The Ballad of a Broken Nose

by Arne Svingen

  “You’ll have to drop the boxing for a few days,” Mom says.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Should I take down your notices about the cleanup on Sunday?”

  “No, it’s only my nose. I haven’t broken my arm or leg.”

  Mom smiles at me.

  “You’re always so positive, my lovely boy. Is it all right if I go out for a little while this evening?”

  “This evening?”

  “I’ll be back early. I promise. I’ll just go out for a quick one, guaranteed. But if you’d rather I stayed at home, I will. I’ll only go if you’re okay with it.”

  I look at Mom. She tilts her head and smiles at me. I really don’t want her to go.

  “Yes, it’s fine.”

  “Good, Bart, thank you. I won’t be gone long at all. Just need to get some air. It can get so stuffy in here sometimes.”

  She shakes her large body.

  “I know.”

  It’s like there’s someone jumping on my face the whole time. Mom gives me two aspirin, but that doesn’t stop the elephants stomping across my face. It’s hard to follow even the dumbest programs on TV. Hope they’ve not killed off my brain at the same time.

  Mom puts on some makeup and goes out. I turn the TV off. It hurts more to lie down than sit up.

  On Monday it’ll be official. I’ll have to pull out of the summer show. I never intended to sing anyway. I’ll explain that my sinuses are swollen along with the rest of my face and that it means that I sing so out of tune that people’s ears will bleed. And then I can give August a dirty look so that everyone knows that he’s the one to blame.

  I test my voice. A fine, pure note rolls out. Nothing shatters. No ears will suffer a terrible death. But I can’t bear to sing for too long. My head weighs a ton.

  I turn the TV on again and try to watch a comedy series where the canned laughs explode at things I don’t understand. And the news is full of tragedies.

  Just as I’m dozing off, the doorbell rings. I look through the peephole and see the face of the guy who helped me.

  “How’s it going?” he asks when I open the door.

  “Bit sore,” I reply, and wait before saying: “Do you want to come in?”

  “Is your mom at home?”

  “No.”

  Then there he is in the middle of the room, looking around. The guy’s basically skin and bone and a couple of teeth that a dentist should look at.

  “My name’s Bart,” I say without holding out my hand.

  “Go there quite a lot.”

  “What?”

  “The bar.”

  “Oh right. What’s your name?”

  “Geir.”

  “Oh, I think there was someone here looking for you the other day.”

  “That’s me. I just vanish. Poof, gone and no one can find me. Mostly when I owe money.”

  “I said you were dead.”

  “Hehe, cool. Rumors of my death are definitely exaggerated.”

  Geir plops down on the sofa and shifts position a couple of times. He rubs his hands up and down his thighs. I go over and sit on my bed.

  “Why’d he thump you, then?” Geir asks.

  “I hit him first. Or, well . . . I tried to hit him first. I go to boxing, but I haven’t really started punching yet.”

  “Boxing’s dead cool. Watching it, at least. When they’re good. You were floored pretty quick. You haven’t learned any guards yet?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t have time.”

  “See this.” He points to a scar by his eye. “I was too slow too. You don’t speed on heroin, hehe.”

  “What happened?”

  “Broke my jaw and stuff. Was in the hospital for weeks. But the drugs were free drugs, so that’s cool.”

  “I mean, who did it?”

  “I owed money. Gets you into trouble quick. I often owe money.”

  I start to get nervous that Mom might come home. She’s always saying that I shouldn’t talk to the other tenants. Like I might become a hardened addict if I just speak to them. It’s all happened rather fast, but I’ve already decided: Geir is my friend. Perhaps not someone I trust one hundred percent, but someone who can drop by as long as he doesn’t steal anything.

  Geir starts to tell me about when he was young. When he was an ordinary boy with ordinary dreams, who didn’t think he would do anything wrong in his life. I guess that’s what they mean when they say going off the rails. For a while it sounds like he blames everything and everyone else: bad friends, bad luck, parents, too-strong drugs, and a horrible girlfriend.

  “But you know,” he says after a while, “only one who’s to blame, really, for me being here now is me. I’ll show you something.”

  He pulls up one of his pant legs and reveals a skinny leg full of revolting sores. I try not to look too hard.

  “Not doing this so you’ll think I’m disgusting. I only want to scare you. I’ve done this to myself. You’d think I was screwed up. Sad thing is that I’m not. All my screws are in place.”

  He rolls his pant leg back down.

  “Can’t you stop?”

  “I’m sure I could, Bart. But I don’t succeed.”

  Geir is a nice man who makes me depressed. Whenever something good happened in his life, a kind of monster shadow fell over it all. It’s easier when we talk about everyday things that aren’t about life on the edge and sores that are painful. Suddenly he stands up and says that he has to go.

  “I’ve got an important meeting and stuff. But I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promises.

  “Are you normally punctual?”

  “No, but tomorrow I will be.”

  When he’s gone, I take a couple of aspirin and go to bed. Mom was going to come home early, but it’s not early anymore.

  * * *

  Some mornings are far too quiet. As though one of the most important sounds in the world is missing. I look over at the sofa. Where Mom should be lying and snoring. The sofa is empty.

  The clock says it’s seven thirty. Mom has come home early the next day a few times before. And every time she’s promised that it will never happen again.

  I lie in bed and gingerly touch my nose and the surrounding area. It feels like the whole front of my face has come loose.

  I know that I should be lying here thinking: Yes, today is my birthday. I’m officially a teenager now. But my head is full of a mix of Mom, Ada, Geir, pain, and boys at school with hard fists.

  Yippee . . .

  As nothing happens in the next ten minutes, I get up. There’s a cake recipe lying on the counter. But it doesn’t look like we’ve got any of the ingredients. I pour some water over my cereal and empty what’s left of the sugar over it.

  If a birthday starts badly, it can only get better. Most birthdays should get better as the day goes on. It would be a lot worse if a birthday ended badly.

  I know where Grandma’s present is, but don’t want to open it without her. So instead I start to sing. It’s hard to judge how well you sing yourself, but isn’t that better than normal? As if my broken nose has cleaned out my sinuses and the last out-of-tune notes from my voice.

  I sing so loudly that people start to bang on the floor and walls. My invisible audience is perfect. I finish by singing happy birthday to me at the top of my voice.

  Then I log on to the Internet and look for photographs of John Jones. This time I discover a photo that I’ve not seen before. A man in uniform, sitting on a chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. But there’s something that’s not right. I enlarge the picture. He’s got false legs. Those metal things with two shoes on. Maybe I’m getting a bit desperate now, but does he not look a bit like me? Something about the snub nose, hair color, and the thick eyebrows?

  What if that was Dad? He’s in a book of portraits of American soldiers who lost body parts in Iraq. I click on a woman with no right arm, a man who is missing one eye, and a soldier with burn scars all over his body. The publisher’s e-mail address is at
the bottom of the Web page, so I write an e-mail:

  Dear Sir or Madam,

  My name is Bart, and I live in Norway. It is at the top of Europe.

  My dad’s name is John Jones. I think you have a picture of him in your book. He disappeared before I was born. I think he just liked my mother for a very short time.

  Can you give him this e-mail? And tell him that it is not important how many legs he has. He is a hero to me. I will be more than happy if he gets in touch.

  Yours truly,

  Bart Narum

  P.S. It is my birthday today.

  I found a good online dictionary. Before I have time to decide whether it’s a good idea or not, I’ve pressed send. If I don’t take any chances, I’ll never find him. The mail is on its way now.

  We have a rule at school that for your party you invite either the whole class or all your classmates of the same sex. So I’ve actually been invited to loads of birthday parties. No one has asked me not to come. But I never tell Mom about the invitations. Because then she would no doubt run out and buy nice clothes and presents that we can’t afford. Have to say, I think it sounds pretty exhausting to be in the limelight for a whole evening. And if you don’t have a party, you don’t need to invite anyone. I’m looking forward to opening Grandma’s present, though; she’s good at presents. Better than Mom, who doesn’t always manage to buy something in time. She tells me that I’ll get an extra-special Christmas present instead.

  I look at the clock again. It’s nearly one. Where is Mom? She’s never been this late before.

  I turn on the TV and stare at it without really watching the program. I check the time at regular intervals. It’s a gray birthday outside. I put on my shoes and go out. Mom doesn’t usually tell me which bar she’s going to, but I know that she often goes to Wild Beers and it’s only a couple of blocks away. When I get there, it’s closed and doesn’t open again until four.

  Someone’s fighting on the TV when I get home. There’s loud music coming from the apartment next door. I sit on the sofa and wait. My birthday is just about to get better. I’m sure it’s just about to happen. It’s raining outside now.

  No one is fighting on TV anymore, but there are people fighting out on the stairs. It looks like it’s going to stop raining. At two o’clock I get a glass of water and take two more aspirin.

  Suddenly the doorbell rings. I see Grandma through the peephole and finally I feel a nice feeling flooding through me.

  “Hi, Grandma,” I say happily as I open the door.

  I expect a hug and happy birthday. But she looks at me with an odd expression. As though she’s hurting somewhere. Is there something wrong with Grandma?

  “Something’s happened, Bart.”

  “Where does it hurt?”

  “Not to me.”

  I know immediately who she’s talking about.

  “No!”

  “It’s not as serious as it sounds,” Grandma continues.

  She’s still standing out in the hallway. That means it has to be serious.

  “Your mom’s been admitted to the hospital,” she tells me.

  Of course I should have realized that. Mom’s sick again. Now I should break down and sob inconsolably. But I say nothing. Just look at Grandma as if I don’t know what a hospital is.

  “Can I come in?”

  I’m obviously standing in the way, and I move to one side so she can come in.

  “Your mom was at the bar last night and I think she drank rather a lot. As she does sometimes,” Grandma explains.

  “Not that often. And less now than before.”

  “Yes, I’m sure, but yesterday she had a bit too much. And she collapsed. Well, you know, what with the diabetes and the heart murmur. She’s not in very good shape, but they’ll sort it all out at the hospital.”

  “We have to go and visit her.”

  “We will. But she’s not awake at the moment.”

  “Is she asleep?”

  “No, she’s . . . well, she’s in a kind of coma.”

  “Coma? Like, she won’t wake up even when there’s a lot of noise?

  “She will wake up, but it might just take some time. She . . . well . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Grandma sits down on the sofa. The sofa where Mom should have been snoring last night. I position myself where Mom normally has her head. Grandma is looking at me all the time. I don’t know if she’s checking to see if I’ve got feelings, and will react instantly if I totally lose it. Grandma stretches out her hand so her fingertips touch my shoulder.

  “We can’t cancel the cleanup,” I say.

  “Do you really think you can face it?”

  “I know I can face it.”

  I’ve seen people talking to patients in a coma on TV and then they suddenly wake up and everyone cries. I think it was probably some stupid series.

  “What happened to you?” Grandma asks.

  I’d almost forgotten about my nose.

  “Oh, I had a fight with someone in my class.”

  Grandma shuffles up the sofa and puts her arm around me.

  “I’m sorry that your life seems to be so hard.”

  “Broken noses mend.”

  “They do.”

  “It’ll be as good as new. That’s what the doctor said.”

  “Good.”

  It just sounds fake and empty when I’m positive. I can hear it myself. And she’s sitting so close that I can smell the cigarette smoke and hear the wheeze in her throat. Grandma could die any moment. She doesn’t deserve this.

  “Grandma,” I say, and look her straight in the eye. “Do you believe what Mom and I tell you?”

  I think she attempts a smile. But smiles that aren’t heartfelt often end up as grimaces.

  “Your mother does the best she can. I’m absolutely certain of that. And she so wishes everything was better than it is. But yes, I know that she doesn’t always tell the truth.”

  “She doesn’t work for Telenor.”

  “I know.”

  “She lies all the time. And I do too. We agree beforehand what we’re going to say to you, what our lies are.”

  “I know that you lie, Bart.”

  “Is that why you get such a funny face sometimes?”

  “Do I?”

  “Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “Would it make things any better?”

  “I’m sorry . . . for telling lies.”

  She strokes my arm. Her technique is different from Mom’s. I miss Mom’s big, soft hands.

  “Oh sweetie, sorry. I forgot to say happy birthday,” she whispers in my ear. “Happy birthday, Bart.”

  “Thank you.”

  And we sit like this for a while. Grandma cries without making a sound. I look out the window and wonder how to organize the cleanup. Of course I should be thinking about Mom, but I’m sure there will be plenty of time to think about her later.

  “Can you be the project manager for the cleanup?” I ask.

  Grandma lets go of me and dries her tears.

  “The cleanup?”

  “Yes, we need someone who’s done it before and knows what needs to be done.”

  “Yes, well, some tidying up and . . . yes, perhaps it’s mostly tidying up.”

  “I think we should clean a bit as well.”

  “Cleaning is a good idea. Uff, of course, I’ve got a present for you as well.”

  “I know where it is.”

  I find it in a pile of clothes and give it to Grandma, who then gives it back to me with another happy birthday.

  Grandma doesn’t have much money. If she did, she would no doubt give more to Mom. But the present is so much more than I expected. And I’m sure she bought it the honest way.

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice a bit wobbly.

  The picture on the box is unmistakable. It’s a smartphone.

  “I’ll pay for your contract. That way it’ll be possible to get hold of at least one of you. Do you think it’s all right?”
<
br />   “It’s . . . it’s more than all right.”

  It’s all a bit much at once, really. It’s at times like this I wish I had my own room. But all we’ve got is the bathroom, and that’s not the same.

  I’ve got a cell phone. A good cell phone.

  I give Grandma a hug and hold on. I feel that pressure at the base of my nose, my eyes aren’t clear, and I don’t make a sound. I don’t know how long we sit like that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was longer than the usual grandma hug.

  My ninth chapter

  “Sorry, kid, tried to get as many here as I could. People do all kinds of weird things on a Sunday, you know. You wouldn’t believe . . . shit, it wasn’t easy.”

  Geir looks at me uncertainly. I should say something soon.

  “It’s . . . ,” I start. “It’s . . .”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  I look from one person to the other. Like I’m worried that something has happened to my eyes. Maybe I’m seeing double after the punch on my nose.

  “That’s . . . great,” I say.

  “Oh, maybe it is. D’you mean it?”

  I count twelve people. Twelve people who’ve come to help tidy up. My cleanup. And just when I’ve finished counting, two more show up. Sixteen including Grandma and me. I think that’s a good turnout, not that I know much about it.

  “And . . . it’s your birthday and things, so we thought we’d get you this . . . Or I did, anyway. But it’s from us all.”

  He gives me a present wrapped in newspaper.

  “Sorry, kid, couldn’t find the wrapping paper,” he explains. “Go on, open it.”

  As I unwrap the present, they sing the most out-of-tune happy birthday ever. It’s a bike lock. With a key.

  “Thank you. That’s so kind of you,” I say, and can’t bring myself to tell them that I don’t have a bike.

  “Thought it might come in handy, living here and all that,” Geir explains. “People don’t leave your stuff alone.”

  “It’s really nice.”

  “Yeah, and then . . . well, it’s outside.”

  “What’s outside?”

  “You’re not just getting the lock.”