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Informationen zum Autor Jo Nesbø is the most successful Norwegian author of all time. He has sold more than 19 million books, which are published in forty-seven different languages globally, and he is widely recognized as one of Europe’s foremost crime writers. The author of crime fiction and short stories, the Doctor Proctor adventures are his first children’s books. Klappentext In this follow-up to "Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder!" Nilly and Lisa are back for another hilarious adventure. Next up: a time-traveling bathtub. Illustrations. The Postcard from Paris 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?”<...
