Teufel. Here there are sword-swallowers and lion-tamers, grotesque human freaks and beauty queens. Not least, here is the worlds tallest man, Paturson, the legendary Icelander. Arnold takes a deep breath and slips inside. He steals between booths and tents. The horses circle riderless on the shining merry-go-round. Is it not perhaps this he’s dreamed of and longed for? Hasn’t it been here he yearned to come to; wasn’t getting away all about this very place? He stops outside the tent where there’s a sign with the words: Mundus vult decipi. What amazing sounds. This is a language for haddock and halibut a thousand yards down. He lifts the flap to one side, but before Arnold has seen a thing a hand pulls him out and drags him roughly around. The gentleman with the uniform and the mustache is staring down at him. “And where are you planning on going?” The man speaks Norwegian. He bends down closer. “I’m looking for my parents,” Arnold answers quickly. “Well, well, have you wandered off from your parents, then?” Arnold smiles. He’s no longer afraid. Lying is that easy. The words are put into his mouth and transformed into truth. “Yes,” Arnold whispers, “I’ve wandered off from my parents.” But these words, that are both the truth and a lie, have unwanted consequences for Arnold. The man in uniform actually lifts him bodily into the air. “My name is Mundus,” he says. “And no one will lose their nearest and dearest if Mundus can help it.” With that he carries Arnold right into the big top. Der Rote Teufel is in the process of sticking his head between his legs as he hangs beneath the dome from a trapeze, and everyone is gazing in his direction. He folds himself up and peers out from between his own thighs, and now he’s only holding on with one hand, and the onlookers gasp and hardly dare look. The drummer gives a drum roll that goes on and on. Then suddenly there’s a rustling sound from on high and there’s unease on the trapeze. It’s Der Rote Teufel’s gold-embroidered hosiery that’s ripped in the most unfortunate of places. For a moment the bulk of the audience think this is part of the performance, but then they realize this is a scandal of the highest order and that Der Rote Teufel hasn’t been given his name by accident, for an unmistakable smell fills the tent, and the poor snake-man is lowered at top speed with his white bottom cheeks like a shameful moon above his burning, tightly clenched face. A great hissing breaks out on the benches at the back; the men get up and chuck balls of paper and earth in the direction of the Teufel, and it’s now that Arnold Nilsen makes his debut. Mundus realizes that the show is about to go to pieces, and so he carries Arnold out into the middle of the big top and holds him up. Silence falls all around, and the cocky, ex
uberant fishermen sit down in the end and Mundus seizes the initiative. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouts. “This little gentleman I have in my arms is missing his parents! Would his mother and father make themselves known, and reunite themselves with him in our presence before the world’s tallest man rises in our midst?”

  Everything becomes completely still once more. Arnold takes in the faces that all but encircle him. They stare, they gape. The closest among the audience stretch forward and all but touch him. The vicar makes to get up but in the end remains seated, sorrowful and uncertain. And perhaps there are some who for a time believe that this is part of the act too, for the laughter begins and then spreads, and in the end the big top is full of laughter — people applauding and stamping their feet. Only the vicar remains quiet; he keeps looking at Arnold and doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Mundus gives a deep bow, circles the ring as the public continues clapping, and in the end he carries Arnold backstage, puts him down and hurries out once more. It’s almost pitch dark. Only one pale light shines over a mirror. Arnold doesn’t move. He can hear fanfares and drum rolls coming from the ring. Then he hears something else. He hears heavy footsteps; the ground beneath him shakes, and the chair he’s sitting on starts trembling. It isn’t an elephant approaching. It’s a human being, and Arnold has to brace himself because he realizes it’s none other than the world’s tallest man. And the world’s tallest man has to walk with his head bowed. His face is long and sorrowful. His nose casts a shadow over everything. He wears a black suit, and his tie is longer than the moonlight reflected over the ocean. He’s accompanied by a lady with a short dress that sticks right out and a shiny cap on her head. She’s probably quite normal but only reaches up to his belt, and barely even that. He stops by the heavy golden curtain. He bends even lower and the lady lets go of his enormous hand. The music subsides. Everything falls silent, only the quick pattering of the drum is left and the full power of Mundus’ voice: “Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the man declared the worlds tallest man at the Copenhagen medical congress, the Icelander Paturson from Akureyri! He's eight feet eleven and one-half inches tall, and that without shoes on his feet!” Paturson stretches up and goes out. Some people shriek and some laugh, others gasp in astonishment. But most are just silent, for they’ve never seen anything so huge before. Then the lady with the funny cap notices Arnold. “Who are you?” “Arnold,” says Arnold. She smiles, twists her head, and comes closer. “And what are you doing here, Arnold?” “Waiting for Mundus,” Arnold replies. The lady peeks through the gap in the curtain and quickly waves Arnold over. He jumps from his chair and goes over to her. Arnold feels the lady putting something into his hand. It’s a candy. He puts it into his mouth before anyone can take it from him again, and sucks on it for a long while. Inside the candy is something still softer that melts around his tongue and almost dizzies him from head to foot. She gives him another piece. “I’m the Chocolate Girl,” she whispers, and kisses him quickly on the cheek. “Look, Arnold.” And Arnold sees Paturson standing there in the ring with his back to them. Mundus is measuring him with a silver tape and has to get up on a ladder to record the final inches. Then he shows the measuring tape to those at the front so that they can see with their own eyes Paturson’s exact height — eight feet eleven and one-half inches! Everyone claps, and Mundus stands by Paturson once more, takes his right hand that’s as big as a spade, and begins working free a ring from his index finger. “Is he married?” Arnold asks. The Chocolate Girl just shakes her head and laughs. “Be quiet,” she tells him. Mundus has got the ring off, and he shows it to the crowd. Then he produces a real silver two kroner coin and draws it through the ring so that everyone can see that the ring is wide enough to let the coin pass. It’s almost beyond belief and the crowd is wild with exultation, but Mundus has kept the best for last. He gets two blushing girls from the front row to come out with him into the ring. Once there they’re allowed to touch Paturson so that no one will be in any doubt that he’s genuine flesh and blood. They then get to sit on each of his arms, as if they were up in the branches of a great tree, and now it’s Paturson’s turn to blush rather than the girls’ — his cheeks blaze and shyly he buries his head as the girls swing about and laugh and wave the whole way home. A couple of the guys at the back want to come down and arm-wrestle the bashful giant, but that’s going too far for Mundus. Someone could get badly injured. Instead he lets a table covered in an embroidered cloth be brought in. He draws this off like a conjurer to reveal Paturson’s supper, which consists of nothing less than a dozen soft-boiled eggs, fourteen rolls, a pork chop, three kilos of potatoes, eighteen prunes and two quarts of milk. All this the Icelander partakes of before the wide eyes of the audience. And as Paturson eats Mundus goes closer to the crowd and folds his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “Our Icelandic friend comes from the impoverished house of a fisherman in Akureyri, and as you have seen, his size causes him great tribulation. He yearns to return and fish with his family as before. But neither clothes nor normal fishing gear are feasible. Even his shoelaces have to be ordered from abroad. For this reason we have produced some cards that he will now go around with and sell. The more cards you buy, the bigger the clothes and fishing equipment he can obtain. Please give generously!” And the world’s tallest man dries his mouth with a cloth and quietly goes from row to row with his color cards. But few are willing to buy them, since they’ve already had to pay fifty 0re to get in, and the only one to put two coins in Paturson’s fist is the vicar. The show is over. The orchestra strikes up. Paturson withdraws, and the Chocolate Girl takes his hand once more. Mundus storms out backstage. He’s seething with anger. “Where’s that damned Teufel?” he shrieks. “I’ll give him Teufel!” Mundus rushes out but comes straight back to look down darkly on Arnold. “And you’re still here?” Arnold nods. He can’t deny it. He’s afraid Mundus will throw him out, but instead the man sighs heavily and painfully, lights a cigar and sits down exhausted. “This is a wretched circus,” he says. “The acrobats fart so their outfits rip, and no one’ll buy the cards I’ve printed.” “The vicar did,” Arnold whispers. “Oh, yes. The vicar obliged, and I’m left with 348 cards! Is there anybody around here except heartless, tightfisted wretches?” Mundus exhales smoke from beneath his mustache and waves it away with his hand. Arnold reflects for a moment. “It’s perhaps not so wise to give him all that food first,” he ventures. Mundus looks at him again. “What do you mean?” “They won’t feel sony for him once he’s eaten so much,” Arnold mumbles. Mundus gets up. He chucks his cigar out the door and smiles. “What’s your name, boy?” he asks. “My name’s Arnold.” And at that moment the Chocolate Girl comes in. She’s holding the still lit cigar in her hand and looking astonished at Mundus, who in turn is pointing at Arnold. “Arnold’s right!” he exclaims. “Why in the world didn’t anyone ever say that Paturson shouldn’t eat for king and country right in front of a hungry audience the moment before he sells his cards!” He turns toward the Chocolate Girl. “Did you get him to bed?” The Chocolate Girl nods and has a drag of the cigar. Mundus grabs it from her and chucks it out once more. “Find somewhere for Arnold to sleep,” he orders her.

  And the Chocolate Girl takes Arnold’s hand and leads him out of the tent, and they walk along the muddy path that runs between the stalls. “I think you’ve found the elephant’s hair,” she murmurs. Arnold doesn’t quite follow. “Does an elephant have hair?” “Yes,” the Chocolate Girl replies. “But only on its tail.” She gives him a quick kiss on the lips, and Arnold feels dizzy again. “You can sleep with Paturson. But I’m just in the next wagon. If you need anything.”

  She stops outside one of the wagons, carefully opens the door and lets Arnold in. This is where Paturson is sleeping. He’s sleeping deeply. Two beds have been pushed together to give him sufficient space. Arnold’s supposed to lie beside him on the floor. The Chocolate Girl gives him a blanket. “I’m in the wagon right beside this one,” she whispers. “If you need a
nything.” She hurries out. Arnold remains standing in the poor light for a time, just looking at the world’s tallest man. His face is huge and lonely on the white pillow. He has three quilts, but even they aren’t sufficient. His socks are torn, and his toes stick out in all directions. They’re bigger than Arnold’s thighs and resemble bouquets of flesh with the crooked yellow toenails as petals. Then Arnold catches sight of Paturson’s jacket hanging from a nail behind the bed. He hauls it down and tries it on. The buttons reach right down to his shoes, and the arms are so long that he has trouble finding his hands again. He could go on a long journey into that jacket. Paturson turns over in bed. Arnold holds his breath. It takes some time for the tallest man in the world to turn over. It’s almost as if the globe itself trembles on its axis for a moment. Arnold climbs out of the jacket, hangs it up again and then feels something in one of the pockets. It’s the silver measuring tape. He turns toward the bed. Paturson is still sleeping soundlessly. And Arnold begins at his longest toe and rolls out the shining tape right to Paterson’s topmost hair. Arnold looks at the figure. He must have made a mistake and he measures again, this time the other way around, from his head and down to his feet, just to make certain. But he arrives at exactly the same measurement. Paturson isn’t eight feet eleven and a half inches, he’s six feet eight and a quarter inches. Arnold puts the measuring tape back in his pocket. He’s surprised but not really disappointed. There’s something he’s gradually understanding, something that hasn’t yet become clear but that is beginning to make sense; a shadow in his head, a lie.