The Ballad of a Broken Nose

by Arne Svingen

  Do I have any choice?

  I look through the tracks. I should of course have included a couple of Pop Idol winners and some artists from the Disney Channel, but it’s a bit late now. I press on Bryn Terfel. A Welsh ox who sings better than anyone I’ve heard.

  When Ada takes the headphones, I realize that the cord should be longer. We’ll have to walk far too close together.

  It’s actually only a medium-size catastrophe if she spreads the rumor that I love opera at school. It won’t make me any more popular, just more weird. Combined with the photos of mass murderers, I’m starting to match some of the real weirdos. My aim is to be gray, but I find getting the balance quite hard.

  She turns to me. I expect her to have a shocked expression. Or a scornful one. To ask if I’m making fun of her.

  “Cool.”

  “What did you say?”

  “COOL!” she repeats too loudly.

  I nod. Does she really mean it? She listens for a while before she takes off the headphones.

  “He’s got some voice,” she says, then asks: “Have you got any other music on your player?”

  Here goes. Why couldn’t I just have downloaded some Lady Gaga, in case of a crisis.

  “Maybe . . .”

  “Or do you just like that kind of music?”

  “No, I like loads of different stuff. But sometimes it’s . . . well, it’s just good . . . like that. Sometimes, not very often, though.”

  “You only like music like that, don’t you?”

  That’s the problem with girls. They know things, even when you tell them something else. It’s fascinating and terrifying at the same time.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Do you sing yourself?” she asks.

  Now I really am scared. I don’t know how girls do it, but every time I move a muscle in my face or open my mouth, it’s as if they’ve read long articles about me.

  “I . . . I sing a bit.”

  It’s like my mouth is doing the total opposite of what my brain is thinking. Because that’s exactly what I was never going to tell anybody. And in an uncomfortable way, it feels as though Ada already knew.

  “That’s really cool.”

  “Is it?”

  “I mean, what do the others do? Soccer and the school band. Do you know how many of the girls do dancing? Nearly all of them! But you, you sing opera.”

  “I’m not particularly good . . .”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  I feel a bit breathless, even though we’re walking really slowly.

  “Can I hear you sing?”

  I’m confused, I think. Does she mean it?

  “It’s just . . . ,” I start, and look around.

  I can’t sing outside. Is that a good-enough excuse? Or should I say that I’ve got a sore throat?

  Ada’s not stupid. And did I say that she’s got too many teeth in her mouth when she smiles?

  “I’ll do a recording for you. I sing best when there’s music,” I tell her.

  And that’s the truth.

  “Okay. Look forward to hearing it.”

  “I can do it this evening.”

  “Great. I live just over there,” she says, and points back toward the school.

  I nod and make a clumsy gesture with my hand.

  “You should smile more. You’ve got a nice smile.”

  Ada walks away. I stay standing where I am. What does she mean by that? Have I got a nice smile? Do girls say things like that to boys without meaning a thousand things that I don’t understand? I smile at myself in the mirror too rarely to have an opinion.

  And how do I look, otherwise? Well, I’m relatively small. Not really small, but another six or seven inches wouldn’t go amiss. My hair’s brown and quite short, and Mom cuts my hair. I’ve got blue eyes, but not like the sea or the sky, more like worn jeans.

  I actually suspect that I look pretty anonymous. Someone you forget the minute your eyes change focus. Maybe it would have been better to have a long nose or buck teeth, something that people could remember. I could always get a snake tattoo that slithers up my neck, when I’m older. Even though that’s not particularly nice.

  I take a deep breath and head home. You see, sometimes I have to take a deep breath before going home, too.

  My third chapter

  “What happened to your beautiful face?”

  Mom examines my eye.

  “Training,” I explain.

  “Really? That’s my boy.”

  She strokes my hair. Mom is wearing a robe that should have been bigger.

  “Go on, you give them a beating,” she says, and smiles.

  “I do sometimes.”

  “You’re a born fighter, my boy.”

  I don’t quite know what to say to that, so I just smile instead. And then she always smiles back. It doesn’t matter that she’s missing a tooth on her lower jaw.

  I should maybe describe Mom, and our home, now that I’ve explained what I look like. But sometimes it’s hard to find the right words. Mom is as soft as a cushion, and the apartment is slightly smaller than a palace. Will that do?

  “I’ve got a late shift at the supermarket tonight,” Mom tells me.

  “Good.”

  Sometimes, when Mom does extra shifts at the store, she comes back with food that’s passed its sell-by date. Not that long ago, she came back with pork chops and frankfurters, and we ate so much that we just about burst. The only thing is, I don’t know how to get her to work more.

  “I haven’t got anything for supper today. Maybe you could have some pretzel sticks,” Mom says.

  “I’m not really that hungry.”

  “Sorry that I haven’t got anything else.”

  “I’ll maybe eat some pretzels.”

  I’m not saying that I don’t like pretzel sticks, because they’re actually quite nice. But it’s hard to get full on them. They’re very salty and full of air. And I generally get a sore stomach before I’m full.

  “I promise I’ll bring a treat back from the store,” Mom says.

  “I might be asleep.”

  “Then you can have it for breakfast.”

  “Very good.”

  Two words I say so often. Very and good. Not because everything is very good, but because if you just say okay or right, or nothing at all, it sounds so negative.

  “Good that you’re working again,” I add.

  “I’ll manage it this time. I promise.”

  “Very good.”

  There, I’ve said it again. Maybe I should have said Don’t promise too much or We’ll see. But I’m not the sort who says things like that. And it would just create a bad atmosphere. And bad atmospheres seldom make the days any easier.

  “Grandma’s coming to see us tomorrow. We’ll have to go through what we’re going to say.”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t mention the man from Hafslund Utilities who came to see her. But I do tell her about the end-of-year show.

  “Are you going to do anything?” Mom asks.

  “No.”

  “This time I will come.”

  “Very good.”

  “I mean it, Bart. I really will come.”

  “See how you feel.”

  “I can see how I feel. But I will come.”

  Mom doesn’t feel comfortable at school things. I can see why. People are so different. But it might actually help if she tried, even just once. Do I want her there? That’s a difficult question.

  When Mom has left, I put on some music, breathe deeply, and sing some long notes. After a couple of tries, I record it on the computer. I’m not exactly a real, professional opera singer, but I do sing in tune, and I even quite impress myself when I play back the recording. Hope that doesn’t sound like boasting. Sorry.

  It’s a shame, really, that I’ll never stand on a stage. But some things in life you just have to accept.

  I burn a CD and write To Ada on it. Then regret it and burn a new one. If I write To Ada¸ i
t looks like a present. And it isn’t a present, it’s proof. I put the CD in an envelope and leave it in my bag.

  I’m not the slightest bit interested in Ada. No one must think that, least of all her. Ada’s going out with this really cool guy who’s in high school in some unknown town miles away.

  I eat a few pretzel sticks and drink some water while I’m doing my homework. The doorbell rings, but this time I don’t open the door. I don’t even look through the peephole. About time I was smart. There’s another ring. I turn on my MP3 player and let the song take over.

  * * *

  I go to bed around eleven o’clock, but there’s a kerfuffle out on the stairs, so I just lie there, wide-awake, for a while. When I finally get to sleep, Mom comes home.

  “You’re so lovely, my lovely boy,” she says, and strokes my hair.

  “Mhm,” I mumble.

  “I’m sorry. I was going to come straight home, but then . . . I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s all right, Mom.”

  “And then I forgot the food. I put the bag under the table . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I’m really sorry, my friend. Oh, my sweet boy . . . you’re so good . . .”

  It’s nice when Mom strokes my hair. Sometimes she sits on my bed stroking me for a long time. If I breathe through my mouth, I can’t smell her breath. But I can’t fall asleep. Because Mom won’t be able to get herself onto the sofa.

  “You have to lie down,” I say.

  “You’re so good, my lovely boy,” she repeats.

  Once I’ve helped Mom over onto the sofa, I fall asleep again quickly.

  * * *

  When the alarm clock rings in the morning, I’m in the middle of a dream that I can’t remember. But it was nice. I’m sure of that.

  Mom’s lying on her back and sleeping very noisily. I eat the rest of the pretzel sticks and go to school.

  “Here it is,” I say, and hand the envelope with the CD in it to Ada, masked by the chaos as we enter the classroom.

  No one seems to have noticed.

  “Thanks, Bart,” she says quietly, and smiles. She puts it in her bag. “I’ll listen to it when I get home.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “They’re sky-high already.”

  Ada smiles again. I realize that she’s joking. But she does it in a way that makes me confused and flustered. I let her copy my homework.

  The teacher says that he’s looking for more acts for the summer show, before going through a list of the people who’ve already signed up. Ada’s going to do hip-hop with some other girls from the class. Someone is going to play the violin, and the piano, some others are going to do sketches or yoyo tricks, a couple of girls are going to sing along to the playback of a Beyoncé song, and Erik is going to pull out the magic tricks that everyone has seen him do at least a hundred times before.

  “Remember that all suggestions are gratefully received,” the teacher says three times.

  In the break, I stand with what’s-his-name. Strange that it’s so hard to remember his name.

  “I played this really cool game yesterday,” he says.

  “That’s good . . .”

  “I can’t remember what it’s called. It was a guy who . . . no, first you’ve got to . . . well, the intro’s really cool. It starts with this kind of landscape and then this guy appears with a sword. . . . Have you played it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s really cool. I played it practically all night.”

  That’s the kind of conversation we have. Perhaps I should be more interested in the game about a guy with a sword, but I don’t really play games. Not because I don’t want to.

  There are probably too many voices and too much noise in the playground to say that the silence is oppressive. But I don’t have much to say that can beat swordsmen and really good graphics. You see, Mom woke me up around three to tell me that she loved me about three hundred times. I’ve got a feeling that what’s-his-name might have problems talking to me after that.

  “It’s warm today,” he says.

  I nod, even though it’s not particularly warm today.

  Then suddenly he’s standing there. Bertram has snuck up beside me. Now we’re a circle of three. One of them is Bertram. An alarm goes off for me and what’s-his-name.

  “The periodic table is quite a classification system,” I say, hoping that Bertram will leave if he doesn’t understand what we’re talking about.

  The problem is that neither does what’s-his-name.

  “What are you talking about?”

  I should have winked when I said it.

  “Forget it.”

  “I was just wondering . . . ,” starts Bertram.

  So, is he going to ask if we can be friends now? Say that as outsiders we should stick together?

  “I just wondered if you wanted to do a rap with me for the end-of-year show?” he continues.

  It’s a question that needs time to sink in. Not because I’m in any doubt as to what my answer is, but because I’m suddenly not sure that I heard right.

  What’s-his-name reacts first.

  “My mom won’t let me.”

  “Won’t let you?” Bertram asks.

  I’m also interested to see how he’s going to get himself out of this one.

  “Yes, she doesn’t want me to move to the ghetto and walk around with a gun.”

  His cheeks take on a pink tinge when he says it. Bertram looks at me. It must be possible to come up with a better lie than that.

  “I’m going to sing on my own at the end-of-year show.”

  “Oh, right,” Bertram says, and leaves.

  “Are you going to sing at the summer show?” what’s-his-name asks when Bertram’s out of hearing range.

  “No, but I had to think of something. My lie was better than yours.”

  “It wasn’t a lie. My mom’s obsessed with stopping me from having anything to do with rap. She thinks I’ll end up on the dole then and become a criminal.”

  “The dole?” I say, and laugh too loud. “The dole, right.”

  Good thing I don’t want to be an actor.

  “Bertram raps. That’s crazy.”

  “What if he becomes popular?”

  Both of us freeze. If Bertram becomes a respected rapper, the others in the class will have to find a new target for all their sarcasm and pencil-case emptying. Obviously there are unwritten rules about things like that, too. The thought terrifies us both.

  “Should we do something after school . . . ?” he asks abruptly.

  And suddenly I remember that he’s called Jonas. Maybe Jonas can be my best friend? You’re not left on the outside as easily if you’ve got a best friend. Though obviously you have to remember your best friend’s name.

  The spark of hope only burns for a second. I don’t know if I can be friends with anyone outside school. What would I say if he wanted to come home with me?

  “I’ve got lots of other plans, so I don’t think I can . . . Jonas.”

  “My name’s Harald.”

  “I knew that.”

  Luckily, the bell rings. Conversations like that are a bit like skating. Suddenly you veer off to the side and fall flat on your face.

  * * *

  After the last class, I exit as fast as I can so there’s no risk of anyone tagging along. I put my headphones over my ears and kick the player into life.

  Miming along to music as you walk down the street looks a little wacko. I’ve nearly always turned down the volume on my voice, but mouthing along to opera probably looks like I’m trying to catch flies. At the same time, it’s a good way to learn all the songs. It’s a bit like my life has its own soundtrack. It’s a pretty boring movie, with overdramatic music.

  Mom isn’t home, so I stand in the middle of the room and sing at the top of my voice. I can’t call and check where she is, for two simple reasons: I’ve never had a cell phone, and her phone has been blocked. Mom bought the MP
3 player from Cheap Charlie. He lives in the same building as us and is an expert in good deals. It was also him who sold us the computer for six hundred kroner. He said it was so cheap because he’d bought a new one.

  There were loads of pictures on the computer and none of them were of Cheap Charlie. A policeman who came to school once said that fencing was the same as stealing. In which case, we paid six hundred kroner to be thieves. Those people can afford to buy a new PC, Mom said when we looked through the photos. They’d been on vacation to loads of warm places, and they had a huge trampoline in their backyard. But still, it’s not fun to lose all your pictures, so I burned them onto some CDs, found the address on a letter that had been scanned in, and sent them the pictures in the mail. I mean, they might have had a backup, but you never know.

  I made sure to wipe off any fingerprints from the CDs and envelope. Prison’s not a place for my mom, and I don’t want to find out what kind of living conditions Social Services have to offer.

  I hook up to the neighbor’s open network and go onto Facebook. My friends total four boys from boxing and two Simpsons fans. Nothing much exciting happens in their lives and I never post updates.

  Then I search for Dad. As usual, I get just over 86 million hits. The chances are fairly big that some of them are about Dad. Only I don’t know which. Dad is American and his name is John Jones. That’s about all Mom will say. I’m not so sure that she knows any more herself, because they didn’t really have time to get to know each other. Some time or other I’m going to find him and ask him to take me to Universal Studios and four or five other theme parks. But for the moment, I don’t have much to go on. None of the John Joneses I’ve found pictures of look anything like me. There are about a hundred John Joneses on Wikipedia and a lot of them are dead.

  And I don’t discover a John Jones who’s looking for his unknown son in Norway today either. Luckily I’ve got a few million Web pages left.

  * * *

  Mom’s out of breath when she comes home, with my grandmother in tow.

  “Hello, love,” Grandma says, and gives me a hug that smells of attics and nicotine.

  “Hello,” I say with my mouth full of blouse.