The King Is King
IT WAS APPROACHING midnight in Oslo. And yet the city hadn’t even begun to settle down for the night. As the king strolled toward the palace, he saw people scurrying home with their arms full of food containers, and soldiers driving by in camouflage-colored trucks. They looked very warlike sitting there in the back of the trucks, staring straight ahead. Warlike and kind of hypnotized. And the strange thing was that no one seemed to recognize him even though he was the king. He had just had a small glass of beer at an inn to drown his sorrows about his loved—but alas, lost—Rosemarie. But the waiter had demanded payment even though the king had told the man, “Good Lord, man, I’m the king!” Yes. And it wasn’t even just that. He was a king with a broken heart! And when the waiter realized that the king only had Swedish money, the man had thrown him out! The king’s own subjects didn’t recognize him. And he didn’t recognize them. It was sad. And when you got right down to it, quite eerie. And now he had to find somewhere to spend the night. He had called a few people he thought were his friends to ask if he could crash with them, but they had all just hung up when they realized who was on the phone. Maybe he should try the Salvation Army. They had a homeless shelter, didn’t they?
He walked past a cluster of white stone buildings in the middle of a field. He knew all the buildings so well. The TV and radio headquarters of the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation. That’s where the folks came from who recorded his annual New Year’s speech from the Royal Palace. And as if his legs had a will of their own, they proceeded to take him over to those white buildings. In through the revolving door toward the TV studios. And right up to the reception desk.
“I’d like to talk to Nømsk Ull,” the king told the female security guard seated behind the counter. She scrutinized him with her strict security guard eyes.
“I don’t believe you know him. Nømsk Ull is a big TV star.”
“And I’m the king,” the king said.
The security guard peered over her glasses and smiled wryly: “Oh you are, huh, sweetie? What did you do, borrow that ermine cape from the costume department?”
The king focused his eyes on her. Not a penetrating Strobe Stare, but a gentle, sleepy look with heavy eyelids. And then he started talking. His words came out in a monotone, sort of a chant, slowly like viscous syrup on a super-cold day:
“My fellow countrymen. The old year is now over and it brought us a great deal, both in terms of progress and reasons to celebrate. For example, our average weight is rising steadily, and Norway is one of the world’s happiest countries. We won a gold medal in classic combined Nordic skiing biathlon snow camping, and Honningsvåg has once again been named one of the world’s most northerly towns.”
The security guard yawned. And the king continued:
“But the year also brought new challenges and problems that we will have to tackle together as a people in the year to come . . .”
The security guard’s head nodded forward a little, but the king bent over so he could maintain eye contact.
“And right now, there is the issue of saving Norway and the world from catastrophe. Repeat after me: catastrophe.”
“Catastrophe,” the security guard repeated in a sleep-walker-like voice.
“Which is why,” the king said, “you must call Nømsk Ull right now and ask him to come down here.”
“Call Nømsk Ull,” the security guard repeated. She picked up her phone, dialed a number, waited a moment, and then said in that sleepwalking voice, “Please come down to the reception desk.”
One minute later, Nømsk Ull, the host of the NoroVision Choral Throwdown, was standing before them.
“I’m always delighted to meet a fan,” he crooned with that cheesy grin that was so familiar from the program, and gave the king an ultra-brief handshake. “But I have to run. Vee’re doing a live show right now, and . . .”
He stopped because the king wouldn’t let go of his hand.
“Hey, let go. People are waiting and . . .”
“My dear countrymen,” the king said, and Nømsk Ull looked at him in surprise. “A new year stands ahead of us and suddenly we find that it is time to express our gratitude for the old one . . .”
Nømsk Ull’s eyelids suddenly looked like they had little weights attached to them.
“In the live broadcast you’re hosting right now, you will introduce the king, and then the king will address the people of Norway,” the king said.
“The king will address the people of Norway,” Nømsk Ull repeated.
“Great, let’s go do it,” the king said.
LISA, DOCTOR PROCTOR, and Mrs. Strobe sat around the kitchen table in the little blue house, which was surrounded by snowdrifts at the top of Cannon Avenue.
“Phew, that suwe was cloath,” Mrs. Strobe snuffled, her voice quivering.
“I’m sure glad you handled the clutch and the gears,” Lisa told Doctor Proctor.
“It certainly is unfortunate that Nilly and Perry are probably going to be made into waffles along with Gregory tomorrow,” Doctor Proctor replied, running both hands through his unruly, bushy hair and scratching his scalp in despair.
“It’s mostly my fault,” Lisa said. “It was my plan.”
“I should’ve stopped it,” Mrs. Strobe said. “So I suppose actually it was my . . .”
“Enough!” Doctor Proctor yelled, and then groaned: “Why does one of us always end up in a dungeon?”
“Well, I know what Nilly would say about that, anyway,” Lisa said. “‘Give me liberty or give me death!’”
They all smiled at that thought. But then they all felt even sadder. Then they thought a little more and a little more. Until Doctor Proctor finally said what they were all thinking: “There’s nothing we can do.”
Mrs. Strobe emitted a little sob, bundled herself up in a wool blanket, and disappeared into the living room, where she lay down on the sofa and flipped on the TV. They could hear her sneezing over the sounds of choral singing.
Lisa wanted to sob as well, but she put on her boots instead.
“I suppose maybe I ought to be getting home,” she said. “True, my folks are hypnotized, but maybe they’re worried about me anyway.”
Doctor Proctor just nodded silently in response.
Lisa stepped out into the entryway, opened the front door, and was just about to leave when she heard a familiar voice. She stopped immediately. The voice was coming from the living room.
“My fellow countrymen, it must be said sooner or later: Happy New Year. But let me also add: Thank you for the old year. And now that that’s out of the way, let me wish a speedy recovery to all who will fall ill this year. Especially the elderly, the lonely, and all who are at sea. Together we are emerging from a noteworthy year here in Norway in which the chance of rain varied, national folk costumes were sewn, elk were hunted . . .”
Lisa felt a yawn sneaking up on her, but hurried back to the living room where Mrs. Strobe was sitting in front of the TV, snoring. A guy in a red cloak with a white fur collar was staring out of the TV screen with a stiff expression as he droned on in a monotone: “But we have also seen a despot seize power and proclaim himself president.”
“That’s the king!” Lisa cried. “The king is giving his New Year’s speech on TV!”
The Strobe Snore stopped suddenly, and Lisa heard the scrape of chair legs in the kitchen. And a second later, all three of them were sitting on the sofa, staring at the TV, their eyes wide.
“Hallvard Tenorsen’s goal is not to create a better life for you, my fellow countrymen,” the king said. “His goal is to create chaos and provide his baboons with breakfast. The truth is this: His real name is Yodolf Staler, and he is from the moon. He has hypnotized you through televised choral singing programs, but there will be no more of that. For now we—my fellow countrymen, and all those who are at sea—are going to put a stop to Yodolf Staler. The Danes are our friends, and I urge you to lay down your arms immediately. . . . Or as a matter of fact, you should instead turn your weapons on Yodolf Staler and his companions. And especially Butler Åke, that base, treasonous sneak of a butler.”
“Excellent!” Doctor Proctor whispered. “He’s doing it! It’s just so . . . so . . .”
“It’s the king. He’s just doing his thing,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes a little to suggest that the king’s New Year’s address was rarely thrilling.
“But . . . but, was it in time?” whispered Mrs. Strobe, anxiously. “Are we going to have time to save Gregory and Nilly? There’s only a few hours until dawn . . .”
“I’ve got it!” Lisa said.
“What have you got?” Doctor Proctor asked.
“Marching-band music. The answer is marching-band music.”
“Really?” Mrs. Strobe asked.
“Of course,” Lisa said. “We just have to drum up a band. Can you guys play anything? It doesn’t matter what! Quick!”
“I can play a little piano,” Mrs. Strobe said. “I used to, anyway.”
“Uh . . . ,” Doctor Proctor said, “I can play Frère Jacques on the recorder.”
“We need more musicians,” Lisa said. “We need to hit the streets and recruit. And then we need a conductor. . . . We need . . .”
MR. MADSEN WOKE with a start. His doorbell was ringing. He discovered that he had fallen asleep in his recliner, and the TV was just playing static. The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was choral singing. “Norway is good, Norway is best.” Something like that. Very catchy, actually. Mr. Madsen stuffed his feet into his slippers, buttoned up his marching-band-uniform jacket and shuffled over to open the door to his apartment.
There were three people out in the hallway. A girl who was puffing, a panting man in swim goggles, and a wheezing woman with an astoundingly long nose.
“We have to form a band,” the girl said. “And we need to practice a song before the sun comes up!”
Mr. Madsen adjusted his aviator sunglasses and stared at them blankly: “Do I know you?”
“Lisa?”
“I play in your band!”
“Band?” Mr. Madsen thought for a second and then said, “Ugh, marshing band music is boring.”
The girl sighed and turned to the woman with the purse. “He’s hypnotized. Can you . . . ?”
The woman nodded, raised her hand, and slapped it against the door. The smack was so loud that it reverberated down the stairwell. Mr. Madsen blinked in confusion and saw Lisa, that professor chap, and Mrs. Strobe, the teacher from his school, standing before him.
“Wh-where am I?” He turned and gazed into his apartment. On the floor there was a smashed flower vase, and the vertical hold on the TV needed to be adjusted.
“Say ‘cheese,’” Lisa said.
“Cheese,” Mr. Madsen said. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve been unhypnotized,” Lisa said, grabbing her band director by the hand and pulling him along. “And now you’re going to help us ring every doorbell on Cannon Avenue!”
DOCTOR PROCTOR WAS standing on a pear crate looking out over the crowd assembled in the glow of the streetlight right in the middle of Cannon Avenue. Everyone was there: commandant Mama, commandant Papa, Nilly’s mother and sister, and Mrs. Thrane with Trym and Truls. Some of them were only wearing bathrobes and pajamas, others were wearing thick down-filled parkas, some were in choral performance robes, and some were in uniforms with rifles, more than ready to shoot themselves some Danes. But they had all heard the king’s speech, and now they had just listened to Doctor Proctor, who filled them in on what was going on. Whether or not they believed him was another matter. The expressionless faces before him didn’t give anything away.
“We need to start a rebellion,” the professor said. “And we need to rescue Gregory and Nilly.”
“Why?” someone in the crowd shouted. “Why should we risk our good health and our lives for a dwarf and a frog?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Doctor Proctor said, sounding a little stronger now. “And because we can.”
“Really?” someone else yelled, sounding skeptical. “So what’s your plan, then?”
Doctor Proctor swallowed. “The plan, my dear friends . . . the plan is . . . now I’m sure you’re eager to hear it. . . .” He flashed his teeth in an awkward grin. “Which is quite reasonable of course, because it’s a good plan . . . a brilliant plan . . . a plan that makes all other plans sound rather poorly planned out in comparison. It’s the mother of all plans if you, uh . . . heh, heh . . . know what I mean . . .”
“The plan I’m talking about is the very plan we have planned to implement in order to liberate no less than Gregory and Nilly. Isn’t that a good plan, don’t you think?”
It was so quiet that you could’ve heard a pin fall in the snow. Until a shout pierced the silence:
“What exactly is the plan, you scarecrow?”
Doctor Proctor smiled quickly. “One second, technical difficulties.” He leaned over to Lisa: “What’s the plan again?”
“To drum up a band and practice a song.”
“A heck of a plan,” Doctor Proctor said, straightening back up, taking a deep breath, and shouting, “THE PLAN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN . . . ,” before suddenly pausing to lean down to Lisa again.
“Which song and why?”
“Just tell them what I said.”
Doctor Proctor straightened up again and said, “IS TO DRUM UP A BAND AND PRACTICE A SONG!”
For a second the crowd looked stunned. Then a roar of laughter erupted. Mr. Madsen cleared his throat several times and adjusted his glasses. “Now now, people. This is serious business. I will be conducting.”
“Who’s General Numskull in that weird military uniform?” someone hollered.
“Is he blind?” a boy asked his father.
More laughter.
“Oh my God, what kind of song are you talking about?” Nilly’s mother yelled.
“What kind of song?” Doctor Proctor repeated softly.
“A pop song,” Lisa said, looking over to the east. Was the sky already starting to get lighter there at the bottom of the black edge of night?
“A POP SONG!” Doctor Proctor announced to the crowd. Which responded with the loudest wave of laughter of the day so far. Mrs. Thrane, who was standing at the very front, with tears of laughter in her eyes, managed to choke out, “You’re just crazy. You don’t really mean to say in all seriousness that a pop song can save the world?”
“Who’s with us?” Doctor Proctor cried.
Lisa looked out over the crowd, but to her dismay she saw only heads being shaken and could almost hear every single member of the crowd thinking, I don’t think so. Then there was a small motion at the back of the crowd. Lisa could see now that two people were pushing their way through, toward the pear crate. One was carrying a big tuba, wearing patches over both eyeglass lenses, and was easy to recognize: It was Janne, the tuba player from band. But the other one was a pale girl with a frightened look on her face, which was just visible under the tufts of hair sticking up after what just might have been one of the worst haircuts of all time.
“Beatrize?” Lisa gasped in disbelief. She only just barely recognized the stooped girl, who didn’t look anything like the cutest girl in the class as she stood there in the snowy street. “What happened to you?”
Beatrize’s voice was just a whisper: “When the other girls got unhypnotized by the king’s speech, they came over to my house. They said I had tricked them into joining the Norway Youth. Then they yanked me out onto the street and did this.” She pointed at her head.
“That’s terrible. Poor you!” Lisa said, appalled.
“I’m sorry for all the dumb, mean things I did.” Beatrize sniffled, her eyes full of tears: “C-c-can I join the band again? Please?”
Lisa glanced over at Mr. Madsen, who nodded imperceptibly in response.
“Anyone who wants to,” Lisa said, “can be in this band. Do you understand, Beatrize?”
Beatrize gulped, stared at the ground, and nodded that she understood. Lisa put her hand on the shoulder of the former cutest girl in class. “Did you bring your saxophone?”
Beatrize looked up, smiled through her tears, and held up her instrument case.
“Hey!” someone in the crowd shouted. “You haven’t answered the question! A pop song can’t save the world, can it?”
Lisa looked at Doctor Proctor, Mrs. Strobe, and Mr. Madsen. Then all four of them turned to face the crowd and replied in unison:
“Yes it can!”