Conductor Madsen and the Dølgen School Marching Band

MR. MADSEN WAS standing in the gym with both arms out in front of him. Facing him sat the twenty students who made up the Dølgen School Marching Band. Mr. Madsen squeezed a baton between his right thumb and index finger, his other eight fingers splayed in all directions. He had closed his eyes, and for a second he imagined he was far away from the bleachers, worn wood floor, and stinky gym mats, standing before a sold-out audience in a concert hall in Venice, with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and cheering people in formal clothes in the balcony seats. Then Mr. Madsen opened his eyes again.

“Ready?” he yelled, wrinkling his nose so his dark aviator sunglasses wouldn’t slide down. Because unlike Mrs. Strobe, Mr. Madsen had a short, fat nose with black pores.

None of the twenty faces in the chairs in front of him looked like they were ready. But they didn’t protest, either, so Mr. Madsen counted down as if for a rocket launch.

“Four—three—two—one!”

Then Mr. Madsen swung his baton as if it were a magic wand, and the Dølgen School Marching Band began to play. Not like a rocket, exactly. More like a train that, snorting and puffing, started to move. As usual, the drums had started playing long before Mr. Madsen got to one. Now he was just waiting for the rest of the band. First came a screech of a trombone, then a French horn bleated in the wrong key, before two clarinets played almost the same note. The two trumpet players, the twins Truls and Trym Trane, were picking their noses. Finally, Petra managed to get her tuba to make a sound, and Per made a hesitant tap on the base drum.

“No, no, no!” Mr. Madsen called, losing hope and waving his baton defensively. But just like a train, the Dølgen School Marching Band was hard to stop once it got going. And when they tried to stop, it sounded like a ton of kitchen implements falling on the floor. Crash! Bang! Toooot! When it was finally quiet and the windows at Dølgen School had stopped vibrating, Mr. Madsen took off his aviator glasses.

“My dear ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Do you know how many days there are left until Independence Day?”

No one said anything.

Mr. Madsen groaned. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to either, since you don’t even seem to know what song we’re playing. What song is this, Trym?”

Trym stopped picking his nose and glanced over at his brother questioningly.

“Well, Truls,” Mr. Madsen said. “Can you help Trym out?”

Truls scratched his back with his trumpet and squinted at the music stand. “I got some rain on my music, Mr. Madsen. I can’t see nothin’,” he said.

“Right,” Mr. Madsen said. “For crying out loud, this is the national anthem. Is there really no one here besides Lisa who can read music? Or at least play in key?”

Lisa cowered behind her clarinet as she felt everyone else looking at her. She knew what those looks were saying. They were saying that even if Mr. Madsen said she was good, she shouldn’t think that any of them wanted to be friends with her. In fact, the opposite was true.

“If we don’t improve by Independence Day, we’re going to have to give up the idea of a band camp this summer,” Mr. Madsen said. “I don’t want to be made into a laughingstock in front of dozens of other band conductors. Understood?”

Mr. Madsen saw the faces in front of him start gaping. This was a shock to them, that much was clear. After all, he had talked so much and so positively about the big band competition in Eidsvoll, and they were all really looking forward to it. But he had made it clear to them from the very beginning. Nikolai Amadeus Madsen was not playing around, conducting a rattling, old military band. So unless a miracle occurred, no one at Eidsvoll was going to hear so much as a triangle clang from the Dølgen School Marching Band. And unfortunately, since Mr. Madsen’s baton wasn’t a magic wand, there wasn’t going to be any miracle.

“Let’s take it again from the top,” Mr. Madsen said with a sigh, raising his baton. “Ready?”

But they simply were not ready. In fact, they were all staring at the door to the locker room that was right behind Mr. Madsen’s back. Irritated, he turned around but couldn’t see anyone. He turned back toward the band and was just about to count off when his brain realized that it had seen something in the doorway after all. Something down by the floor. He turned around, took off his sunglasses, and looked at the tiny little boy with the red bangs.

“What are you doing here?” Mr. Madsen asked curtly.

“Shouldn’t you ask who I am first?” Nilly said, holding out an old, beat-up trumpet. “I’m Nilly. I can play the trumpet. You want to hear me play a little?”

“No!” Mr. Madsen said.

“Just a little … ,” Nilly said, raising his trumpet and forming his lips as if for a kiss.

“No! No! No!” growled Mr. Madsen, who was bright red in the face and slapping his thigh with the baton. “I am an artist!” he yelled. “I have arranged marches for the big marching band festival in Venice. And now I’m conducting a school band for tone-deaf brats, and I don’t need to hear one more tone-deaf brat. Understood? Now get out!”

“Hmm,” Nilly said. “That sounded like an A. I have perfect pitch. Just check with your tuning fork.”

“You’re not only tone-deaf, you’re deaf!” Mr. Madsen sputtered, shaking and spitting in agitation. “Shut that door again and don’t ever come back here! Surely you don’t think any band would take someone so small that … that …”

“That there isn’t even room for the stripe on the side of his uniform pants,” Nilly said. “So short that his band medals would drag on the ground. So teensy-weensy that he couldn’t see what was on the music stand. Whose uniform hat falls down over his eyes.”

Nilly smiled innocently at Mr. Madsen, who was now rushing straight toward him in long strides.

“So he can’t see where he’s going,” Nilly continued. “And suddenly he finds himself on Aker Street while the rest of the band is marching down Karl Johan Street.”

“Exactly!” Mr. Madsen said, grabbing hold of the door and flinging it shut right in Nilly’s face. Then he stomped back over to his music stand. He noted the big grins on Truls and Trym’s faces before he raised his baton.

“So,” Mr. Madsen said. “Back to the national anthem.”