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

as you like. There’s no hurry. For heaven’s sake, don’t hurry. Men are basically like forged banknotes who aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on. Apart from Wilhelm, of course. But sometimes it’s more exciting to say no than to say yes. Believe me.”
    A tremor went through Vera, and the Old One had to hold her tight a moment. She laid her cheek against Vera’s jutting shoulder and stroked her back, smoothing out the creases in the silk. “Wilhelm gave me this nightgown just after I met him. Imagine that! Giving me a nightgown before we were married! Is it any wonder that I locked my door every night and put the moon and the stars in the keyhole to be sure no one would find a way in? Not in the least. Shall we read some of his letter this evening, Vera? From the part where they’re stuck in the ice.”
    Vera bent forward and her hair parted so that her slim neck curved in a white bow. The Old One drank another glass of Malaga and wondered where she had found this great weight of silence. And what frightened the Old One most was that she recognized this silence, as if it had come as an inheritance and had consumed Vera with even greater intensity. Her silence was loud within her. “Did you think it was Rakel who wanted to talk to you just now?” the Old One whispered. Vera shut her eyes. “Because don’t believe that, Vera. Waiting without hope only prevents you from living yourself. I know that. I’ve waited so long now that it’s too late to give up. I’m still waiting, Vera. And I’ve used up my nine lives many times over. Those who are silly and sentimental amaze me. But I know better. Hope is a tired and feeble old lady.”
    The Old One turned to Vera again and it was then she noticed it, a mark on her neck, a nick in the skin with tiny capillaries of blood extending outward from it. At the moment she noticed it and was about to raise her hand, the kitchen doorbell rang. Vera sat up. Her hair fell back into place. The Old One thumped her fist into the divan. “If that’s the wretched handyman again, I’ll knot his tie once and for all! Don’t be surprised if you hear screams, Vera!”
    The Old One went out barefoot into the kitchen and opened the door. And there was the caretaker as before, the same enormous bow hanging from his lapel, except that it was tied askew now, and his breath was so bad it could have stripped the paint off the walls. He leaned forward in an attempt to execute a bow. The Old One narrowed her eyes and waved him away like a fly. “What do you want now? Is there a stone missing from the gravel? Is peace giving you a headache?”
    Bang stood tall again, but his gaze was fixed somewhere down by the Old One’s foot. “I only wanted to inform you that you have left your clothes basket up in the loft.” “And?” “I also wanted to say that I can fetch it and have no objection to bringing it down to you.” “But I do object, young man. Thank you very much and goodbye.”
    The Old One shut the door in his face and waited until she could hear him limping down the steps talking to himself. And when the caretaker talked to himself like that it was generally about the triple jump and records he’d have broken if it hadn’t been for injury, envy and fate in general, and he got himself pretty worked up when he talked like that. But the Old One trotted back to Vera and sat down with her again, passed the comb through her dry hair and lifted it so she could see her neck again — so thin it was that the Old One could almost have cried. She tried to laugh. “Men always go in the same suit regardless. Whether it’s a wedding or a funeral, war or peace, they’ll have on the same worn suit. Except for Wilhelm. He never wore a suit. Have I told you about the last night he was with me? I’m bound to have, but I’ll tell you again all the same. I let him in, even though I’d locked the door beforehand with three different keys and put a whole constellation in the keyhole. He