by Arne Svingen
I feel small pangs of guilt whenever I look at August. He started the day in the limelight with his talk of fights and is now standing there with glazed eyes and his hands deep in his pockets. Trying to correct the rumor now would be like pissing in the wind.
Maybe he’s frightened that one of the teachers will send him to the principal. Or that a police car will come speeding into the playground. I don’t know whether he suspects that I started the rumor or not. He looks in my direction every now and then but doesn’t come over.
“It’s working.”
I hear Ada’s voice behind me.
“Thanks.”
“I owe you that much.”
Then I tell her my plan for the summer show, even though I know that she can’t keep her mouth shut about anything. I just need to see how she reacts.
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“You really think so?”
She hesitates, thinks about it, and smiles without showing her teeth.
“I just wish you’d sing instead.”
* * *
After school, I go up to the hospital with Grandma. Mom is sitting up in bed eating a sandwich.
“My lovely boy!” she cries, her mouth full of food. She holds out her arms.
She only just manages to lift her hands up from the bed. I scramble up beside her and we have a long hug. She strokes my back the way she does best and whispers nice things in my ear.
“Do you want the rest of my sandwich?” she then asks.
“No thanks, it’s fine.”
She wants to know about my day at school. If I’ve got homework. If I have any plans for the afternoon. Anything I want to watch on TV. She hardly ever asks questions like that normally. Then we’re all quiet. The room is white and spotless. Mom is wearing a kind of nightgown that doesn’t suit her. Grandma goes out to the bathroom and Mom and I are left with the silence. The window is ajar and sunlight floods half the room. I could say something about the weather.
“Bart,” Mom begins.
She’s going to say something important. Possibly something about change. Something that she won’t be able to follow through.
“Nice weather today, isn’t it?” I interrupt.
“Eh, yes, but . . .”
“Just seems to get warmer and warmer every day.”
“Listen, Bart.”
“I’ve got a bike.”
“You’ve got a bike?”
“Yes, because I organized the cleanup. So now I have to learn to ride.”
And then I tell her about the cleanup. How many people came, and that Grandma is a born leader. Mom smiles at me.
“I know that things can’t go on like before,” she says. “This has really given me a scare. And now that I’m going to be operated on, to . . . yes, I’m going to have an operation. To make me better. And thinner.”
I look out the window. There’s a bird in the tree. A sparrow or a thrush, or something else, I’m not sure.
“I have to stop drinking, Bart.”
My eyes move from the bird and I look straight into Mom’s round face.
“You’re going to stop completely?”
Mom has promised a lot of things in the past few years, but never that. She’s always had a good reason to go to the bar. A reason that perhaps doesn’t sound so good the next morning.
“I’m going to stop drinking altogether. Never get drunk again.”
I’ve never heard her use the word drink about anything other than milk and juice. And certainly never heard her use the word drunk.
“I know that sometimes I promise more than I can do. But you need a mother who . . . is alive.”
“Yeah, they’re the best ones.”
Mom springs a leak. The tears roll down her cheeks and I look for something to dry them with. I end up using the bedcovers.
“You deserve a better mom, Bart.”
“I’m happy with the mom I’ve got.”
“That’s a lovely thing to say, Bart. But I should be better. And I’m going to be better.”
“There’s a bird in the tree,” I say, and point.
“I promise.”
“Oh, it just flew away.”
* * *
I sit on the sofa at home and think how stupid it is to make promises you can never keep. When someone on TV talks about peeing in your pants to keep warm, I think about Mom. Not that she pees her pants, but that she’s made more promises than she can keep. Will she really do it this time? I decide to believe her. No one is so stupid that they’d do something they know is going to kill them. Especially not my wise, lovely mom.
But if she doesn’t keep her promises, I’m leaving. I don’t know where I’ll go, I’m just going to leave. I’m almost certain of it.
“You’re looking very thoughtful,” Grandma says.
I stand up and look straight at her, then start to sing. It comes from the very bottom of my belly. The note fills the room before bursting and suddenly cutting through flesh and bone.
Gudleik squawks: I’m dying, I’m dying!
I don’t go into the bathroom. Instead I run out and I hear Grandma calling my name. Geir is sitting on the stairs, fiddling with something that he then tries to hide when he sees me.
“Hiya, son,” he says as something falls out of his hand and down the stairs.
A syringe rolls down onto the next step. The needle is in a sort of plastic casing. He looks up at me before putting it in his pocket. In his other hand, he has a teaspoon and a lighter.
“Can’t find the keys to my apartment, you see. Got a bit desperate.”
I sit down beside him.
“I’m a bit desperate too,” I say.
“Desperado, oh, you ain’t gettin’ no younger,” Geir sings. “Your pain and your hunger, they’re drivin’ you home. And freedom, oh freedom well, that’s just some people talkin’. Your prison is walking through this world all alone.”
He hasn’t got a great voice, but the song creates a special atmosphere out here on the stairs.
“I love the Eagles,” he explains.
“Don’t know whether I like them or not. I’ve only heard you sing them.”
“Yeah, yeah, they’re better on record. How’s the biking going?”
“Thought I’d go for a walk with the bike later on.”
“For a walk?”
“Yes, I can’t ride a bike.”
“Shit, you have to learn to ride a bike, kid.”
“Maybe.”
“You need a dad, don’t you?”
I somehow can’t see Mom or Grandma running behind me with a hand on the bike.
“Do you know where you can order one?” I ask.
Geir smiles and shows his rotten teeth.
“No, but if you find a good offer, I’d like to order one too.”
“I think mine might have gotten injured in the Iraq War.”
“Right.”
“Lost both legs.”
“Jeez, that’s nasty.”
Geir knows someone who’s lost his legs too. But not in a war. Some of his sores got infected. And then suddenly we’re deep in conversation. It jumps around and we stop talking whenever anyone goes past. What makes a police officer okay, the best way to shoplift, what makes good music good. That sort of thing.
Geir is wearing a faded T-shirt that says All rumors are true. He’s constantly scratching his thighs and neck, with frantic movements.
“Do you know the secret for doing well in life?” he asks out of the blue.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
My eleventh chapter
The next morning I get an e-mail from the USA. At first I’m scared it’s going to be one of those automatic replies that say we’ll contact you later if we can be bothered. I hesitate before opening it. What if it really is the mail I’ve been waiting for?
I click the mouse with trepidation.
Dear Bart,
We have been in touch with Mr. John Jones and are sorry to inform you t
hat he has never been to Norway and is sure he is not your father. John Jones is a very common name in the United States.
We wish you the best of luck in your search for your father.
Yours sincerely,
Joshua Adams
Publishing Assistant
P.S. Happy birthday!
My dad is out there somewhere and he still has both legs. I guess I’m happy that he doesn’t have to walk with false legs for the rest of his life. I google John Jones again and read a little about holy John Jones who lived in the sixteenth century, before I suddenly stumble on a page with contact information for a John Jones who lives in Norway, in a different part of town, but not that far away. What if Dad has moved back to Norway to look for his long-lost son? Now that I have a name and an address, I quickly find a phone number in the telephone directory.
I know. It’s stupid to hope. But I can’t help it. A bit like when Geir needs just a small dose of heroin, and then he feels great, even though all he really wants to do is quit. Someone on TV said that some people are more prone to addiction. To alcohol. Drugs. Gambling. Or finding their dad. They didn’t actually mention that, but I’m sure that it should be on the list.
Let’s just say that I check out 365 John Joneses a year. One possible father a day. That’s 3,650 John Joneses in the next decade and 7,300 by the time I’m 33. I have no idea how many John Joneses there are in the world, but the name gets enough hits on Google to populate an entire country. Mom said that they met in Oslo, so if I knew how many of them had been in Norway, the search would be a lot easier. Maybe I could get Mom to come to the police so they could draw one of those identikit pictures that I could post on Facebook.
I go into the bathroom and tap in the number with trembling fingers. My heart is thumping pretty wildly. It rings and rings until the voicemail kicks in and a man talks in Norwegian with a heavy American accent. There’s something familiar about his voice. As though it were mine, only grown-up.
I’ll have to call John Jones again after school.
“I’ve put a little treat in your lunchbox,” Grandma says, and pats me on the head.
“Thank you.”
Out in the hall, I open the box and discover three cookies, in addition to a sandwich and a banana. I want to go back and give Grandma a big hug, but there’s only nine and a half minutes left until school starts.
* * *
Maybe it would be just as good to give up right away. Girls are impossible to understand. And I guess it doesn’t get any easier later in life. Ada is waiting for me at the school gates. Like I was someone you’d wait for.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.
“Tell you what?”
“Because you are going to the concert, aren’t you?”
“The concert?”
“Yes, he’s singing here tonight.”
I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, and just look like a big question mark.
“You played him to me, Bryn Taffel, or whatever he’s called.”
“Huh? Bryn Terfel?”
“And I know which hotel he’s staying at,” she says with a triumphant grin.
“Hotel?”
I’m really trying to understand what’s going on. Because I’m not stupid, even if my brain’s a bit rusty at times. Bryn Terfel is going to sing this evening. Here in town. Ada knows loads of things I don’t know. But why is she talking about his hotel?
“I’m sure there aren’t many fans who show up at his hotel. Or what do you figure?”
“How do you know where he’s staying?”
“Dad’s the director of the hotel chain.”
“Oh right.”
“Shall we skip class?”
I look at her. I’m guessing I’ve got the world’s stupidest look on my face. But I’m actually trying to get my head around the idea. I can’t think of a sensible answer. At least, not until I’m running down the street with Ada. Because that’s when I realize that girls really are impossible to understand, and that I shouldn’t even try.
“Where’s your bag?” I ask when we start to walk again, out of breath.
“At home.”
“You planned all this?”
“No one’s going to even ask where you were, since your mom’s sick.”
“And you?”
Ada shrugs.
“Are we just going to show up there?” I ask.
Ada nods.
“But what am I going to say to him?”
“You could ask if he’s got any advice on how to sing as well when there are people listening.”
“He won’t have the same problem as me.”
“Maybe he did, once upon a time.”
Ada goes into a 7-Eleven and buys us both an ice cream. I eat it faster than her, as she talks all the time. When we finally stop in front of the hotel’s fancy glass facade, we’ve both got a bare wooden stick in our mouths.
“We could sit on the bench and see if he comes out,” I suggest.
“Three hundred and four.”
“What?”
“That’s his room number. He might be in his room . . .”
“But . . .”
I feel an iron claw in my stomach. Not unlike the one that sometimes grips me when I have to sing in front of someone else. Of course he won’t talk to two wacky Norwegian teenagers. What if he’s in the shower and all we get is 100 decibels of rage?
But still, I don’t protest when Ada pulls me by the sleeve across the reception area as though we were regular guests. We take the stairs up to the third floor and look at several doors before we find a metal plaque that says 304. I hope that he’s anywhere other than in his room. But at the same time, it would be like a dream I didn’t know I had coming true. Just the thought of talking to a man with that lung capacity makes my knees weak.
“I don’t know if I can speak English,” I say.
“Of course you can. I’ve heard you in class.”
“I mean, I don’t know if I’ll be able to right now.”
Ada laughs.
“You know that I can’t keep my mouth shut, don’t you?” she says. “I can be your interpreter.”
And then she does something totally unexpected. She kisses me on the cheek. I don’t know whether she thinks that’s going to help, but here I am standing outside Bryn Terfel’s room being kissed by Ada. Not very surprising, then, that I lose my balance.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” I reply, leaning against the wall.
She raps on the door. Three hard knocks. I feel like I’m swallowing a dry cloth. She knocks again. Only twice this time. I listen for sounds from inside but hear nothing before the door is suddenly opened.
The man in the doorway is bigger than anyone I’ve ever seen. I’m not saying that he’s the tallest and broadest man in the world, but his silhouette against the sun flooding in through the window behind him makes the Hulk look like a wimp.
“Yes?”
“Are you Bryn Teffel?”
Ada says his name as if he was related to Teflon. I want to kick her in the leg.
“I am.”
“This is my friend Bart,” she says, pointing at me.
It’s good to have the wall for support right now. I try to give him a nod, but my neck has frozen.
“He is a singer, just like you, Mr. Teffel,” she continues.
“Good for you,” he says, and looks right at me.
He speaks with an accent that I’ve not even heard in a movie. I know he’s from Wales and that he’s the son of a farmer. He started singing very young, when a friend of the family taught him Welsh folk songs. Then he trained in London and is one of the best-known bass baritones in the world today. And right now, this great world star is standing in front of me. Is it any wonder that my tongue is tied in knots?
“His voice is better than any I’ve heard,” Ada continues. “But he can’t sing in front of people.”
“Nervous, are you?” he ask
s, and looks at me.
“He can speak,” Ada informs him.
I nod my wooden neck.
“Come on in.”
Then suddenly we’re standing in Bryn Terfel’s room. I don’t know if I should be scared or happy or neither. The hotel room is roughly double the size of our apartment. He’s got two suitcases and one is lying open on the bed. It smells of grown man in here. He takes out a couple of cans from a tiny fridge and asks if we want anything.
“A Coke, please,” says Ada.
Bryn Terfel looks at me and all I’m capable of thinking is that the voice that I’ve heard in my ears a million times is coming out of that mouth.
“He will have a Coke too,” Ada adds.
I take back a lot of what I’ve said about Ada. It’s good to have her there. Her mouth does what it’s supposed to. Not like mine, which either clamps shut or is filled with song and a voice that breaks.
“Can I hear you sing, Bart?” Bryn Terfel asks.
“No,” I croak.
I cough a couple of times to clear my throat.
“I thought so. What happened to your nose?”
“I am a boxer.”
“You want to box or you want to sing?”
“Sing.”
“You know what, there are times in every singer’s life when you have serious doubts. For some, that doubt is stronger than for others. Let me show you.”
Bryn Terfel throws open the window. He waves to me, and I go over on wooden legs. Then he puts his arm around my shoulders.
“You see the people?”
There are people walking on the sidewalk down below. Lots of people.
“Yes.”
“Watch.”
The sound is like an explosion inside him. A clear, beautiful explosion. He might as well have had loudspeakers in his mouth. The people on the street stop. Look around. Look up at us. People smile. Bryn Terfel sings so the echoes bounce on the neighboring buildings. I see how he puffs up his face and forms an O with his mouth. And out of his mouth flows the most beautiful sound in the universe. After about a minute, he stops abruptly and the people below move on again. Everyone with a smile on their lips. As though they’ve experienced something special.
“I made a fool out of myself,” Bryn Terfel says.
“No, no,” I exclaim.