by Jo Nesbo
“Why did you deliver the present to that specific place?” Nilly asked.
“Good question. I can’t remember. I probably checked the nice-child-ometer and found the kid there.”
“You did!” Doctor Proctor said. “And you couldn’t be bothered to go very far either. You were right here in Oslo . . . at number fourteen Cannon Avenue!”
“Fourteen?” Lisa exclaimed.
“Of course!” Nilly said. “The nicest girl! Obviously, that’s you, Lisa.”
“The snow globe? That was from you?”
“Looks like it,” Stanislaw said.
“But then the deed may not have been incinerated or thrown away,” Nilly said. “I mean, your mom saves all the wrapping paper, right? She even irons it. Yippee! We can present freshly ironed proof that the king and Mr. Thrane never owned Christmas.”
“Let’s go!”
TWO MINUTES AND sixteen seconds later Nilly and the jet reindeer surreptitiously landed behind the garage in Doctor Proctor’s yard.
“I’ll be right back,” Lisa said. She hopped out and ran toward the gate onto Cannon Avenue.
“Oh, good, there you are!” the commandant said, looking up from the table, which was set for breakfast, as she came storming into the kitchen. “I was just about to go upstairs and wake you up. Strange, though . . . . It sounded like you came in from outside.”
“Good morning,” Lisa said as she opened one of the kitchen cupboards and started looking through the stash of gift wrap of all colors and patterns. “Are you going to work?”
“No. We earned a little time off, because while you were safely asleep in your warm bed, your father has been up all night defending the country. We just shot down a Finnish jet fighter.” The commandant took a loud, self-satisfied gulp from his coffee cup. “What do you say to that, my dear?”
“I hope no one was injured,” Lisa said with a concentrated, concerned expression as she continued flipping through the wrapping paper.
“You hope no one—injuring someone is sort of the point when you shoot a missile, my dear. And the Finn was probably quite injured. There wasn’t a scrap of him or his plane left.” The commandant set down his cup. “Unfortunately, the fountain sustained some damage as well. Yes, to tell you the truth, both the Henrik Ibsen statue and the National Theater Shopping Mall have seen better days.” The commandant looked out the window. “I really hope we don’t have to shoot any more missiles. Oslo needs its public squares. And I’m sure Finland needs its Finns as well.”
“I can’t find it!” Lisa wailed, on the verge of tears.
“Can’t find what, sweetie?” asked her mother, who had just walked into the kitchen.
“That weird wrapping paper that was around the snow globe I got for Christmas last year. The one that said ‘from Santa’ on it.”
“Oh, that one,” her mother said, and sat down at the table and started buttering a slice of bread. “You don’t need to look for that one, sweetie.”
“Oh?”
“I used it to wrap that present you asked me to give Nilly’s mother the other day.”
“What? But that present was already wrapped!”
“Yes, but it was wrapped in such an awfully fancy, expensive-looking paper, I thought, considering the present was just for Nilly.”
“Just for Nilly? Mom, he’s my best friend!”
“Yes, and your father and I are a little concerned about that . . . that you don’t have other friends. I mean, honestly, he is a little . . .”
“A little what?”
“Well, a little . . . uh . . . what should we say?”
“Unusual,” the commandant said, and finished the rest of his coffee.
“Why not use the lovely wrapping paper that was on Nilly’s present and give a Christmas present to someone who could become your friend, someone a little more . . . uh . . .”
“Un-unusual,” the commandant said.
Lisa slammed the cupboard door shut, then the kitchen door, and then finally the front door.
“Where is she going?” her mother asked.
“To school, I assume,” the commandant said, and yawned.
“It’s Little Christmas Eve. They’re off today,” her mother said, and took a bite of her buttered bread, now with a slice of Jarlsberg cheese on top.
“Which reminds me that we have a thorough housecleaning ahead of us, so quit your yawning.”
“Thorough housecleaning,” the commandant moaned, and then closed his eyes and wondered which was less appealing: mopping the floors or having the Finns attack again so he had an excuse to go back to work.
“THE PAPER WENT to your mom,” an out-of-breath Lisa yelled as she returned to the sleigh.
“Oy,” Nilly said. “Come on.”
They ran out onto Cannon Avenue and had just walked through the front gate at the yellow house when they heard a powerful detonation from inside. It shook the windows and rattled snow off the roof.
“Yikes. What was that?” Lisa asked.
“I have a hunch,” Nilly said, running up the front steps and opening the door. “Mom? Mom!”
“Yes!” a jubilant voice replied. “Yes!”
Nilly ran to the bathroom door. “Is everything going okay in there, Mom?”
“It’s never gone better, Nilly my boy!”
“How’s your . . . backlog?”
“The logjam finally broke—just now! Ahhhhh. I’ve never felt lighter! What do you want for Christmas, dear?”
“Good parents,” Nilly muttered under his breath, and then pulled Lisa into the living room.
“That’s a strikingly green Christmas tree you’ve got there,” Lisa said, and watched while Nilly rifled through the presents under the tree.
“Yeah, they tend to be green when they’re made of plastic,” Nilly said, and then started reading the tags out loud: “ ‘From Tim to Krystal, my gorgeous plaything.’ ‘From Roy to Krystal, here’s hoping it’s one hell of a Christmas.’ ‘From Stein-Ove to Krystal, a little something to wear when we meet again.’ ‘From Kurt to Krystal, my . . .’ Blah, blah, blah. Lisa, I don’t see any presents here from you.”
“And I don’t see the wrapping paper either,” Lisa said. “But my mom said she gave the present to your mom.”
“Okay,” Nilly said. “But why didn’t you do it yourself?”
“Honestly, because I’m a little scared of your mom.”
“Oh, she just gets a little grumpy when she’s constipated,” Nilly said. “Come on.”
They walked back to the bathroom door.
“Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Where’s the present Lisa’s mother brought over?” Silence from the bathroom.
“Mom!”
“Yes, yes, yes, I took it. All right?”
“She took it?” Lisa whispered in disbelief.
Nilly shrugged and yelled, “Where is it now, Mom?”
“How should I know?”
“You must have some idea.”
“Nope. I unwrapped it, and that little girl must have a chunk of change, because it was a new mouthpiece for your trumpet. That made it way easier for me to sell the trumpet.”
“You sold the trumpet?”
“I advertised it online. Man, I got four thousand crowns for it! With what I borrowed from Roy, I think I’ve got enough to celebrate Christmas now. And now that I’m free of all that stress, my clogged pipes have finally cleared too! Aren’t you happy for me?”
“The wrapping paper, Mom. Where’s the wrapping paper?”
“Huh? I’m holding that in my hand right here. I was just about to . . .”
“Mom, no!”
“Huh? Isn’t an until-recently-constipated woman allowed to wipe?”
“Not with that!” Nilly yelled frantically, jumping up and down. “Does it say anything on it?”
“Say, schmay . . . It’s a little hard to tell since it already has a couple of . . . uh, skid marks on it. But, yeah, I guess it does say something:
D-E-E-D-O-F-R-E-G-I-S-T-R-A-T-I-O-N and something about someone named Stanislaw owning Christmas. Geez. But right now I need it to—”
“Mom! Let go of that paper! Now!”
Eight Hours until Christmas Eve.
Although, Since They Weren’t Able to Save Christmas, People Will Have to Forget About It and Look Forward to Other Holidays Instead, Like That Day in July That Commemorates Saint Olof’s Death at the Battle of Stiklestad in AD 1030 or Whitmonday
IT WAS FOUR o’clock in the afternoon on Little Christmas Eve, December 23rd, and already many people had gathered in front of the National Theater Shopping Mall. They were waiting for the king’s extremely official and very ceremonial ribbon cutting to kick off the last-minute Christmas shopping. The stores had closed for one hour in the middle of the day to do inventory and figure out what they still had too much of so they could lower the prices on those items and, hopefully, sell them before the Christmas sales period ended and people started thinking about things besides buying stuff. And after the king kicked off the last-minute Christmas shopping in a moment, the stores were going stay open all night until two p.m. tomorrow, Christmas Eve. An expectant murmur ran through the crowd as a black king limousine pulled up to the curb in front of the red carpet that led to the National Theater Shopping Mall. A policeman with a Fu Manchu mustache opened the rear passenger door, and out stepped the king and his court marshal.
“Good gracious, what happened here?” the king asked. “What happened to the fountain? And the Ibsen sculpture?”
“They blew up last night, Your Majesty,” the policeman said. A fat man jogged down the red carpet toward them.
“Good morning, Your—ah-ah-achoo—Majesty!” Mr. Thrane proclaimed. “Sorry I’m late. I just came—sniffle—ashore.”
The king cocked his head to the side and then asked, “You don’t happen to own a fake nose with a mustache, do you, Mr. Thrane?”
“What?”
“And a boiler suit that says ‘fungal inspector’ on the back?”
“I’d be happy to wear anything so long as it was dry. That would be wonderful, but no.”
“Hmm, you do look damp, actually, especially your hair.”
“Took a little swim in the fjord this morning, and we’re sold out of hair dryers.”
“And your suspenders only have one strap, Mr. Thrane.”
“The other one snapped when the missile made a sharp turn.”
“When the . . . ?”
“My suspenders got snagged on a missile-that-never-misses, and I was pulled all over town before we went flying out over the fjord and . . .”
“Boooring.” The king yawned. “Let’s get this whole show on the road, so I can go home.”
“Of course, of course!” Mr. Thrane put his arm around the king and escorted him down the red carpet. “Busy these days, Your Majesty?”
“Yes. I’m halfway through the third mission in Battlefield Finland, and Finland is winning.”
“I understand. I understand. I just want you to say a few words about what a fine holiday Christmas is and mention our special deal on snowblowers. Then you’ll thank me personally and cut the red ribbon across the entrance to the mall there.”
“Are you sure I have reason to thank you, Mr. Thrane? A Doctor Proctor came to visit me and told me there isn’t any mold in my basement.”
“Doctor—achoo—Proctor? He’s a mold infestation himself, so he’s just saying that to protect other mold infestations.”
“Really? I suppose he did look a bit moldish. But the children . . .”
“The children, yes. A busybody girl in pigtails and an unruly little lad with red hair? Juvenile delinquents, Your Majesty, rabble-rousers and fibbers of the worst sort. I wouldn’t even dare let my twins near them.”
“Are you saying I’ve been tricked again?”
“Turn around—double achoo—Your Majesty!”
They went to stand behind the red ribbon as people crowded closer so they could dash inside as soon as the department store opened. The king grabbed for the giant scissors lying on a nearby table, but Mr. Thrane was quicker and snatched them for himself.
“A few nice words about me and snowblowers first,” he whispered. “Then you cut the ribbon.”
The king mumbled his annoyance. Then he cleared his throat.
“My dear fellow countrymen, countrywomen, and subjects,” he said. “It is in wishing you a merry Christmas, even better snowblowers, and no mold that I hereby . . .” He reached for the scissors, but Mr. Thrane would not let go of them.
“Thank me,” Mr. Thrane hissed.
“ . . . and so I would like to thank Mr. Thrane, the owner of this store. And with that I hereby declare the last-minute Christmas shopping season—”
“Remind the idiots that they need to spend at least ten thousand crowns,” Thrane hissed, beaming at the crowd.
“Good point,” the king said. “Remember: You’ll need to turn your pockets inside out and buy, buy, buy if you want to celebrate Christmas. You actually need to purchase ten thousand—”
“No!” a little, busybody girl’s voice called out from the crowd.
“No?” the king said, surprised.
“No!” an even smaller, unruly boy’s voice replied.
“No?” the court marshal asked, sternly eyeing the crowd.
“No!” a doctor’s voice repeated.
“No?” Mr. Thrane scoffed.
“No!” thundered a Santa Claus voice.
And with that four people we know well stepped up to the red ribbon.
“Juvenile delinquents!” Mr. Thrane yelled and pointed. “Arrest them!”
“We just want to give you something,” Lisa said, and held out a sheet of paper.
“Police!” Mr. Thrane bellowed.
“Coming!” they heard from the far side of the square. “Just as quickly as we can!”
“Stop right there!” the king said. “What is this?”
“It’s a registration deed from 1822,” Doctor Proctor said. “The contents of which should interest you.”
“Plus some slight, minor skid marks, which . . . uh, shouldn’t interest you,” Nilly said.
The king put on his monocle and began reading.
“Why is he only wearing half a pair of eyeglasses?” someone in the crowd whispered.
“Maybe he’s only farsighted in the one eye?” someone else replied.
“Maybe he couldn’t afford a full set?” a third person suggested.
“Shh!” the king said. “I’m trying to read!”
“Shh!” the court marshal yelled. “His Royal Highness is reading!”
A silence settled over the square, yes, almost a Christmas peace, and wouldn’t you know, it started snowing just then too. Small snowflakes that wafted down and settled on the king’s hair as he silently moved his lips, spelling his way through, line by line.
Then he removed his monocle, which is to say his single-lensed eyeglasses, snatched the scissors from Mr. Thrane, and looked out at the crowd.
“When I cut the ribbon with these scissors, you can go buy as many Christmas presents as you want,” he said.
Mr. Thrane grinned even more broadly and gave his bulging belly a contented pat.
“Or you can buy as few as you want,” the king said. “Or nothing at all. You will all get to celebrate Christmas anyway, because this document proves that Christmas never belonged to me. Rather, it belongs to a person named Stanislaw Hansen. And that means that Mr. Thrane has no say over who’s allowed to celebrate Christmas or not.”
“What?” Mr. Thrane spluttered. “I—I—achoo—protest!”
“Mr. Thrane,” the king said. “Or perhaps we should say Mr. Fungal Inspector Enarht. You are hereby revealed!”
Then—with a little snip of the scissors—he cut through Mr. Thrane’s remaining suspender strap. And it happened so quickly that Mr. Thrane didn’t have time to grab his pants before they fell down around his white ankles and the entire crowd saw his unusu
ally large underpants covered with little multicolored cars—Hummers, of course.
“Merry Christmas!” the king proclaimed, handing the deed back to Lisa and walking back down the red carpet.
The crowd seemed to be holding its breath, yes, as if they hadn’t quite understood or didn’t quite believe what had just transpired.
Lisa saw two familiar figures pushing their way through the assemblage: an adult woman with a determined expression, her glasses down on the tip of her nose, and a girl with a bandage stuck to one eyeglass lens.
“Is it true, Lisa?” Mrs. Strobe panted once they reached the front of the crowd.
“Can we really celebrate Christmas, all of us?” Birte squeaked, her voice trembling.
“Yes!” Lisa said, smiling and waving Stanislaw’s deed.
Mrs. Strobe turned to the crowd and announced, in her most attention-grabbing teacher’s voice, which is to say her teacher’s outdoor voice: “Lisa here says it’s true! Christmas is ours, everyone!”
And the crowd burst into cheers. People hugged strangers, all exclaiming “Merry Christmas!” at the same time. Some even began to dance.
“Arrest the fat guy,” the king told one of the two mustachioed policemen who were holding open the rear passenger door of his limousine.
“Of course, Your Royal Highness. What should we arrest him for?”
“Fraud, con artistry, reckless flying, off-season swimming, and public nudity. Take your pick.”
And with that the king climbed into his limousine and returned to the palace.
And Now It Is Right Before . . .
IT HAD GROWN dark in Oslo on the final night before the big day: Christmas Eve.
High in the hills above the city, by Lake Maridal, a farmer walked up the ramp to his barn to set out a bowl of Christmas porridge for the barn gnomes. It wasn’t that he believed in barn gnomes—many people claimed they were purely mythological—but you could never be completely sure, could you? If they did happen to be real, you certainly didn’t want to be on their bad side. And, indeed, most years when he came back to the barn on Christmas Eve, someone had pretty much always been in there and eaten up the porridge. On his way back from the barn, the farmer stopped and looked out at Lake Maridal, where a fox hurried across the frozen lake in the moonlight. And down the hill from him, down by the fjord, Oslo lay glittering like a jewel in the night. Then he went back inside for an evening by the hearth, where his wife and kids were waiting for him to join them in a game of Monopoly.
