Time-Travel Bath Bomb (4 page)

“Just you wait and see,” Lisa said.

“Wait and
hear
, you mean,” Nilly said, putting one hand behind his ear. “And what do I hear? . . .
Nothing!
”

They turned off the light, locked the door, stuck the key back under the mat, strolled through the garden and stopped under the pear tree to look up at the moon.

“So, I guess we’re going to Paris,” Lisa said. “Alone.”

“Alone together,” Nilly corrected. “And Paris isn’t that far.”

“It’s further than Sarpsborg,” Lisa said. That’s where her old best friend had moved to.

“Just barely,” Nilly said.

“I have to ask my parents for permission first,” Lisa said.

“Forget that,” Nilly said. “They’ll never let you. They’ll just tell you to file a missing person report for Doctor Proctor with the Paris police. And then we both know exactly what’ll happen.”

“We do?” Lisa asked, a little unsure. “What will happen?”

“Nothing,” Nilly said. “No grown-up will believe the stuff Doctor Proctor comes up with. ‘He’s disappeared in time using soap?’ they’ll say. ‘Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?’ That’s why the professor sent that postcard to us. He knew that no one else would believe him, right?”

“Maybe,” Lisa said cautiously. “But . . . but then, are you really sure that we believe him? I mean, he’s nice and everything, but he’s a little . . . uh, crazy.”

“Of course I’m sure we believe him,” Nilly said. “And Doctor Proctor isn’t a
little
crazy. He’s totally off-the-deep-end insane.”

“Exactly,” Lisa said. “So how can you be so sure?”

“Elementary, my dear Lisa. Doctor Proctor is our friend and friends believe in each other.”

Lisa gazed at the moon for a long time and then nodded.

“That,” she said, “is the truest thing you’ve said in ages. So what do we do?”

“Well, tomorrow is Friday, right? So, now you go home and tell your parents that Anna who moved to Sarpsborg invited you to spend the weekend with her, that you’re going to take the train down there after school and that her family is going to come and pick you up at the train station.”

“Hm, that might work,” Lisa said, biting her lip. “What about you?”

“I’ll tell my mum that I’m going on a band trip to Arvika this weekend.”

“A band trip? Just out of the blue like that?”

Nilly shrugged. “My mum won’t bat an eyelid. She doesn’t keep track of stuff like that. In fact, she’ll probably just be happy to be rid of me for a few days. So anyway, tomorrow you should pack a few extra things in your backpack for school, not a lot, just a few little things that start with
P
. Your passport, a pair of pyjamas, packs of peanuts and stuff like that. Then we’ll go to school and pretend like everything is normal, right? But then after school we’ll go downtown, to that clock shop . . .”

“The Trench Coat Clock Shop,” Lisa said.

“Exactly. We’ll sell the stamp, take the bus to the airport, buy tickets on the next flight to Paris, check in and, presto, we’re there.”

Lisa chewed on her lower lip as she considered what Nilly had said.
Presto this and presto that
, she thought. When Nilly talked he had this way of making things that were actually very complex seem so simple.

“So?” Nilly said. “What do you say?”

Lisa looked down at the jar in her hand. The strawberry-coloured powder sparkled, beautiful and mysterious, in the moonlight. Disappeared in time? Time soap? French nose clips? This was all too weird.

“I think it would be best if we showed the postcard to my dad after all,” she said hesitantly.

“Best?” Nilly asked. “If that were best, Doctor Proctor would have suggested it in his card!”

“I know that, but be a little realistic, Nilly. Look at us! What are we? Two
kids
.”

Nilly sighed heavily. Then he put a hand on Lisa’s shoulder and gave her a serious look. Then he took a deep breath and proclaimed in an unctuous voice, “Listen, Lisa. We’re a team. And we don’t care if everyone else thinks we’re a pathetic minor-league team. Because we know something they don’t know.” Nilly was now so full of emotion that his voice had started to tremble a little. “We know, my dear Lisa . . . we know . . . we . . . uh, what was that again?”

“We know,” Lisa took over, “that when friends promise never to stop helping each other, one plus one plus one is much more than three.”

“Exactly!” Nilly said. “So, what do you say? Yes or no?”

Lisa looked at Nilly for a long time. Then she said one word: “Poncho.”

“Poncho?” Nilly repeated, confused.

“I’m bringing my rain poncho. You said we can pack things that start with
P
and from what I’ve heard Paris is crawling with wet platypuses these days. I do not want to be soaked with platypus spray every time one climbs out of the Seine and shakes itself off.”

Nilly blinked a couple of times. Then he finally understood that she was agreeing to go.

“Yippee!” he cheered and started jumping up and down. “We’re going to Paris. Cancan dancers! Croissants! Crêpes! Crème brûlée! The Champs-Élysées!”

Nilly continued to rattle off Parisian things that started with
C
until Lisa finally told him enough already, it was time for bed.

AFTER LISA SAID good night to her parents and her father shut her bedroom door, she sat in her bed like she usually did and looked over at the yellow house on the other side of Cannon Avenue, at the grey curtains on the first floor. She knew that soon a reading light would turn on in there, be pointed at the curtains and then Nilly would start his evening shadow play, with Lisa as his only audience. This night his tiny fingers made shadows that turned into a line of kicking cancan dancers on the curtain fabric. And while Lisa watched the shadows she thought about the story Doctor Proctor had told them about Juliette’s mysterious disappearance so many years ago. The strange story had gone more or less like this:

JULIETTE AND DOCTOR Proctor met each other in Paris and fell in love. One night, after they had been dating for a few weeks, Juliette came and knocked on his door and just came right out and asked him if he wanted to get married. Doctor Proctor was thrilled, but he was also surprised, since she wanted them to get on his motorcycle right then, that very night, drive all the way to Rome and get married there as soon as possible. Juliette wouldn’t give any explanation for why she was in such a hurry, so the professor packed his only suit and started up the motorcycle without another word.

He actually had an inkling of what was going on. Juliette’s father was a baron. And even though it had been a long time since the family of Baron Margarine had been rich, the baron did not think that a relatively unsuccessful Norwegian inventor was good enough for his Baronette Juliette. But now Juliette and Proctor were driving through the night, through France, on their way to get married. They had just filled up with petrol in a village by the Italian border when they came to a bridge. That was where it happened. Exactly
what
had happened, Proctor never actually found out. Everything went black and when he woke up again, he was lying on the asphalt and his throat hurt. A tearful Juliette was bending over him, and behind her he saw a black limousine approaching. Juliette said it was her father the baron’s car and that she had to go and talk to her father alone. She told Proctor to drive across the bridge to the other side of the border and wait for her there. Proctor, shaken and discombobulated as he was, did as she asked without protesting. But when he turned his motorcycle around at the other end of the bridge, he saw Juliette climbing into the limousine, which then backed up over the bridge the way it had come and, once it was off the bridge, turned around and drove off. And that was the last Doctor Proctor saw of Juliette.

Lisa sighed. The rest of the professor’s story about his early romance had been just as sad.

After he had waited for Juliette on the other side of the border for three days, Proctor tried calling her at home from a payphone at a café. The baron himself had answered the phone and explained that Juliette had come to her senses and realised that it would be quite unsuitable for her to marry Proctor. That she was sorry, but that the whole situation was so awkward that she’d rather not talk to him – and certainly didn’t want to see him again. That that would be best.

Broken-hearted and exhausted, Doctor Proctor had driven his motorcycle back to Paris, but when he finally walked into the lobby of his hotel there was a policeman there waiting for him. He handed Proctor a letter and curtly asked him to read it. The letter said that Doctor Proctor had been expelled both from his university and the country of France on suspicion of terrorism and manufacturing weapons of mass destruction. The suspicion stemmed from an experiment in the university’s chemistry lab in which Proctor and another Norwegian student had almost blown up the entire university.

Proctor had explained to the policeman that it had just been one of those things that happen when you’re trying to invent travelling powder for a time machine, which is what they had been working on. And that it really had just been “an ever so teensy-weensy gigantic explosion”. Somehow his explanation didn’t help at all and the policeman ordered Proctor up to his room to pack his bags. Proctor was pretty sure Baron Margarine was behind the expulsion, but he didn’t really have much choice.

So, late one night many years ago, a young man, weighed down by a broken heart, arrived in Oslo and eventually moved into the crooked, secluded house at the end of Cannon Avenue. Mostly because it was cheap, didn’t have a phone and had actually never been visited by anyone. It was perfect for someone who didn’t want to talk to anyone other than himself anymore, and otherwise just spend his time inventing stuff.

From her own red house, Lisa looked over at the professor’s blue house and wondered if everything that was happening now might actually be her fault. After all, she’d been the one who had insisted that Doctor Proctor go back to Paris to try to find Juliette Margarine, hadn’t she? Yessirree. She had sent him right into trouble, whatever type of trouble it turned out to be.

Nilly’s finger shadows across the street finished their dance and took a bow. Then they did their normal good-night signal, two rabbit ears that waved up and down, and then the light went out.

Lisa sighed.

She didn’t sleep much that night. She lay there thinking about cellars that were much too dark, Peruvian spiders that were much too hairy, cities that were much too big and all the things that would surely go wrong.

MEANWHILE, ACROSS THE street, Nilly had one of the best nights of sleep he’d ever had, dreaming happily about flying through the air powered by farts, breaking mysterious codes, rescuing brilliant professors and all the things that would most definitely – at least
almost
definitely – go right. But, most of all, he dreamed that he was dancing the cancan on the stage at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, where an enthusiastic audience and all the dancing girls were clapping to the beat and yelling, “Nil-ly! Nil-ly!”

MRS STROBE’S EYES peered down her unusually long nose, through her unusually thick glasses that sat on the very tip of her nose and focused on the little beings in front of her in the classroom and latched on to the smallest of them all:

“Mister Nilly!” Her voice crashed down like a whip.

“Mrs Strobe!” the response came crashing back from the tiny student. “How can I be of service to you on this unusually beautiful Friday morning, a morning whose beauty is exceeded only, my teacher and supplier of intellectual sustenance, by your own magnificent face?”

As usual, Nilly’s answer irritated Mrs Strobe. His answers irritated her because they made her feel guilty. And also a tiny bit flattered.

“First of all, you can stop whistling that ridiculous tune . . .” she began.

“Not so loud, Mrs Strobe!” Nilly whispered, his eyes wide with shock. “That’s the Marseillaise. Aren’t we studying French history this month? If anyone from their embassy were to hear you call the French national anthem a ridiculous tune, no doubt they would immediately report you to the president, who would declare war on Norway on the spot. French men
love
to go to war, even though they’re not particularly good at it. For example, have you ever heard of the Hundred Years’ War they fought against England, Mrs Strobe?”