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

has happened?” “She’s bleeding! She won’t say anything!”
    Boletta carried her daughter into the bedroom and laid her down on the double bed. The Old One immediately got ready the largest pan with water and hurried after them. Vera lay with her eyes shut and her arms clasped tightly about the blood-stained dress. Her face looked more twisted than before. A blue shadow covered one cheek. Boletta sat by the edge of the bed and didn’t know what to do with her own hands. “I found her like this,” she breathed. “And she won’t speak! Not a single word!” “Hasn’t she said anything at all?” “The only thing she said was that I should let the dove out.” “What dove?” “The dove on the clothesline. There was a dove on it. What do you think she meant?” “She just meant you should let it out. The dove.”
    The Old One sat on the other side of the bed. She passed her hand carefully over Vera’s forehead and felt the warmth and dryness of her skin. Then she put two fingers against the girls thin, pale throat and felt, barely, the rhythm of her heart, slow and even. And the same sound came from far back in her mouth: a low, dark intoning that made her lips vibrate. Boletta could stand it no more. She pressed her hands over her ears. “She’s hummed like that ever since I found her.” “She isn’t humming. She’s cooing. Oh, Lord.” The Old One tried to take the dress from Vera but couldn’t manage. The girl’s hands were white, with three of the nails broken. “Shall we call the doctor?” Boletta whispered. “The doctor is bound to be here, there and everywhere today. Do you think it’s her monthly?” “So much blood isn’t possible!” The Old One looked at Boletta sharply. “Oh, don’t be so certain of that. We have more than enough blood.”
    They heard the water boiling in the kitchen, and while Boletta fetched the pan, the Old One rummaged for vinegar, camphor, cloths, iodine and towels. Carefully they lifted Vera, undid the knot of the apron on her back and softly laid her down once more. They took off her shoes and stockings, and unbuttoned her blouse, but when they once more attempted to wrest the dress from her grasp they found it as impossible as before. They had to use force; they had to pull away finger after finger, and even then they didn’t manage it. In the end the Old One took the scissors and cut the whole garment loose from the hem of the skirt right through the bloodied fabric, up to the collar and down the length of both arms. Now and again Vera opened her eyes almost as if trying to find out where she was, or to see what it was they were doing around her. But that lasted only a short while; thereafter she sank cooing into her own blue shadow. They pulled up her clothes and saw that her panties were bloody too. They removed everything, and she no longer resisted at all. Boletta cried the more when she saw her own daughter like this on the huge bed; she was almost see-through in the dull glow from the chandelier above, and her hands kept searching for something, her fingers kept twisting into hard fists, as if they were still holding on to a blue dress that would never now be worn.
    After that they washed Vera with a sponge, pumice and brush — always using the mildest of soaps. They dried her then with the softest towels, changed the bedclothes, laid a greased poultice and a cloth sprinkled in vinegar on her cheek, and gave her three layers of towels just for safety’s sake. She was given hot tea and they let her wear the Old Ones Chinese nightdress. Vera wasn’t humming any more. Vera slept soundlessly, and even her hands finally let go of their hold and found their rest in silk.
    Then the Old One fetched her bottle of Malaga and two glasses, and sat down with Boletta. “Well celebrate peace indoors,” she whispered. They could still hear the rejoicing from Majorstuen to Jessenl0kken, from Tortberg to Bislet, St. Hans’ Hill and Blåsen. Now and again someone