Free The Half Brother: A Novel by Lars Saabye Christensen Page B

forty-two, a bachelor, a former triple jump champion, and he was hopeless when it came to conflict. He was standing there in all his finery — a wide, blue jacket hanging from his gangly frame, pants that were too short for him and with saliva stains on the worn, thin knees. From his top buttonhole there waved a bow composed of the national colors of Norway — it was so enormous it almost made him topple forward. Bang’s face was shining with sweat; it was as though he had rushed up all the steps to the loft and down again and around the yard and back, or perhaps he had just rubbed spit on his forehead too. Inquisitiveness was glowing in his eyes, and he smiled with a full set of teeth as he raised his hat and bowed. “So, it’s the handyman,” the Old One said. Bang’s mouth puckered. “Has something happened?” he asked. Behind him, on the next landing, stood the neighbors — the chatty housewives from their kitchen sinks. They were jostling each other to see better — the Old One still in her petticoat — and the time already quarter past eight on May 9. She’s standing there in nothing but her petticoat and with her hair like a gray avalanche down her hunched shoulders, this strange creature from Denmark who talks pretty much as she looks and whom they’ve never quite got the measure of, even though she’s almost the oldest resident in the place, living in this apartment on the corner of Church Road and Gørbitz Street, where to that day no man had been in residence. “Happened?” the Old One repeated. “What makes you think something happened?” The caretaker leaned against the door frame. “I heard a scream. Everyone here heard a scream.” The neighbors nodded and took a step forward; yes, they had heard it too, an appalling scream. The Old One smiled. “It was only me — I burned myself on the stove.” And she wanted to shut the door on them now, but Bang remained standing there with one shoe a little too far forward. He looked hard at her wet arm. “Are you quite certain that everything’s all right?” “I am completely certain, and thank you so very much for your concern.” Bang wasn’t about to give up so easily. “And how’s Vera, by the way? Some of the boys said that she wasn’t well.” “What did you say?” The caretaker smiled again. “They said you’d said so. That Vera wasn’t well.” The Old One looked down at his shoe; it was misshapen and the lace didn’t reach through all the holes. “If you don’t move your foot right now, you will be the next one to scream in this neighborhood.” Bang took a hurried step backward, but his eyes remained fixed on her all the while. “I only wanted to ask, ma’am. These are troubled times.” “I’m aware of that. But house-to-house searches are, I believe, a thing of the past now?”
    The Old One attempted to close the door yet again, but the caretaker leaned his frame in and the smile had disappeared now. “I think you forgot this on the stairs.” He rummaged in his jacket pockets and at last produced a bunch of clothespins. “Careful with those. Someone might have had a nasty fall. Hope your hand’s better soon. And Vera.”
    Bang limped up to the housewives, who immediately encircled him. The Old One shut the door, put the clothespins in a drawer and hurried out to the bathroom. Vera sat in the empty bath, the towel over her shoulders, hugging herself, her head against her bony knees. Boletta gently caressed her back and Vera allowed her to do so. Together they carried Vera into the bedroom again. There they put on her blankets and quilts, silks and creams, and she fell into dreams immediately in the warm light. “I looked at the towels in the laundry basket,” Boletta whispered. “She hasn’t bled any more.” “Good. That means we won’t have to get the doctor here.” They went out into the dining room so as not to wake Vera. Still dust glittered over the furniture and along the walls, on lampshades and over