The Ballad of a Broken Nose

by Arne Svingen

  August’s mom doesn’t ask any more questions. A hand is held out feebly in front of me. It belongs to August.

  “Deal,” he says.

  I take his hand before his mom has a chance to say anything.

  “So, that’s everything sorted out?” Grandma asks.

  “Yes, I guess it is,” August’s mom replies.

  Grandma and August’s mom say the sort of things that polite adults do. I notice that his mom is craning her neck to get a look into the apartment, to get an impression of our slum. No parents want their children to be friends with people who live in a cockroach nest, but she realizes this is the only deal that can save August right now. He’s got a smart mother. Behind us, Gudleik cackles: Help, I’ve got nothing to wear.

  When they’ve gone, Grandma asks me if it was all true.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been a long time since I was at school, I suppose.”

  * * *

  I stare out the tram window on the way to the hospital. Dad, Geir, and the show—it should all be wreaking havoc with my nerves. But my eyes are as empty as a gym after school. I can’t get my thoughts in order. I’m sure there are buildings and people, dogs and cars passing by outside the window, but I can’t seem to focus on anything. It’s almost like I can’t see.

  “You’re very quiet,” Grandma says.

  I smile at her. This could still be the best day of my life. I have to focus on that.

  As we walk up to the hospital from the tram, I ask: “Is it okay if I go in to see Mom on my own today?”

  “If you’d like to, yes.”

  “You could come in a bit later. But I just want to talk to her a little . . . first.”

  “Of course you can. I’ll sit outside and enjoy the sun.”

  Suddenly I’ve got a knot in my stomach. I shouldn’t lie to Grandma. But I haven’t got the headspace to answer all her questions if I tell her about Dad.

  Grandma finds a bench and sits down. When I get to the entrance, I can see him walking around in a kind of circle inside. Dad has his arms full of flowers.

  “Hi,” I say, and don’t know if I should hug him or not today either.

  He seems to be just as uncertain, so we shake hands again. He starts to talk about how hard it was to know which flowers to buy, so he got all kinds. Apparently flowers can mean lots of things—some are best for funerals, others say I love you, and he just wanted to get something nice and ordinary that didn’t mean anything in particular.

  “They look lovely,” I say when he’s talked too long about the flowers.

  Dad’s face is all sweaty. He brushes something off his shirt and blows his nose, making his cheeks red.

  Up on the ward, I’m told she’s in Room 117. We agree that Dad should wait outside. I walk quietly into the room and see that Mom’s awake. When she sees me, she says hello in a happy but tired voice. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t hide how exhausted and weak she is.

  “How did the operation go?” I ask.

  “It went well. I’m going to get back in shape, lose weight, and then I should be able to work more. And then, Bart, we’ll move.”

  “Maybe it’s best to take one thing at a time.”

  “If I can get a permanent job, then we can rent a better apartment in another area. Just say where you want to live.”

  I sit down on the edge of the bed.

  “Mom, I was wondering.”

  “Yes?”

  “You know Dad. John Jones. I’ve sort of been looking for him.”

  “Oh, Bart, my lovely boy. It’s such a common name.”

  “But what if . . .”

  “I understand that you want to find him. But you’ll only be disappointed. Can’t you promise me not to . . .”

  I stand up and stop Mom in midsentence.

  “Hang on,” I say, and rush over to the door.

  I wave at Dad, who comes into the room slowly, holding the flowers in front of him like a shield. Mom looks at me with knitted, skeptical eyebrows.

  “Hello again,” he says, and puts the flowers down on the bed.

  Even though she’s tired after the operation and no doubt pumped full of pills, she straightens up and pulls away slightly from Dad.

  He holds out his hand and says: “I’m John Jones. I believe we have . . . met before.”

  Mom looks like she’s seen a ghost. She doesn’t take his hand, just looks at me with shocked eyes.

  “Who is this?” Mom asks seriously.

  “This is . . . Dad . . . ,” I reply.

  I almost add I think, but I so badly want to convince Mom that it’s him. People change. There could be a thousand reasons why she doesn’t recognize him right away. Just wait until he tells you about the red bicycle. Yes, John Jones is a common name, but not in Norway. It’s an unusual name here!

  “I’d like a word with you, Bart,” Mom says.

  John Jones stays standing where he is.

  “He’s brought you flowers,” I try.

  “Should I . . . ?” Dad asks, and nods toward the door.

  “Yes, could you give us a few minutes?” Mom asks.

  John Jones walks toward the door. I want to ask him to stay, so that Dad can hear what we’re talking about. He’s part of the family. I know it’s all a bit much for Mom. It was stupid of me to think she’d be happy to see him. Especially when she’s so weak. What do I know, maybe they fought all the time. Maybe John Jones ran off with another woman.

  “Come here,” Mom says, and pats the sheet beside her.

  “I’m fine here, really.”

  “Where did you find him?” she asks in a grave voice.

  “On the Internet.”

  “I always knew you’d look for him one day. But I thought you’d tell me you were looking, and then I could ask you not to.”

  “But I’ve found him. He’s standing outside the door. His name is John Jones. He remembers your red bicycle with the basket in front.”

  “His name is not John Jones.”

  “But he told me his name is . . . What do you mean?”

  “Your dad’s name is not John Jones. I made that up.”

  The room was suddenly very small and claustrophobic. I back away from Mom a few steps.

  “But he . . . he said . . .”

  “The truth is that I can’t really remember who your father is. It was at a time when I was drinking quite a lot, and . . .”

  “He remembers your red bicycle,” I say in a feeble voice.

  “I don’t think it’s him. I’m sorry.”

  The words are like an echo in my head. I’m sorry bounces around and around inside my skull like a bouncy ball.

  “I made up John Jones because it was foreign, and I thought it was such a common name that if you ever did start to look, you’d give up very quickly. I’m afraid I remember absolutely nothing about your father. I’m so sorry, Bart.”

  “But what if . . .”

  I don’t say any more. The percentage chance that the man outside the door is my father is so miniscule that it shouldn’t be calculated. No one cares about such small numbers.

  Mom attempts a smile. She holds out her hand. I’m right over by the wall. It feels cold against my arms. I suddenly realize that John Jones is actually just a sad man who can’t remember all the women he’s been with. Someone who wishes that he could find a forgotten son who needs him. A boy who could give his life meaning. A life that hasn’t turned out the way he hoped it would.

  I run out. Mom calls after me in a weak voice. I stop in front of John Jones.

  “It was really nice of you to want to be my dad. But apparently you’re not, after all,” I say, and hurry on down the corridor.

  “But . . . but it was nice meeting you,” John Jones says behind me. “And I’m sorry . . . but I don’t remember your mom.”

  I clatter down the stairs at full speed and find Grandma sitting on the bench outside.

  “You can go up now,” I say.

  “Where are you off to
?”

  “I’m going to school.”

  “Shouldn’t we go together?”

  I’m already racing toward the tram.

  * * *

  I head to the playground. Today can still turn out well. No days are all bad. I just have to dig deep enough. Even if this is not my day, I might still find a little gold nugget. Or something else that glitters.

  All the people I pass are happy. Some have won a soccer match. Met a good friend. Found their father.

  Then there I am standing on the playground. There’s no one here. The school could be any old, empty building. As I stand there staring at the building, I think of more death. Because this is not where I should be. I should be visiting Geir in the hospital. If he’s alive. No wonder thinking makes people depressed.

  “Good that you could come early,” says a voice behind me.

  I turn around and look straight into our teacher’s smile.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “All well with the voice?”

  “Yes, it’s good.”

  “I just wanted to ask . . . ,” the teacher starts, obviously looking for the right words. “That recording, well, it is you singing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. I just wanted to be sure. Since you weren’t there yesterday.”

  “But . . . what if . . .”

  Now it’s me who’s lost for words. They seem to slip away so easily.

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think about boxing?”

  “Boxing? Well, I’ve got nothing against boxing. Why do you ask?”

  “Well . . .”

  My cell phone starts to play a tune and vibrate in my pocket. I fish it out and see that it’s Christian calling.

  “I have to take this,” I say, and walk away from the teacher, who nods and walks toward the school.

  “Hello, it’s Bart.”

  “Hi, Bart. What’s up?”

  “I’m at school.”

  “Cool. Mega cool. That’s good,” he says, then hesitates. “Listen, something’s come up.”

  “Something’s come up?”

  “Yeah, it turns out that Robert’s got to sort out some family drama, and I can’t box on my own.”

  “You have to come!”

  “I know it stinks. But I don’t think it’s going to work.”

  “But . . . but then I don’t have anything.”

  “I’d just make an idiot of myself. But if anyone messes with you, I’ll come and give them one. Promise.”

  My mouth is completely dry. If I had money, I’d give it all to Christian now.

  “But Christian . . .”

  “And I’ve got a date.”

  “Oh . . . right.”

  We say good-bye and hang up. I’m standing alone on the playground, and right now, this asphalt square is a whole alien country. Cars pass outside on the road. I hear people talking on the sidewalk. Some children are shouting in the distance. I’m the only person in my country.

  No one wants a country all to themselves.

  I look up at the school building. It’s bigger than I remember. I don’t like this school. It’s far too big and in your face.

  I cross the playground and go in the same door as the teacher. Then I walk down the corridor and go up to the second floor. I open a window out to the street as wide as it will go. There’s a woman walking past outside with a stroller, some boys biking toward the school, and a man hobbling with a stick toward the store.

  I draw a deep breath, deep, deep. The music comes from way down inside my body. The sound pours out of my throat. The volume is screwed up to the max. The people turn and look toward the school. They spot me in the window. I sing at the top of my voice, and the sound crackles a little at the edges. Then something happens. And it happens very suddenly. As if a machete has sliced the song to pieces and all the sounds collide.

  The boys on the bikes laugh. The woman with the stroller hurries on. Only the old man stays there listening to my noise pollution. I stop. There’s no point in continuing.

  “Bart,” says a voice that I know only too well, behind me.

  “What?” I say, without turning around.

  “Well, I heard you . . . singing,” the teacher finishes.

  “Mm.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t close the concert after all.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “It’ll be fine. We can manage with what we’ve got. It’ll be a great end-of-year show.”

  “It was me singing in the recording.”

  “Yes, of course it was, but . . . There will be a lot of people in the auditorium, and well . . .”

  “I don’t need to be part of it.”

  He comes over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. The way grown-ups do when they want to comfort you. But right now, a hand on my shoulder is not enough. I shrug it off and he lets go.

  “I’ll find a way to explain to the others why you’re not going to sing. Leave it to me. No one will be angry with you.”

  I close the window and turn around. And see immediately that there’s someone else standing behind the teacher. Ada does not look happy. Like something terrible has happened. Then I realize she’s unhappy because of me. The boy who can’t sing for anyone other than toothbrushes and the medicine cabinet.

  She comes over to me and takes my hand.

  “Are you . . . ?” the teacher asks.

  We both shake our heads at the same time.

  “Sing again,” Ada says quietly. “Just close your eyes.”

  Her hand is warm. The moment I close my eyes, the teacher doesn’t exist. I think I hear Ada whisper It’s all right beside me, but I’m not sure.

  “And this means . . . what’s . . .”

  I shut out the teacher’s stammering, take a few deep breaths, and hold for a second, two, three. As I hold on to the oxygen, I have time to think that this is probably a bad idea. At the same time I realize that I’m no longer standing in the school with a stressed-out teacher. And I’m not in the bathroom at home. I’m standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people. And I’m about to sing.

  The sound wells up in me. My voice is like a helmet around my head. Ada squeezes my hand. I think it’s because she’s happy. The acoustics are fantastic on this stage. Almost like a spacious corridor. I sing with everything I’ve got.

  Alone.

  On the stage.

  It leaves me breathless. Ada lets go of my hand. I open my eyes, and at first there is silence. The teacher is standing closer to me now than when I closed my eyes.

  “That was . . . that was quite . . . well, just . . . ,” he stutters.

  “It was fantastic,” Ada whispers.

  “Yes, yes, fantastic. Do you get very nervous?” the teacher asks.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever managed to sing for anyone,” I tell him.

  “Would you manage onstage . . . if Ada was holding your hand?” he asks.

  I really want to say: Yes, her warm hand fixes everything. But I can’t see into the future today either.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay. Let me put it this way: Shall we risk it?”

  “It might look a bit weird if I hold Ada’s hand onstage,” I say, and look over at her.

  “Yes, maybe,” the teacher says, all excited. He rubs his temples as he thinks. “But there’s a curtain. Listen. Why don’t you stand behind the curtain, holding Ada’s hand, so you can’t see the audience. All the people who’ve performed can go out in front of the curtain, one by one, and then, right at the end, when you’ve almost finished the song, we can raise the curtain. It will be brilliant—no one will have seen a finale like it.”

  Being negative doesn’t make life any better. I’ve always thought that I’ll get by if I can be positive. Right now, I see possibilities. I can sing. It could work. If I refuse to think that anything might go wrong, well then there’s no chance of it all going badly wrong.

  I think that’s logical, in a weird way.
>
  “Okay.”

  The teacher hugs me. Which feels weird as well. Then he rushes off down the stairs.

  “I think he’s crying again,” Ada says.

  * * *

  It’s quite chaotic backstage before the show. It’s been decided that Class B will open the show, and they’re doing their final preparations while Class A are sitting around in small groups. The place is heaving with nerves, singing, and warm-ups. I do nothing. Just sit there leaning against the edge of a table. There must be some kind of electricity in the air, only I’m not plugged in. Apparently, people who freeze to death get warm again just before they die. That’s me. I’m in the final phase. My nervousness has advanced to numbness. I breathe, swallow, and can hold my hand out without it shaking. There must be something that’s not right.

  Ada is going to dance and is wearing some kind of hip-hop outfit. Bertram has a whole lot of chains around his neck. August says hello and asks how my voice is.

  “Fine, I think.”

  “It’ll be cool to hear you sing.”

  “It’ll be cool to hear you . . . what are you doing?”

  “I’m doing a couple of sketches with Gabriel and Johnny.”

  The teacher is all red in the face and asks people the same question a thousand times. He double-checks all the technical equipment and peeps out at the audience through the curtain.

  Why is my inner fire not burning? How come I can still move my arms and legs? My mouth should be drier than the Sahara. The only thing I know is that I should be petrified. Scared that this is the worst idea in the world, and that the magic that happened out there on the stairs will never happen again.

  If you compare that with the thought of Mom getting better or Geir surviving, it’s nothing more than a scab. It doesn’t even hurt. There’s no blood.

  Maybe that’s what it is? There are too many things going on in my life that are far more important than this.

  I look at the others. Some of them are practicing, others joking around, nearly all of them talking. Class A have been told that the finale has changed. The teacher will direct it all, and everyone has to line up and do exactly what he says. No one has asked me why it’s changed. Maybe they think it’s normal that things like this change at the last moment.

  It’s only an end-of-year show. And kind of the end of the world.