Per Petterson - In The Wake

“The one with the stylish chairs from the forties?”

“Yes.”

“God. That would have been great. I thought we had sold that.”

“That was the idea. But I took it. I thought you had enough.”

He looks round him at the walls of his house. “I probably had,” he says, and rubs his chin, shakes his head and says: “Fuck me. Where did you learn that boxing stuff?”

“From the old picture of Dad that used to hang above the radio. I’ve got it in my bedroom. I always look at it before putting out the light.”

“You’re joking.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I don’t remember that picture. Are you sure it hung above the radio?”

“Of course I am.”

He shakes his head again and stays sitting on the floor brushing dust from his shirt front and smoothing his tousled hair back with his fingers. He does not look like he has seen the Light any more, but neither does he look like Jesus on the Cross just before crying: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

He says:

“Are we done with all this now?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Good. I am too old for this sort of thing. But you always had a big mouth.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling oddly pleased. It is easier to breathe, I can take in air without trouble now, only the knuckles on my right hand feel sore.

“Look,” he says, “I don’t feel like going out any more. If we are going to drink we can do it here. I have a bottle I’ve kept.”

“Under the bed.”

“No, not exactly.” He smiles slightly.

“That’s fine by me,” I say. “Can I smoke?”

“Of course you can.”

He gets stiffly to his feet. His legs are trembling. He brushes dust from his trousers. Then he rubs his face.

“You just stay there,” he says. And then he turns and walks out of the kitchen and downstairs to the basement room. His steps are not so light, but not so heavy either. I lie down on my back and stretch my body until it creaks and look up at the ceiling. I suck my knuckles. I could join a boxing club. They just might have a class for old boys. I could cut down on the smoking. Let’s say, with five cigarettes a day. There’s a lot of health to be gained right there. I sit up again and bump along on my behind and lean back against the cupboard smoking a cigarette and listening for my brother’s steps. Here he comes.

He has a three-quarters-full bottle of Famous Grouse in his hand. He opens the cupboard above my head and takes out two kitchen glasses and gives me one. He sits down with a groan and leans his back against the fridge and unscrews the bottle. He fills my glass and then he fills his own.

“I’m selling out my share in the firm,” he says. “It’s a long time since I did my bit anyway. It’s no fun any more. Besides, I’m broke.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know. Actually, I like it like this; cleaned out, rock bottom.”

“Welcome to the club,” I say. He smiles, but his eyes are shining. He raises his glass.

“Rock bottom,” he says.

I look down. I see my hand round the glass, the glass is full, but at least it is not gin. I raise my glass.

“Rock bottom,” I say. I lean forward and let my glass touch his, and then we take the first mouthful, and I do not say anything about Mrs Grinde, or Naim Hajo for that matter. That would have been selfish.