by Jo Nesbo
“And bless you to you too,” he heard another voice outside the tent say.
Then everything was once again drowned out by one of Napoléon’s rattling breathing-in snores, and Nilly hurriedly used the opportunity to pour more powder into his mouth. Suddenly, the breathing-in snore stopped and Nilly’s heart did too. For a few seconds the only thing you could hear was a cricket chirping outside. Then the general’s breathing-in snore started again and so did Nilly’s heart. Now it was just a question of waiting and counting down. Nilly moved to the back of the tent, closed his eyes, covered his ears with his hands and counted down to himself.
Six – five – four – three – two – one . . .
KABOOOM!!!
TWO OF NAPOLÉON Bonaparte’s personal bodyguards were standing just outside the tent. Both were half-asleep and both were half-deaf from all the cannon firings their ears had had to withstand throughout their long careers as soldiers. But both of them jumped to attention when they heard the giant boom.
“What in the world was that?” one of the guards asked, taking his rifle off his shoulder and exhaling nervously through his handlebar moustache.
“I thought that was you sneezing again,” the other one said, taking his rifle off his shoulder and exhaling nervously though his Fu Manchu moustache.
“Look,” Handlebar said, pointing at the sky.
And there – silhouetted against the large, yellow moon – they saw something flapping as it flew away, eventually disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the Brussels Road, the side where the English had set up their camp for the night.
“What was that?” Handlebar asked.
“If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was a flailing guy in a nightshirt,” said Fu Manchu. “But then again it is only 1815, so people can’t fly yet.”
“True, true. But maybe we’d better go and see if everything’s all right with the Generator.”
They pulled up the tent flap and stepped in. The first thing they saw was that the moon was shining through a hole in the roof of the tent and that tiny, expensive-looking bits of duvet down were wafting around in the moonlight.
“What the—” Handlebar began, raising his long rifle with the almost equally long bayonet and running over to the bed, where he cried, “The Generator isn’t here!”
“His duvet is missing, too!” Fu Manchu cried once he got there.
“Hi there,” Nilly said, stepping into the moonlight.
The two guards jumped to attention again with their rifles at their sides.
“Pardon me, Sire. We didn’t see you there, Generator, Sire!” shouted Handlebar.
“As you were, soldier,” Nilly said. “That bang you just heard, do you know what that was?”
“No idea, Generator, Sire!” shouted Fu Manchu.
“That was the English trying to assassinate me. A bomb in my bed. Lucky for France I’m a type-A personality . . .”
“A what-the-huh?”
“I get up early. I was just standing here brushing my teeth.”
“What?” Fu Manchu said. “But everyone knows that the French never brush their—”
“Shut up, Jacques,” Handlebar said, staring into the shadows with his rifle ready. “Where did the Englishmen go and how did they get in here?”
“There was only one of them,” Nilly said. “And it’s actually an English woman. She’s hiding in that bath.”
Both of the guards spun round and aimed their rifles at the bath, which appeared to be empty.
“I didn’t think the French bathed either,” Fu Manchu mumbled from behind his moustache.
“Quiet, Jacques,” whispered Handlebar. “You heard him. She’s English.”
“Shh!” Nilly ordered. “Prepare to arrest her!”
The three of them stood, very ready, staring into the bath.
“What are we waiting for?” Handlebar finally asked.
“For her to run out of air and have to come to the surface,” Nilly said.
“Couldn’t we just pull her up?” Fu Manchu asked.
“Well, we could try,” Nilly said. “But we’re talking about the great English spy Double O Point Zero Raspa Hari, who has punctured twenty-six French foil fencers in very honest duels, strangled a boa constrictor and bench-pressed four Russians. But, be my guest, go ahead.”
“Nah,” Handlebar said. “We’re not in any hurry, are we, Jacques?”
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Fu Manchu said.
So all three of them continued to stand, very ready, staring into the bath.
“This lady’s got herself some lungs,” Fu Manchu whispered.
“Like two weather balloons,” said Nilly, who’d noticed that the moonlight was fading and that the darkness was starting to take on a dawnlike grey tinge.
Just then the surface of the water opened up and there she stood: tall and thin in a black overcoat, with her two eyes wide-open over that gaping mouth revealing those small, spiky, predatory fish teeth.
“Whoa,” Fu Manchu said, jumping back in fear.
“Don’t move, you hideous water witch!” snarled Handlebar. “I’ll shoot if you so much as twitch a nose hair!”
Raspa opened her mouth. Then closed it, opened it, closed it and so on. But she didn’t move.
“Slap the handcuffs on her,” Nilly yelled.
“The hand-whats?” asked Handlebar, still staring and looking quite nervous.
“No, that’s right, surely those haven’t been invented yet,” Nilly said, scratching his scalp under that strange hat. “Rope, then. Get English spy Double O Point Zero Raspa Hari tied up. Now! That’s a . . . uh, an order!”
At that, the two guards lifted the kicking, screaming, protesting Raspa out of the bath and tied her up until she looked like a corn on the cob.
“What a banshee,” Handlebar said. Then he pulled off his tattered left boot, pulled off a holey left sock and stuffed it into her mouth. All of a sudden it was quiet.
“What now, Generator?”
“Frisk her!”
Handlebar did as Nilly said.
“A jar of powder,” he said. “Hm, smells like strawberries.”
“Toss it here,” Nilly said, catching the jar that came hurtling through the air. “And roll the spy to a dungeon. We’ve invented dungeons, right?”
“Um, well, yeah,” Fu Manchu said, pulling Raspa onto her feet – well, onto her roller skate – and wheeling her out of the tent. “Come, beautiful spy maiden.”
“You’d better go along and guard her,” Nilly told Handlebar, who hadn’t budged.
“But, Generator, our orders from Marshal Grouchy are to guard you at all times.”
“Oh?” Nilly said. “Well, then I’m superseding that order right now. After all, I’m the one who’s the . . . uh, Generator, right?”
“Of course, Generator, Sire!” Handlebar came to attention, saluted, did an about-face and marched out of the tent.
By the time the tent flap had fallen back into place behind him, Nilly had already rushed over to the bath and poured some powder from the soap jar into it. He pulled the sabre out of his belt, stuck it into the water and started stirring it around. And soon a layer of bubbles starting forming again. Nilly grabbed the jar of soap and climbed up onto the edge of the bath. He wanted to do another cannonball and lie there on the bottom wishing he were back in the Hôtel Frainche-Fraille where all the others would surely just be hanging out waiting for him by now: Lisa, Doctor Proctor and Juliette Margarine. Claude Cliché would be history and would never have met any of them. Nilly bent his knees, about to jump in.
“Puis-je entrer?” demanded a stern voice.
Nilly looked up. A man in a uniform almost as nice as his own was standing in the doorway to the tent. He was thin, tall, and had a scar that formed a V on one cheek.
“Good morning, Generator Napoléon.”
“I don’t think it’s quite morning yet,” Nilly said, hurriedly stuffing the jar of soap into the inside pocket of hi
s uniform jacket.
The man just strolled right into the tent. “It looks like a little sleep has done you good, Generator. You look younger than you did yesterday.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” Nilly said, trying to figure out the fastest way to get this guy to leave again. “I suppose it’s just the clothes. They’re new, of course.”
“So it’s the emperor’s new clothes?” the man asked, smiling, and flopped down into a chair.
“Am I the emperor?” Nilly gasped, shocked.
The man laughed. “It’s up to you. But your last order was that you wanted to be addressed as Generator.”
“That’s what I’d surmised. Um, why did I want that again?”
“Did you forget? It’s a combination of general and dictator. That makes Generator, right? Well, all right, strictly speaking it was my idea. As most things are these days.” He sighed, contemplating his white gloves. “Shall we get to work then?”
“Work?” Nilly asked. “As you can see, I’m still getting ready. I haven’t even had a chance to eat my breakfast. So if you could give me a few minutes alone, Mr . . . Mr . . . ?”
The man raised his eyebrows: “It’s me, Marshal Grouchy.”
“Yes, of course,” Nilly said, laughing nervously and sounding a tad shrill. “That’s right, Emmanuel de Grouchy. Pardon me, I have so many marshals.”
“You have two,” Grouchy said caustically. “The other one died on the Englishmen’s bayonets yesterday. You don’t seem quite yourself, Generator.”
“Oh, uh, yeah. I’m fine, really,” Nilly said. “It’s just . . . just . . . this . . . uh, nose clip.”
Grouchy stood up. “If you’re done washing your sabre, Sire, we have a battle to fight, Generator.”
“A battle?” Nilly asked, confused. “Which battle?
“The British army is waiting on the other side of the road, Generator. Aren’t you anxious to get going?”
“Very anxious,” Nilly said with a gulp.
“Well, let’s get going then. We’re ready.”
“Exactly who do you mean by ‘we’?” Nilly asked, wondering if he shouldn’t just jump into the bath. This guy sure wasn’t backing down.
“You, me, your horse and . . .” he pulled the tent flap to the side, “. . . about seventy thousand men.”
Nilly stared, his mouth hanging open. Sure enough, in the early dawn light outside the tent, he saw a magnificent white horse all saddled up. But that’s not what made Nilly’s mouth hang open. Behind the horse, as far as the eye could see, soldiers in blue uniform jackets with rifles and bayonets were lined up to attention.
Marshal Grouchy stepped through the tent opening.
“Greet your Generator, men!” he shouted.
The response was the synchronised roar of seventy thousand men that reverberated out over the plain: “Vive Napoléon! Vive la France!”
Nilly looked down at the soap bubbles just below him. He could still make it.
“Are you ready to die for your Generator, men?” Grouchy shouted.
“Oui!” the soldiers yelled.
Nilly was just bending his knees in preparation for the jump when a thought popped into one half of his brain. Something Juliette had said, that you only get one chance to change history. So what? the other half of his brain said. Get out of here while you can! Nilly got ready to dive into the bath. That is, he was certain that he had curled up in preparation for his cannonball, but when he looked down, he was still standing on the edge. He couldn’t do it. He just simply couldn’t do it. So he sighed, hopped down from the edge of the bath, stuck his sabre back into its scabbard and emerged from the tent.
A soldier was waiting and whisked him up into his saddle on the white horse. Unfortunately, during this manoeuvre the sabre ended up between Nilly’s legs when he came down and it hurt so much he had to take calm, deep breaths several times to keep from screaming out loud. Once he had managed to blink the tears of pain out of his eyes, he noticed the army of seventy thousand soldiers staring at him. That makes a hundred and forty thousand eyes. Minus the ones that had lost one or both eyes in battles in Russia or Prussia, of course. But all the two-eyed, one-eyed and zero-eyed soldiers had one thing in common. They were all looking very stiff and rigid, with their stomachs sucked in and their shoulders sort of back.
“At ease,” Nilly yelled.
Seventy thousand men all exhaled at the same time, relaxed their shoulders and leaned on their rifles.
Hm, Nilly thought. Fascinating. I wonder what would happen if I . . .
“Smile!” Nilly yelled.
Seventy thousand slightly confused smiles appeared before him.
“Jump!” Nilly yelled.
Seventy thousand men jumped; the ground shook when they landed.
From where Nilly sat, his hand still holding the jar of time soap bath bomb inside his jacket, he had to admit that this felt pretty cool. Yes, he felt like he could easily get used to being in charge of seventy thousand men this way. Especially if he could have some breakfast first.
A horse came up alongside him, carrying Marshal Grouchy.
“Your hat, Sire . . .” the marshal whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Yes?” Nilly said.
“It’s on backwards.”
“Backwards?”
“The point is supposed to go in the front, Generator. It looks a little . . . well, silly this way.”
“Pshaw,” Nilly said. “If I can decide that I should be addressed as emperor and make seventy thousand men jump, I think I ought to be able to decide which way I wear my hat. Don’t you, Grouchy?”
The skin on Marshal Emmanuel de Grouchy’s face went pale and looked as if it were being stretched.
“Don’t you?” Nilly repeated, louder.
“Uh, yes, Generator, Sire,” Grouchy said with a bow, but Nilly could see the man’s jaw muscles clenching with rage. “Perhaps you should give the troops a little inspiration before the battle.”
“I will,” Nilly said, and turned towards his army. He took a deep breath and let his voice reverberate through the quiet morning: “My dear courageous and loyal men!”
“Oui!” the soldiers cheered.
“We have been fighting for a long time!” Nilly yelled.
“Oui!” the soldiers cheered.
“Way too long, some may think.”
“Oui!” the soldiers cheered, but some of them gave each other questioning looks.
“Many of us haven’t even had breakfast!” Nilly yelled.
The men said, “Oui” but less enthusiastically this time and a soft murmur was sweeping through the throng of soldiers. Out of the corner of his eye Nilly saw Marshal Grouchy’s horse move closer.
“And what have we actually been fighting and dying for?” Nilly yelled. “Well, for me, a rather puny Generator, so that I could have a little more land to rule over!”
A few men shouted, “Oui!” while the others watched him in silence.
“Why is it so honourable to die for an emperor and a fatherland when all the emperor and the fatherland want is for you to help them out, and never the other way around?”
Grouchy’s voice hissed softly at Nilly’s side: “What do you think you’re doing, you fool! You’re ruining everything!”
But Nilly just kept going. “Here we are in a teeny tiny country that in a few years will be called Belgium. It’s not going to belong to the French or the English, but to some peaceful farmers who will govern themselves, elect a prime minister every now and then, make French fries and compete in bike races. So what’s the point to all this shooting at soldiers who are fighting on behalf of other stupid kings who think it’s fun to amass as much land as possible, but don’t really care if their subjects are happy or have anything to eat for breakfast?”
Aside from Nilly’s voice and a cricket scratching an itch on its leg, there was total silence in the fields of Waterloo.
“I have a suggestion!” Nilly yelled. “And that’s that we all go hom
e now and eat breakfast!”
“Oui!” one single soldier shouted somewhere in the middle of the plain.
“You’re crazy!” Grouchy hissed, pulling the reins tight as his horse reared. “I’m relieving you of your command, Generator!”
“I suggest,” Nilly yelled at the confused soldiers. “I mean, I’m not giving this as an order, but I suggest the following. Put down your rifles, march home, give your wives and children a good hug and don’t smoke in bed!”
“Oui!” a few more men shouted.
“Exercise!” Nilly bellowed. “Vote in free elections and wear your seat belts!”
“Oui!” even more men shouted.
“And don’t be afraid that the people back home will call us cowards,” Nilly yelled. “Marshal Grouchy here has promised me that he will tell the royal court in Paris that we fought like the idiots we are, but had to concede to superior forces!”
Grouchy’s horse was rearing so wildly that the frightened marshal slid right off and landed on his bottom on the ground.
“So, what do you say?” Nilly bellowed. “Should we all just go HOME?”
This time the answer was so loud and in unison that the sky over Waterloo practically caved in, and the English on the other side of the road thought the French had fired off their first cannon salvo. Or their second, since they had shot that weird little man over earlier wearing just a nightshirt, a man so crazy he claimed he was Napoléon!
“OUI!” the French soldiers cheered. “OUI!”
“All right!” Nilly yelled. “But no one tell anyone what actually happened here in Waterloo. Agreed?”
“OUI!” the approximately seventy thousand soldiers yelled back.
“March home!” Nilly yelled and as he turned his horse round, he heard the rifles hitting the ground behind him. But in front of him he saw Marshal Emmanuel de Grouchy.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” growled the marshal, rubbing his tailbone. “Are you cancelling the Battle of Waterloo?”