The Ballad of a Broken Nose

by Arne Svingen

  John Jones works with computers and doesn’t have a girlfriend. He likes going to the races and hiking in the mountains in summer.

  “Do I have any . . . half brothers or sisters . . . that you know of?”

  “No.”

  “Do you like opera?”

  “Funny you should ask. Not really, but I did go to see Bryn Terfel at the opera.”

  “You were there? So was I.”

  “Wow! Great! Wasn’t it fantastic?”

  “It was . . . really great. But . . .”

  The word dad is on the tip of my tongue. I so want to say it. I’ve always wanted to say it. Like it was some rare word that was only used on special occasions. Instead, I tell him about Bryn Terfel singing out the window, and John Jones laughs. My dad has a nice laugh.

  “Do you like cycling?” he asks out of the blue.

  “I just got a bike,” I tell him, but don’t say that I only push it around at the moment.

  “I like biking as well,” he says. “Maybe we could go for a ride.”

  We decide that I’ll call him and that we’ll go to the hospital to see Mom. Everything is going to be fine. Maybe Mom and Dad will get back together again? I’ve read on the Internet about couples who get back together fifty years after they first met. It would only be thirteen years for Mom and Dad. Thirteen years is nothing.

  Before we go, he asks: “What happened to your nose?”

  “Someone said horrible things about my mom.”

  “Bart, I really like you.”

  * * *

  “The operation went well,” Grandma tells me when I get home.

  “That’s fantastic. Right now things are going well in my life too.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased, Bart.”

  “I’m a little scared, though. Scared it won’t continue.”

  “Of course it will, Bart. Things will continue to be good, because you deserve it.”

  Where do grandmothers come from? It’s as if grandmothers are put on this earth to smooth things out when life gets rough. I’ve read that the king presents a medal to people who have done something special in their time. I think all grandmothers should get a medal like that. A special grandmothers’ prize.

  She helps me take the bandage off my nose. It’s not quite straight, but you’d need a level to spot it. My nose is still swollen and it hurts every time she touches the nose bone. There’s still a scab on a cut at the tip. I look like myself again without the bandage. With an almost normal face, I feel ready for new challenges.

  “I’m going to learn to ride a bike today,” I say with determination.

  “Your mom used to like biking,” Grandma says.

  “She had a red bike with a basket on the front when she met Dad. Can you remember it?”

  “I certainly do.”

  I go out and unlock my bike. Two wheels, handlebars, pedals, and a frame. How hard can it be? I’m too old for training wheels, so I’m just going to have to risk blood and bruises. If I can get up enough speed, I’m sure the balance thing will sort itself out.

  I get onto the saddle and can only just reach the pedals with my feet. Hands on the handlebars, a quick check of the brakes. The sun is shining on the road. If I think I’m going to fall, I will. I have to convince myself that I can ride. I’m going to bike down the street without any trouble. Pedal until I feel my thighs ache.

  It’s time for my first bike ride.

  I’m about to push off when I hear someone shuffle up behind me.

  “You can’t ride like that.”

  Geir’s eyes are glazed and his knees are extra bendy.

  “Oh, hi. What am I doing wrong?”

  “You’re leaning too far forward. You’ll just tip over. Have to look up and see where you’re going, not look down at the ground.”

  He holds on to the frame.

  “Right, sit straight now. Then put one foot down on the pedal. That’s right, yeah! I’ll run behind you. Come on! Give it some!”

  I ride. Even though the front wheel wobbles and I try to compensate by moving my butt to keep the balance, I roll off down the street. Geir is holding me. At least, I think he is until I’m suddenly lying on the pavement and discover that he’s far behind me.

  “Cool! You can bike, dude.”

  “Weren’t you going to hold on?”

  “I held on for a couple of steps, but can’t run, you see. My feet are messed up.”

  I’ve got a graze on one hand, but nothing serious. I kept my nose well off the ground. And anyway, I’ve ridden a bike and don’t intend to give up now. I get back up onto the saddle.

  “Imagine my invisible hand on the frame!” Geir shouts.

  And so I do just that. I imagine Geir behind me, stopping me from falling down.

  Okay, I fall over a couple of times and eventually get a rip in my pants and the blood trickles down my leg, but soon I’m wobbling around on the bike without falling over. My body works with the two wheels and the frame. I can go biking with Dad. Geir claps and cheers me on.

  “I think I might have found my dad,” I tell Geir as I weave in a circle around him.

  “Cool. Has he got legs?”

  “Two. And he’s from Texas. So half of me is from Texas.”

  “Very cool. I like ZZ Top. Has he got a long beard? Cowboy hat? Bolo tie?”

  “Um, no, he’s quite . . . normal.”

  “Good, good. The normal ones are usually the best.”

  “I like him.”

  “Then I like him too.”

  I ride some more and only fall off one more time. I think that means I can bike.

  “That’s freedom,” Geir says, and puts his hand on the frame. “You can go where you like now. People go around the world on these. Just watch that someone like me doesn’t steal it.”

  “I promise I’ll look after it.”

  Grandma cleans the cut on my knee and says that she’ll fix my pants. She’s changed the bed and found the envelope of mass murderers with Ada’s name on it under the mattress.

  “Should I be worried?” she asks.

  “I can’t promise that I’ll never embarrass you. But I can promise that I’ll never be a mass murderer.”

  I send Dad a text to ask if he can come to the hospital tomorrow at four. He answers immediately: Yes. See ya.

  So it’s not biking that I think about when I go to bed. Tomorrow is such an important day that I should be feeling like a jellyfish. But I’m perfectly calm as I lie there looking up at the ceiling. Everything is going to be all right. This is the end of the hard times.

  And no doubt there’s a beautiful, real shooting star outside the window.

  * * *

  The day starts perfectly. Grandma makes pancakes for breakfast. She’s bought bacon and maple syrup. I let my crispy bacon pancakes drown in the yummy brown syrup.

  “As long as you eat this afterward, it’s fine,” she says, and puts a red apple beside my plate.

  I get up and give Grandma a hug. Cool kids don’t hug their grandmothers, I know. But I can’t help it.

  “It’s going to be a great day,” I say.

  “Of course it’s going to be a great day,” she repeats.

  Someone has dropped a whole lot of advertising by the mailboxes out in the hall, and there’s a bag of trash on the stairs that has split open. But it doesn’t matter, I can organize another cleanup.

  When I walk into the playground, Ada appears.

  “The dress rehearsal yesterday went well,” she says. “The teacher thinks it’s going to be the best show ever.”

  “So he doesn’t need my finale?”

  “Yes, he does. He played a recording by some opera singer in the end, and he cried. It’s true. He’s expecting something major.”

  “You don’t think he’ll be as touched by the boxing?”

  Ada shrugs. “I promise, I haven’t told anyone. So maybe I can keep secrets after all.”

  My plan immediately feels stupid. People who cry when they hear singing are
not often moved by seeing people pummel each other. My only chance is if the audience likes it. My plan is to finish the whole thing off by commentating the fight between Christian and Robert with great enthusiasm. In the end, Christian will knock Robert out and I’ll count to ten while he’s down. Then I hope there will be cheers and stamping, at least thunderous applause.

  The first thing the teacher says when I come into the classroom is: “I’m looking forward to this evening.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  I’ve got blisters on my vocal cords! A cute squeaky voice! Heart in my throat! I’m sure there are plenty of ways to explain to him that I can’t possibly sing this evening. Explanations that mean I have to move somewhere else, immediately.

  In the break, I check my cell phone and see that there’s a new message from John Jones. Look forward to seeing you again. John, it says. That’s the kind of thing good dads write. The sort you can rely on, who change their children’s lives. If Ada wasn’t standing beside me talking all the time, I would probably have thought more about Dad. I just manage to follow what she’s saying, and squeeze in some reallys and no ways to show that I’m listening.

  I’m on two different planets in class. I’m on the classroom planet, but then sometimes pop over to my own world, where only I know what’s going on. The teacher asks me to read and I know more or less where we are in the book, even though I was just traveling between planets.

  It’s like the whole class has ants in their pants. No one can sit still and the room is full of whispers and notes being passed around. Wouldn’t surprise me if no one hears a word of what I’m reading.

  Ada walks some of the way home with me, even though she lives in the opposite direction.

  “Do you want to go for a bike ride one day?” I ask.

  “Where?”

  “Maybe somewhere where we can swim?”

  “Isn’t the water still a bit cold?”

  “Or in the forest?”

  “Yeah, we could go to the forest.”

  “Or along the road somewhere.”

  “Maybe a road to the forest?”

  “But don’t you have to have one of those mountain bikes if you’re in the forest?”

  “Probably better.”

  “Might be better to stick to the road, then.”

  “Okay, we can bike on the road.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  Before she turns back, she gives me a high five and says that it’s going to be a cool evening, or something like that.

  “Yeah, it’s going to be cool.”

  With Bryn singing in my ears, I read the boxing manual. When I turn the corner by the kiosk, I stop in my tracks. There’s a flashing blue light reflected in the windows of our building. And a yellow ambulance by the entrance. It’s been here before. Every time I feel my heart in my throat.

  Has something happened to Grandma?

  I pull out Bryn and run to the building. The ambulance crew are just maneuvering the stretcher into the back. Cheap Charlie is standing by the door, holding back an angry man I’ve never seen before.

  “You bastard!” the man shouts. “Don’t you die on me now.”

  Cheap Charlie has a firm grip on him and stops him from getting to the person on the stretcher.

  “You owe me money, you scumbag!”

  Even though he’s shouting, there’s something familiar about his voice that sends a shiver down my spine.

  “You’re not going to die on me this time, Geir!” he shouts.

  I catch sight of the person on the stretcher. It’s my Geir. Geir who taught me to bike, who can’t die now when I’ve just gotten to know him.

  “Don’t you die before I’ve got my money!” the man screams.

  It’s like my heart is doing somersaults in my throat. I get to the ambulance just before they shut the door. Geir is lying on the stretcher with a white face and closed eyes. His T-shirt that says All the rumors are true has been ripped to shreds.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

  “Overdose,” the paramedic tells me. “Are you family?”

  “Me? No. Will he live?”

  “Watch out now.”

  He closes the door and then gets in behind the wheel. In a minute they’re driving down the street, the siren blaring.

  Cheap Charlie lets go of the shouting man.

  “You know what?” the angry man says to Cheap Charlie. “I was told that Geir was dead. And he’s alive. And now he might die again. Talk about unlucky!”

  “Idiot,” Cheap Charlie says, and goes in.

  Now I know where I’ve heard the voice before. It was the angry man who thought Geir lived in our apartment, and it was me who told him that Geir was dead. I slip in through the door behind Cheap Charlie.

  “Was it you who found him?” I ask.

  “No, it was that nut out there,” Cheap Charlie says, nodding toward the angry man. “He tried to bring him around by hitting him. It’s all about money—no one cares about people anymore.”

  “Will Geir live?”

  “I don’t know. But those people are experts in keeping people like Geir alive. It’s not the first overdose he’s taken.”

  “Do you think anyone will visit him in the hospital?”

  “Believe me, he won’t be expecting anyone.”

  Cheap Charlie goes into his apartment. I stay where I am out in the hallway. There’s a syringe on the floor, full of light red liquid. I pick it up and hurl it against the wall.

  My thirteenth chapter

  “When does the thing at school start?” Grandma asks.

  “It’s the end-of-year show. And it starts at six.”

  My voice is flat. Not as in off-key, but as in depressed and angry. Grandma comes over and runs her hand through my hair.

  “Are you nervous? Is that what it is?”

  I don’t want to answer. The new honest me will say more than it’s good for a grandmother to know. I haven’t told her that Dad’s going to show up at the hospital either. I hope he remembers to bring flowers.

  “It’s important that we’re at the hospital at exactly four o’clock,” I say.

  “So we can get to the show on time?” Grandma asks as she folds some clothes.

  “That too. But Grandma, have you . . . have you ever wondered who my dad is?”

  “It’s never been that important to me. But I understand if it’s important to you. Remember, lots of children grow up without ever seeing their dad. It’s not that unusual these days, and they still turn out well.”

  “But what if Dad suddenly showed up one day. Would you be happy?”

  “Yes, if he was a good dad. Your mom’s not very well at the moment . . . so yes, he might come in handy.”

  There’s a ring at the door. Grandma and I look at each other.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” she asks in a hushed voice.

  I shake my head. Grandma points at the peephole and I look through. There’s a woman standing outside who I think I’ve seen before, but I can’t place her. Then I see another face, lower down. One that I definitely recognize. I feel my stomach lurch, and can’t open the door.

  “Who is it?” Grandma asks.

  Instead of explaining, I take a deep breath, and reluctantly push down the door handle. The next second I’m looking straight into a very unhappy face.

  “Hi, August,” I say.

  “Hi,” he replies.

  “Are you . . . ?” his mom asks when she sees Grandma.

  “I’m his grandmother.”

  “Oh, of course. His mother’s . . .”

  “In the hospital.”

  “Of course, yes. August has something to say to you.”

  August looks at the floor. This version of August doesn’t even resemble the one I meet at school every day. His mother has her hand on his shoulder.

  “Sorry that I punched you,” August says in a small voice.

  “That’s okay,” I say, and hope that he’ll leave right away.

  �
��I just have to ask about something,” his mom says hesitantly.

  I hope that Grandma doesn’t ask them in for coffee and cookies.

  “Is it true that August pushed your mother, or rather, your daughter, or . . . didn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?” Grandma says.

  “He didn’t push her,” I cut in.

  “Okay. So why is everyone saying that August pushed her?”

  I could say I don’t know. Maybe even tell her that’s what it’s like to be a mom. Everyone is subject to rumors now and then. And sometimes they’re not true. That’s why they’re called rumors. She can’t make her son popular again. There’s lots of us at the bottom of the ladder. Welcome to our world. But you can survive down here too.

  But then I think of something. Since no mom wants to think badly of her child, it’s a risky strategy. But I can’t stop myself.

  “Because I started the rumor,” I explain.

  “B-but why?” August’s mom stammers.

  “Because otherwise August would have boasted about breaking my nose and I would have to deal with all sorts of problems. But because everyone thinks he pushed Mom, he stopped bragging about breaking my nose.”

  Perhaps I should say something about August being a leader, someone who takes up a lot of room, and who others listen to. I could even say that he’s not always horrible, sometimes he’s actually quite nice, especially to his friends. Then it hits me: What if August and I could be friends? How crazy would that be?

  “Is that true?” August’s mom looks at him.

  “I’ve got a suggestion,” I say before August can answer. “If August and I can be friends, I’ll stand up in class and say what actually happened to Mom.”

  “So you’re not friends?” his mom says, and looks at August again.

  “I’m not really friends with any of the boys in the class,” I continue. “They generally act as if I don’t exist. I don’t mean that he has to come here or that we should be best friends. Just act friendly, really.”