The Half Brother

by Lars Saabye Christensen

  Barnum’s Divine Comedy

  It was raining. I’d never seen rain like it before. A wall of water, papered over with leaves, coming down at an angle from low and heavy skies. I drew the curtains and went back to bed. The little transparent container they’d sent from the Royal Infirmary was a pathetic invention. I had to lie on my side and aim, extremely uncomfortably at the same time as fighting to get an erection; they were two contradictory movements that short-circuited my thinking, blanked out my concentration and left me soft between the legs. My balls hurt. When I held them it felt as if they were bags of shattered glass. Vivian emerged from the bathroom. “Can’t you manage?” she asked me. “I’m trying,” I answered. “Shall I help you?” “Thanks for the offer.” What else could I say? I was helpless. She lay behind me, stroked her hand over my stomach and took hold of my cock. But she was too aggressive. Did she think it was a tap she was turning on? My dead eyelid came down and shut me half in, and a horrid thought struck me — a sudden image — which made each and every hint of arousal flee my mind. The eyelid’s the foreskin of the eye. “Be careful,” I whispered. “Does it hurt?” “A bit.” Vivian let go, lay on the other side and took me in her mouth instead. It was then I realized just how important this was to her, the filling of this container with sticky, gray, alkaline liquid. She’d never taken me in her mouth before, nor had I ever asked her to. I was so surprised that I got a hard-on right away; I became firm and tight between Vivian’s thin lips, and now it was just a question of time. The rain kept on. The sound of rain surrounded us; it was as if we lived on an island in the middle of a roaring river. “Yes,” I breathed. She moved away. I twisted around over the container and filled it as well as I was able. Vivian already had a paper towel ready She wiped up what hadn’t gone inside and put on the lid. Then she went out to the bathroom and I heard her being sick. In three hours the container had to be delivered to the lab at the Royal Infirmary so my sperm could be approved for the long journey in to Vivian’s egg, or washed down the nearest basin. I looked at the clock. It was ten. Vivian sat down beside me again. “Shall I come with you?” she asked. I took her hand. “You don’t need to. But thanks anyway.” “Take care of the goods then.” That’s the way we talked. We used the word goods. A coldness had come into our conversation. We measured the relationship in temperatures. We counted the days between each period and crossed them off on the calendar. And I delivered the goods. But it was a long while since I’d delivered them to her shop. That’s how we talked. “I’ll take a taxi straight to the lab,” I said. She gave me a quick kiss on the brow, fetched an umbrella and went off to the beauty salon. I lay where I was. I heard her feet on the stairs. I heard the rain and the wind. The container lay at my side, a gray mass on the bottom — my goods — which could be half a person, a complete matrix. I showered, put on fresh clothes, had a cigarette and called the central taxi service. There was no reply. In the end the dial tone cut out too. I tried the one at St. Hans Hill. The line was busy. I phoned the one at Majorstuen instead. That number was busy too. I called the central depot again. After somewhere in the region of twelve minutes, I was connected to an automatic answering service. Demand is extremely high at present. Please try one of our sixty local depots. I’d tried to. I gave one other one a try — Bislet. That number was engaged, too. It got to ten-thirty. I began to get a bit worked up. I grabbed my raincoat, secreted the container in the inner pocket and ran over to St. Hans Hill. There wasn’t so much as one solitary taxi there. The phone just rang and rang in the green booth. The rain was coming from every direction. I was about to continue down Ullevål Road, past the kiosk. Then I heard someone calling my name. I stopped and looked around me. He was sitting on the bench beside the pond. “Barnum!” he called again, and waved. I went over to him. I didn’t have much desire to, but I went all the same. It was my old enemy, Hamster. I’d heard a few rumors about him and realized they were true. Now he was the one to suffer, and I felt no compassion. He looked like Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy, after he was dead. He’d gotten that dry look. And for a moment it came to me that I could be the one sitting there, that one day I might end up there myself — alone in the rain in a park. The difference between us was just that I chose a slow and labored alcoholic road, while he had gone for the chemistry set and the blood — the sharpened bombs. Clumps of veins showed in his face. He put on a pair of sunglasses. “It’s you, Barnum?” I nodded. “You remember me, don’t you, Bar-num?” “No,” I told him. Hamster laughed heavily. “Don’t bullshit me, huh? I was a pal of your brothers.” “Were you?” “Hell, Barnum, yes. Of course I was friends with that crazy brother of yours.” I thought to myself — time and addiction make it easy to lie — no, not easy, necessary. “Now I remember you,” I told him. Hamster raised his hand and spread his yellow fingers. “That’s what I’m telling you. We’re buddies, right?” “Was that why you used to beat me up?” I asked him. Hamster lit a cigarette stub. The flame died away long before he could get it going. “That wasn’t me. It was Aslak and Preben who beat you up. Don’t you remember?” I didn’t say anything. That was my response. “Come on, don’t be so mean, Barnum. I was the one who tried to stop them.” I couldn’t endure any more of this. “Nice to see you, Hamster,” I said. But he wouldn’t let me go. He held me back. There was strength in him yet — thin and sinewy — or maybe panic’s muscles were at work. I heard the container sloshing about in my pocket. “Let me go, damn it!” I shrieked. Hamster let me go. “Do you have any spare change, Barnum?” he murmured. I gave him a fiver. He looked sullenly at the money and stuffed it in his pocket. And it was as if he had no more to lose; he didn’t need to wheedle any more since there was only a fiver to be got out of me — finally he could be really nasty and honest again. “Think you’re something special, do you, Tiny?” he yelled. I just left. I heard Hamster’s laughter in my back, and suddenly I couldn’t stand it any more; I couldn’t take that laughter any longer. I’d settle things with him once and for all. Now Hamster was the small one, and the time was past when he could treat me like a dog. He’d find that out shortly. He was going to be finished off. The time for revenge had come, after all the years that had passed since they emptied my bag in Holte Street and pulled off my pants in Riddervold Square. Now the sleepless nights would be made up for. I had him under my feet. I stopped right in front of Hamster. He couldn’t even be bothered to look up. I could have smashed his sunglasses to smithereens. If I’d had a mirror, I could have let him see just what had become of him. I stood like that for a time. And then I dropped a fifty kroner note into his filthy lap and left him, without uttering a word. Good luck to him. That fifty kroner note would singe his soul. A cab swung into the taxi rank. I raced over. But when I got there, I realized I was broke. Hamster had gotten the last of my money. I looked over at the bench. All there was to see was a flat, blue tobacco pouch and a pair of bent sunglasses in the rain. He wasn’t there. Hamster had already gone, and I never saw him again. An elderly lady, her hands laden with bags from the “pole,” scrambled into the backseat of the taxi and off it drove. She turned around and waved, smiled from behind the wet back window; she looked like the corpse in a hearse rising up to wave goodbye, and I recognized the white face of Knuckles. Miss Knuckles waved to her old pupil left behind in the miserable morning, before she too was gone, into the traffic lights and the falling rain. I rushed down to the bank in Waldemar Thrane Street to take out some money. From the clock above the door I could see it was half past ten. I filled in a form and handed it over the counter together with some identification. The cashier, a young woman perhaps the same age as myself, took a terrifically long time to complete the transaction. Now and again she glanced at me; her mouth was small and red. My eyelid slid down. She quickly looked the other way. The clock marched on toward eleven. And I felt the deep and stressful discomfort of standing still, of being stuck, as in a feverish dream. “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I breathed. The young cashier shook her head as she returned my identificat
ion. “Unfortunately your accounts empty,” she said, and spoke the words loudly, as if she thought I was hard of hearing or retarded — her pink mouth became a megaphone when she opened it. “Well, I suppose we’d better hurry off and earn some more,” I said equally loudly. But behind me in the line was Vivian’s father, blocking the way — Aleksander Wie himself, whom I hadn’t seen since that last dinner at their house. He must have been standing there a long time, because he didn’t come across as particularly surprised. He just looked at me and said, “Now we can go and have a cup of coffee.” The hand of the clock jerked forward to quarter past eleven. I held my hand over the inner pocket of my jacket and looked up at him. “I’m actually in a real, real hurry,” I breathed. There was the ghost of a smile on Aleksander Wie’s lips. “So let’s go right away!” He let the others in the line pass him and we went out together. It was still raining. I had to join him under his black umbrella. I’d happily have avoided that. We went to The Ugly Duckling and sat over by the window. He ordered coffee and Danish pastries for the two of us, and polished his glasses as we sat waiting. It was uncomfortably warm in there. The sweat poured down my neck. I wondered if my goods could be damaged by a temperature change like this. Aleksander Wie studied me suddenly. “Do you have heart pain?” “No, why?” “You’ve had your hand there the whole time.” I put my hand down on the table instead. Finally the waiter came back. In the middle of the round pastry laid in front of me was a lake of warm, gray syrup. I shut both eyes. I couldn’t eat. I drank my coffee instead. My balls hurt. This had to end soon. “I apologize for the way things were that evening you came to dinner with us,” Aleksander Wie said. “It’s all right,” I replied. “We’d really looked forward to it, you know.” “Yes, of course.” The sweat was pouring from me now. How polite is it possible for a human being to be? Can you actually die of politeness, or is it rather shyness, submissiveness or weakness that’s actually the issue — a lack of determination that enslaves you and renders you a victim of chance? Aleksander Wie leaned over the tablecloth, and I saw that he was changed. A sort of dark peace had descended on him, a deep resignation; he’d become someone who took things for granted and had let them go. Everything turned out as it did just the same. “It takes so little for something to go wrong,” he whispered. “I know,” I said. He smiled again, but his smile was not one of revelation and openness — it was a smile of resignation that is just as much a sigh, a facial shrug, at the weight of this world’s folly. It was both a beautiful and disquieting smile. I grew more nervous still. “Do you know?” he asked. “I really must go,” I said. “You haven’t eaten your pastry.” I attacked it. The smooth, soft, syrupy sugar trickled over my lips. I tried to swallow as quickly as I could, but the top stuck to my tongue. I gulped down the rest of my coffee. Aleksander Wie handed me a napkin. “Thanks,” I murmured. He leaned even further over. “One word follows the next,” he said. “Soon enough what you’ve said can’t be taken back.” I dried my mouth with the stiff paper. “All right,” I said. But it wasn’t me he wanted to hear, it was his own words he listened to. “It’s like in some trial where a witness says so much they end up being accused of the crime themselves.” “I don’t quite understand,” I said. Aleksander Wie raised his coffee cup but then slowly set it down once more. The coffee became cold before it reached the table. “When my wife was destroyed in the accident, I wanted to leave her,” he said. I couldn’t face hearing all this. I had no wish to learn any more. “But you didn’t!” I all but shouted. Aleksander Wie shook his head. “No, I remained with Annie out of compassion.” “That’s not the worst of reasons,” I told him. He gave a laugh, low and rumbling. “Compassion is just a nicer form of contempt, Barnum.” I took a deep breath. “You had a daughter, too,” I said. Aleksander Wie looked down, for a moment shamefaced. So his resignation wasn’t complete yet. There was a crack in his dark calm through which the light just got in. He wanted to talk about something else. “Do you believe in coincidence?” he asked. “Well, I did meet you in the bank today,” I said. “That’s not all that remarkable. I was going in to pay your rent.” “What?” “I thought more about what your mother told me. That your father once owned a Buick.” “Dad was a good driver,” I told him. Aleksander Wie smiled. “I’m sure. Do you think it’s possible to make things right again? To right what’s wrong?” “I don’t believe in coincidence,” I said. Aleksander Wie sat there silent for a time. “Isn’t it strange that humans won’t let themselves be mended,” he whispered. Then he produced his wallet and put 200 kroner on the table between us. “Buy something nice for Vivian on your way home, Barnum.” I didn’t want to take the money. “It really isn’t necessary,” I told him. “I’d like you to buy something nice for Vivian.” “It really isn’t necessary,” I said again. But Aleksander Wie wasn’t about to take no for an answer. It was as if no one could hear what I was saying. He shoved the money into my raincoat. I had to clutch the little container. “Many thanks,” I said. “Tell her we miss her,” he murmured. “Yes,” I said. I got up and went out. It hadn’t stopped raining. There were no taxis waiting at the rank. The phone just went on and on ringing. In time the rain itself would lift the receiver and answer. I ran down Ullevål Road. It was a quarter to twelve. But as I passed the black fence that bordered Our Savior’s, I saw a helpless figure there I recognized. I stopped. I was caught in confusion. Should I go in or should I turn a blind eye and fulfill the duty of the day, namely the delivery of my goods to the Royal Infirmary before one o’clock? It was Esther who was standing there among the graves. She was hitting out with a stick on every side as if she was either trying to beat up the bad weather or put up an inside-out umbrella. I had no choice. I found the gate and went in. Was this compassion, Aleksander Wie’s nicer form of contempt? No, because the opposite, to go past, would have been cynicism itself — indifference for everything that has to do with health and personal hygiene — and that punishes too. I have a kind heart. I stopped a few steps away from her so I wouldn’t get hit by the stick. “Hi, Esther,” I said. Slowly she stopped going around in the rain. Her eyes were empty. “It’s me,” I told her. She stood completely still. I went closer and stretched out my hand. She retreated. “Don’t you recognize me, Esther?” She quickly shook her head. Perhaps she didn’t understand what I was saying either; perhaps language had simply run out of her. I saw that under her coat she was just wearing a yellow nightie. And on her feet she was wearing misshapen, brown slippers. “It’s Barnum,” I whispered. “Who served in your kiosk.” But words had no effect on her any longer. “Sugar candy,” I suggested. It was to no avail. Esther’s face only grew the emptier. How could I get through to her? I brought out the container from my inner pocket and showed it to her, waved it about a bit so the liquid ran from side to side — all at once it reminded me of these glass balls in which it snows when you turn them upside down. And it was as if she suddenly became aware of everything again — a reverse stroke, a force that ordered her senses once more. She was embarrassed, shy; she looked down at herself — at her nightie and slippers — she even turned crimson, as if she’d been caught in the act of being human. “I think I’ve gotten lost, Barnum,” she whispered. “Yes, you’re not coming to the graveyard yet,” I said. She came closer and was on the verge of tears. “I haven’t done anything wrong,” she sobbed. “Of course not, Esther. We haven’t done anything wrong.” And so I took her hand and went with her to Prince August Memorial Home in Stor Street. There was a great hubbub there. Esther had been gone since the previous evening. The police had been contacted hours before and several of the nurses were out looking for her at the Ankertorget and along the Aker River. She was taken care of right away, and I had to explain where I’d found her and in what condition she’d been. I said that she’d sought out her old kiosk, the one I now looked after, and that everything was all right. I got to wait in the room she shared while they washed her and got her tidied. The other lady lay in her bed in the room, so small and thin she’d barely have been able
to cast a shadow. She turned around beneath her quilt. “Has Esther come back?” she whispered. “Esthers here,” I told her. And disappointment swelled in her bright eyes; it was as if I’d told her that the Indian in 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 bro
ught 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.