The Ballad of a Broken Nose

by Arne Svingen

“Who in his right mind would start singing out a hotel window like this? These people think I’m crazy.”

  “But they were smiling,” I say.

  “You know, Bart, it was silly to sing out the window. But singing is always a little silly. It does not make world peace. If you start singing like you and I do, we have to be a little crazy. That is the only way we can do it. So tell me, Bart, do you feel crazy enough?”

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

  “That’s the test. If you can open any window, anywhere, and start to sing, you can do it onstage anytime.”

  I look over at the window. Will I, who can’t even sing properly for my grandmother, ever be able to sing for complete strangers out a window? It sounds impossible. Bryn Terfel smiles at me and pats my head with his great hands.

  “It was nice meeting you both. But I have to prepare for tonight’s performance. Are you coming?”

  I look to Ada for assistance. We should really have a good excuse, but all I have is the truth.

  “Eh . . . I didn’t know you were singing tonight,” I say.

  “Listen. Go to the box office and say your name is Bart. There will be two tickets there for you. Okay?”

  “Oh . . . eh . . .”

  I try really hard to get the words out of my mouth.

  “Thank you, Mr. Teffel,” Ada says. “We are looking forward to listening more to you.”

  “Yes, thank you, thank you,” I finally manage to add.

  Bryn Terfel holds out his hand and pumps my tiny one up and down. Then just as quickly we’re back out in the corridor with a can of Coke each. Ada links her arm through mine. Her face is glowing.

  “He was so cool!” she says.

  “Eh, yes . . . he was, wasn’t he?”

  “And we’re going to the opera!”

  “Yes, we are, aren’t we?”

  Ada is talking so loudly that I pull her away from Bryn Terfel’s door. It’s as if I’ve just woken from a crazy dream. Soon I’ll realize that I of course never met Bryn Terfel and that I will never see him in concert. But I don’t need to pinch myself on the arm. I’ve got the big man’s sweat in my hand.

  Ada grins in the elevator and asks: “Have you got anything to say to me?”

  “What do . . . oh, yes, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Ada prattles on all the way home and I have problems keeping up with what she’s talking about. Bryn Terfel keeps getting in the way, his body and voice spreading out across the town.

  I stop. Ada carries on for a few steps, then stops and turns in the middle of saying something about school. I take a deep breath, fill my lungs, and close my eyes. A note steals up my throat and escapes out into the open. And it holds for a quite a while. But then it’s as if the sound is cut to shreds with a scalpel.

  I open my eyes. Ada comes toward me and says: “You didn’t really think you’d manage it the first time, did you? It was a good start, though.”

  “I will manage to do it,” I say, and start to walk again.

  “Optimism is good. It makes you live longer.”

  “It’s not optimism. I’m just determined to do it.”

  * * *

  When you skip school, it’s important not to get home too early. I’ve never really hung out much in cafés. Mom often says that cafes are places for people who want to be seen. But most of the people around us seem to be more interested in their coffee, newspaper, or conversation than in showing off the latest fashion.

  “The others will be doing math now,” Ada says.

  “I should at least do the homework,” I say, and look down at my bag.

  Suddenly my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Who am I talking to?” says a voice with an American accent.

  “It’s . . . Bart. Who are you?”

  “My name is John Jones and someone called me from this number.”

  I swallow sandpaper and try to make contact with my brain.

  “Right. Hi. Yes, I just wondered if you were maybe trying to find a son?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father’s name is John Jones.”

  There’s silence at the other end. I expect to hear a click, but nothing happens.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “I’m here,” he replies.

  Ada takes my hand. Am I so easy to read?

  “I didn’t mean to . . . ,” I start.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “My mom’s name is Linda.”

  “Perhaps we should meet, Bart?”

  Then suddenly I’ve arranged to meet John Jones tomorrow. The one who doesn’t know whether he’s my father or not. It can’t be ruled out.

  “I’m the one with a bandage in the middle of my face,” I tell him.

  “I’ll find you, then.”

  When I’ve hung up, I have to tell Ada.

  “So it might be him?” she asks.

  “I can’t quite believe it. Just think how disappointed I’ll be if it’s not him.”

  “You’re one surprise after the other.”

  “It’s not intentional.”

  “I’ve got no surprises.”

  “Not everyone needs surprises to be interesting. And by the way, I don’t really collect pictures of mass murderers.”

  When I talk to Ada, I never know where the conversation is going to go. Soft, gentle movements one moment, full-frontal attacks the next. Just when I think I understand Ada, she says something that I don’t understand at all. What she’s saying is not true. She’s full of surprises. They’re just not the same as mine.

  I’ve cut school today for the first time in my life. And I’ve got the feeling it won’t be the last if I keep hanging out with Ada.

  * * *

  “How was school today?” Grandma asks when I get home.

  “I don’t know. I went to see Bryn Terfel instead. He sang out his window. And I’m going to see him sing at the opera tonight as well.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If that’s okay with you?”

  Grandma is confused.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure it is. Who are you going with?”

  “A girl in my class. Ada.”

  “How exciting.”

  Then we go to visit Mom. I ask Grandma not to say anything about the concert and my visit to the hotel. Mom is having her operation tomorrow and doesn’t need any more worries. While we’re talking, she dozes off a couple of times. She doesn’t even eat the chocolate that I’ve brought her.

  I’m not even sure that she hears me when I say she’s the best mom in the world as I leave. I know that she’s actually not the best in the world, but I still think she needs to hear it. And I’ve only got one mom, and sometimes she can be the best in the world too.

  “Should we go to a restaurant?” Grandma asks on the way out.

  “McDonald’s?”

  “No, a real restaurant. Indian, perhaps?”

  “I’ve never had Indian food before.”

  “Well, let’s go to Indian, then.”

  It’s simple to choose at McDonald’s or Burger King. The burgers have different names but basically all taste the same. I never get salad or chicken nuggets. But at the Indian restaurant, they’ve got a whole book of dishes that are hard to say: Murgh Masala, Begum Bahar, and Dhuan Gosht. I go for Tandoori Chicken, because that’s what Grandma recommends. We get a flat bread about the size of a pizza that’s called naan, lots of rice, and chicken in a little pot. I’ve never tasted anything like it before. It’s spicy, strange, and good.

  “Can you afford this?” I ask Grandma.

  I don’t know if it’s the right question to ask, but I’m worried that Grandma’s done something stupid.

  “Sometimes you just have to put on your big spender jacket.”

  Grandma’s wearing a dress, so I’m not quite sure what she’s t
alking about.

  “And you don’t need to worry about breakfast tomorrow,” she adds.

  * * *

  I meet Ada at the opera house at half past six. She’s all dressed up like it was the last day at school.

  “My suit’s at the dry cleaners,” I say.

  Ada laughs a little. She knows it’s not true.

  We go over to the box office, and I say: “My name’s Bart.”

  “That’s nice,” the woman behind the counter says.

  “Um . . . well . . .”

  “There should be two tickets for us from Bryn Teffel,” Ada explains.

  “Terfel,” the box office lady corrects her. “You should at least learn to get that right, young lady. Now, let me see, yes, here they are.”

  She hands us an envelope, and there are indeed two tickets inside.

  “Oh no,” I say when I look at the tickets. “They’ve made a mistake. They think we’re in the orchestra.”

  Ada laughs again.

  “Orchestra seats, silly. That means we’re right down by the front. They’re the best seats.”

  “Obviously I knew that. Do you come here often?”

  “We normally come to see The Nutcracker before Christmas.”

  Sometimes I feel like Wolf Boy. The one who grew up with wolves and didn’t know how humans lived. Someone who is completely lost when it comes to things that ordinary people know. On the other hand, he could live with wolves. And none of them can.

  We go in and sit down in two seats in the middle of the fourth row. Most people are about as old as Grandma, but there are some younger ones too, mainly girls in skirts.

  The concert is over within minutes. At least, that’s what it feels like afterward. I’m sure I sat with my mouth open the whole time that Bryn Terfel purified my ears and made my stomach tremble. It’s one thing listening to him on headphones; it’s something else to see his facial expressions, the way his mouth moves, his eyes. How he fills his lungs to bursting before the music pours out of him.

  As we leave, Ada tells me that the concert was nearly two hours long. I believe her. She says that it was good, but a bit boring too.

  “What? Boring?” I exclaim. “That was boring?”

  We get the metro home, and I find it’s still hard to have a normal conversation.

  “I can kind of see you standing on the stage one day,” Ada says.

  I lean in toward Ada. I don’t know why. After all, she thought it was a bit boring. But she smells of melon again.

  Tomorrow half the school will no doubt know that we’ve been to the concert. Sometimes it’s not such a bad thing that Ada can’t keep her mouth shut.

  My twelfth chapter

  “You’ll have to come to the dress rehearsal this evening,” the teacher says.

  “But I’m going to the doctor about my nose.”

  “In the evening?”

  “Yes, he wants to give it a proper examination. Sometimes splinters of bone get caught in the nasal passages. He was going sailing today, but I said that it was really important to get it checked before the show.”

  “You’re going to close the performance, Bart. It feels rather odd not to know what you’re singing.”

  “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

  I wrote a script about boxing yesterday. At first I thought I’d go through the history of boxing, but that would be too much like a lesson. So instead, I’ve got lots of funny stories about Muhammad Ali and about why I took up boxing. Three out of ten are true. And there’s going to be atmospheric music playing while Christian and Robert mime a fight onstage.

  The teacher gives up trying to persuade me to come to the dress rehearsal. I don’t know much about nervous wrecks, but the teacher doesn’t look too good.

  Mom has her operation today. People can die in operations, and doctors can forget to take out the scissors. I should be worrying about things like that. But I’m actually looking forward to it. Looking forward to her waking up again and everything being better.

  For the first time in a while, I can actually concentrate in class. Like my brain’s come back from vacation.

  It doesn’t seem like Ada’s told anyone about the concert yesterday. I don’t know if that’s because the music is for wrinklies, or if it’s because we went together. And someone might misunderstand.

  At break time, I’m left standing on my own. But that’s only because no one else is standing where they normally do. That’s when I discover that Bertram is part of the circle. He’s standing with all the others and that doesn’t make sense. Just where I used to stand. Before I have a chance to start worrying about it, something unexpected happens. Ada comes over with three girls and a couple of the boys from Class B. I have to tell myself again: “They’re coming over to me!”

  What do we talk about? Couldn’t tell you. Things that I don’t have much practice talking about. Do I really fit in here? I’m sure that some of them are wearing socks that cost more than all my clothes put together.

  I cock my head with an expression that says: Wow, that’s interesting, really, you don’t say. It hurts my nose to move my face like that, but what does that matter? The whole time I’m scared that I just look stupid, and that they’ll banish me into the outer recesses of the playground. Maybe this is a sick joke?

  “I hear you sing opera,” one of the boys in Class B says, and everyone turns to look at me.

  I guess a quiet yes might have been enough, but somehow it feels a bit mean and impolite.

  “If I grow big, not fat, but big and solid, then I might possibly be able to be an opera singer. If I get the kind of voice you can sing out an open window with.”

  “What, sing out the window?”

  “Yes, or anywhere else. But a lot of opera singers sing out open windows. It’s something that . . . well, maybe not that many people know.”

  “Are you taking a window with you to the end-of-year show, then?” the boy wonders.

  “No, I’ll just stand up straight. Opera singers don’t do stage diving or anything like that.”

  “Certainly not if they’re fat.”

  “No, it would be difficult for the audience to carry them around.”

  This wasn’t going the way I’d hoped. I don’t have enough practice with conversations like this. But they’re still not laughing at me. They just start to talk about the other things that are going to happen at the summer show. I forget to look interested.

  “How’s your mom?” Ada asks as we head back into the classroom.

  “She’s promised that everything will be better from now on.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  “She’s promised that before.”

  “What if she keeps her promise this time?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about it.”

  We sit down.

  “And by the way, I’ve done my homework for today,” Ada says.

  * * *

  I sit in the café and look at the dads. There are no men of the right age waiting on their own, so I sit down at a table with a good view of the door. It’s nearly ten past. Maybe he had to go to an important meeting? Or what if I’m sitting in the wrong place? Maybe I got the time or day wrong? Or he was just joking.

  What can you do with a head that’s always full of those kinds of questions?

  Then something happens that stokes a fire in my stomach. A man comes in the door and looks around the cafe. He’s about Mom’s age and has a shaved head. He sees me and comes over. I stand up. It should feel like a magical moment. One that you’ll remember even when you’re old and forgetful.

  I don’t know whether he looks like me or not. But then I don’t know how I’m going to look in twenty-five years’ time.

  “Are you . . . ?” he asks, and doesn’t finish the question because I’m nodding so furiously.

  He holds out his hand. A hug somehow seems inappropriate. I have to give it time. We shake hands firmly, then he asks what I would like.

  “A hot chocolate, maybe?�
�� I suggest.

  He goes over to the counter to get our drinks, and when he comes back, I secretly pray to myself that he hasn’t bought himself a beer. He has my hot chocolate in one hand, and a cup of coffee with froth on top in the other.

  “You’ll have to tell me your story,” he says with his strong American accent.

  I give him the short version. The one without the bad bits. Afterward, he pretends to think hard.

  “I’m not surprised you want to know,” he says. “Let me tell you a bit about myself. I’ve been in Norway many times. And yes, I was here thirteen to fourteen years ago. I met quite a few girls. Did you say that your mom’s name is Linda?”

  “Yes,” I say, full of hope.

  “I don’t remember a Linda.”

  “I think she worked in a bakery.”

  John Jones shrugs.

  “She lived in Tøyen.”

  He shrugs again.

  “She used to ride a red bike with a basket in front.”

  “She did, did she?”

  “And in photographs she’s got long, fair hair.”

  “Did she smile a lot?”

  “Yes . . . I think she used to smile a lot.”

  “I think I remember her.”

  I don’t know why it’s taken so long to notice, but John Jones has the same eyes as me. Pale blue and quite deep set.

  “And how is . . . Linda?” he asks.

  “She’s in the hospital. And she doesn’t have the red bike anymore. I think she might have changed quite a bit since then.”

  “Who hasn’t?” John Jones smiles and runs a hand over his shaved head.

  “It’s kind of weird to say this, but I think that . . . you might be my father,” I say.

  John Jones reaches over the table and pats me on the shoulder. Maybe that’s what dads do. A kind of friendly pat rather than a hug.

  “There’s only one way to be certain,” he says. “I have to meet your mom.”

  “In a couple of days, maybe.”

  “Perfect. Tell me more about yourself.”

  How can you summarize thirteen years in half an hour? The strange thing is that I manage. I leave out a whole lot. But I don’t lie. I just don’t tell him about the bills in the cupboard and the people who live in our building. He doesn’t need to know everything at once. And I ask him about his life as well. And I’m sure he leaves out a lot too, because he only talks for about five minutes. John Jones comes from a town called Texarkana in Texas, but has lived in New York and Washington. He’s even lived in London and Paris for a while. But something has always drawn him back to Norway, and he can never put his finger on what. I think that maybe it’s the suspicion that he might have a son here. But I don’t say that out loud.