Free Somewhere Over the Sea by Halfdan Freihow Page B

gravel field I remain sitting with my own tears, moved as rarely before by what these seven- and eight-year-old children have done for you, just because they wished you well.
    IT’S BEEN A FORTNIGHT since May 17. Fourteen May days are a long time in a child’s mind, long enough time to leave things behind and get on, but today is the school’s cultural evening, and I haven’t forgotten that scene on the gravel track. The lump in my stomach is back, only bigger.
    As usual, when it’s something important, I’ve left the camera at home. Your classmates’ parents and the parents of other children you know come over and wish us luck. They probably haven’t forgotten either. Some of them offer to take photos when it’s your turn.
    The program is extensive this evening. Individually or in small groups, thirty second-graders are going to sing, dance, recite, or perform sketches. I must admit I remember very little of what happened. I see that some of the bigger pupils are dangling from the wall-bars with the tacit permission of the teachers, and I picture you standing and waiting in the locker room where we left you, a somewhat distant look in your eyes, but more because you sense an unusual level of tension among your fellow pupils than because you’re tense yourself. Out in the gym hall, Mom and I are feeling a little uncomfortable, almost stared at. We try to talk about other things while we wait, but as always when the conversation absolutely has to be about something else, it comes back around to you. In the end we sit there in silence. Victoria finds acquaintances with whom to while away the waiting time.
    The lights go down and the teacher takes the floor to welcome us and say a few well-chosen words about what she’s proud to present to us this evening. Then the annual cultural evening for the district school’s second grade is underway.
    I can’t follow what’s going on, I’m much too nervous. I’m in Nicaragua. There’s a big surprise waiting for you there, which I haven’t told you about. During a visit a few months earlier, in connection with an aid project, I met somebody who introduced me to someone else who knew the boss of a breeding ­station outside Managua. I paid a hefty price, but things like this don’t come cheap, and then the fees, to the vet, to the agricultural department, to the export authorities, plus a few other governmental bodies. The diplomats at the Norwegian embassy and good contacts among people in high office did their best, but there wasn’t enough time. It turned out that the Norwegian authorities required six months notice to okay the import, and I had to return home empty-handed. But all the same — in an accredited and well-run breeding station in Nicaragua — it’s waiting for you. It’s yours, Gabriel, only it lives somewhere else. Green as spring grass, speckled with all the colours of the rainbow, the most loquacious breed, found only in the depths of America, which for you doesn’t mean the U.S., but Latin and South America, because what are fast cars and skyscrapers compared to the mysteries and wonders of the jungle, incarnate in the eloquent bird that sits perched on the shoulder of every self-respecting pirate, a genuine . . .
    â€” . . . which he has chosen himself and which he will now sing for us. Please, Gabriel.
    Never before has a gym been this quiet. You walk out onto the floor, position yourself in front of the microphone, cast a glance at the guitarist who’s to accompany you, and look out across the hall. You appear neither afraid nor uncertain, more as though you’re trying to get an overall picture of the unusual situation, as of a complicated traffic picture. Around you, on the other hand, the tension is palpable. Two hundred, perhaps three hundred eyes see only you. Silent prayers fill the air.
    Ready . . . Steady . . .
    The