Bubble in the Bathtub

 

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,
or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing Division

1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com

First Aladdin hardcover edition January 2011

Copyright © 2008 by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo

Translation copyright © 2011 by Tara Chace

Originally published in Norway in 2008 as
Doktor Proktors tidsbadekar
by H. Aschehoug & Co.

First US Edition 2011

Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Mike Lowery

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

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Designed by Karin Paprocki

The text of this book was set in Perpetua Regular.

Manufactured in the United States of America 1210 FFG

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Nesbo, Jo, 1960–

[Doktor Proktors tidsbadekar. English]

Bubble in the bathtub / Jo Nesbo ; illustrated by Mike Lowery ;

[translation by Tara Chase]. — 1st Aladdin hardcover ed.

p. cm. — (Doctor Proctor's fart powder ; 2)

Summary: A mysterious postcard leads Lisa and Nilly from Oslo to Paris in search of Doctor Proctor, but

once there, all they find of their missing friend is a time-traveling bathtub powered by a special soap and

several sinister individuals determined to do all they can to locate the eccentric inventor.

ISBN 978-1-4169-7974-6 (hardcover)

[1. Time travel—Fiction. 2. Inventors—Fiction. 3. Adventures and adventurers—Fiction.

4. Paris (France)—Fiction. 5. France—Fiction. 6. Humorous stories.]

I. Lowery, Mike, ill. II. Chase, Tara. III. Title.

PZ7.N43825Bu 2011   [Fic]—dc22   2010023706

ISBN 978-1-4169-5607-0 (eBook)

THERE WAS TOTAL silence in the gymnasium. Nothing was making a sound—not the twelve sets of brown wooden climbing bars along the walls, not the old pommel horse covered in cracked leather, or the eight gray well-worn ropes hanging motionless from
the ceiling, or the sixteen boys and girls who made up the Dølgen School Marching Band and who were now all staring at Conductor Madsen.

“Ready …,” Mr. Madsen called out. He raised his baton, and squinted at them through his dark aviator sunglasses. Mr. Madsen, with dread in his eyes, searched hopefully for Nilly. He knew the other kids in the band teased the redheaded trumpet player because he was so tiny, which of course he was. But unlike the other band members, the little guy had some musical ability. Maybe he could turn things around today. Since Mr. Madsen didn't see Nilly, he looked over at the only friend Nilly had—Lisa, who played the clarinet. She was the only one in the band who always practiced at home. Maybe there was hope after all.

“Set …”

Everyone put their instruments to their lips. It was so quiet that the sounds of the warm October afternoon outside could be heard: birds singing, a lawn mower
humming, and the laughter of little, snotty-nosed kids playing. But inside the gym it was dark. And it was going to get even darker.

“Go!” Mr. Madsen yelled, swinging his baton in a majestic arc.

At first nothing happened, and the only things you could hear were still birds singing, lawn mowing, and snotty-nosed kids laughing. Then a trumpet gave a wobbly bleat, a clarinet squeaked timidly, and there was a tentative thump on a bass drum. An unexpected beat on a snare drum made a French horn splutter out a belching sound, and in the back of the band something big emitted a snort, one that made Lisa think of a blue whale that had just surfaced after a week underwater. But all that blowing still hadn't produced an actual note, and Mr. Madsen's face was already starting to turn that color red that warned he was about to lose his temper.

“Two-three!” Mr. Madsen screamed, swinging his
baton as if it were a whip and the band members were the slave crew manning the oars of a Roman galley. “Well, play for Heaven's sake! This is supposed to be the Marseillaise, the French national anthem! Give it some dignity!”

But there was no dignity in this. The faces in front of Mr. Madsen stared stiffly at the music on the stands in front of them or their eyes were squeezed shut, as if they were sitting on the toilet, straining.

Mr. Madsen gave up and dropped his arms just as the tuba finally emitted a sound—a deep, forlorn mooing sound.

“Stop, stop!” Mr. Madsen yelled, and then waited until the tuba ran out of air again. “If anyone from France had just heard you guys, they would have beheaded you first and then burned you at the stake. Let's show some respect for the Marseillaise!”

As Mr. Madsen continued to chew them out, Lisa leaned over to the seat next to her and whispered, “I brought that postcard from Doctor Proctor. There's something weird about it.”

The voice that answered her came from behind a beat-up trumpet. “If it's like the last one, sounds like a normal postcard if you ask me. ‘Dear Lisa and Nilly, Greetings from Paris. Sincerely, Doctor Proctor.' Isn't that pretty much what you said he wrote?”

“Well, yeah, but …”

“The only thing that's
not
normal about it is that a person who is as weird and eccentric as Doctor Proctor would write such a normal postcard.”

They were interrupted by Mr. Madsen's thunderous voice: “Nilly? Is that you? Are you down there?”

A voice replied from behind the battered trumpet, “Aye aye, Sergeant!”

“Get up so we can see you, Nilly!”

“Yes, sir, oh great commander of delightful music and all the notes of the universe!”

And a little redheaded boy with big freckles and a
broad grin jumped up from behind the music stand, onto the chair. Actually, he wasn't just small, he was tiny. And his hair wasn't just red, it was bright red. And his grin wasn't just broad, it practically split his little head in two. And his freckles weren't just big, they were … well, all right, they were just big.

“Play the Marseillaise for us, Nilly!” Mr. Madsen growled. “The way it's supposed to be played.”

“By your command, great mother of all conductors and king of all military band leaders north of the Sahara and east of the—”

“Stop wasting our time and start playing!”

So Nilly started playing. A warm, resounding melody welled up under the roof of the gymnasium and out the window on this warm fall afternoon. When they heard this beautiful music, the birds fell silent, feeling ashamed of their own songs. At least that's what Lisa was thinking as she sat there listening to her tiny neighbor and very best friend playing
his grandfather's old trumpet. Lisa liked her clarinet, but somehow there was something special about the trumpet. And it wasn't that hard to play, either. Nilly had taught her to play one song on the trumpet, the Norwegian national anthem. Of course she didn't play it as well as Nilly, but secretly she dreamed that one day she would play
their
national anthem in front of a big audience. Imagine it! But imagining is imagining and dreaming is just dreaming.