The Storyteller (11 page)

“‘What is the name of the hunter with the red robe?’ the little cliff queen asked with a shiver. ‘What shall I call him when I dream of him?’

“‘When you meet him,’ the sea lion said, ‘he will ask you to call him father.’

“On the morning of their first day at sea, they saw a light gliding over the water, flashing back and forth again and again. ‘That’s a lighthouse,’ the sea lion remarked.

“‘Oh, let’s go there!’ the little queen cried. ‘Maybe the lighthouse keeper has a cup of hot chocolate for us!’

“The sea lion turned his head toward the black ship. It had fallen back a bit. Two of its black sails seemed to be loose and not working properly, as if someone had bitten through the ropes at night. Someone who had swum near without making a sound, someone who had climbed the deck using the claws on his flippers …

“‘Very well,’ the sea lion said. ‘Our advantage should allow for a cup of hot chocolate.’

“Shortly after, they moored the ship at the lighthouse keeper’s island, and the little cliff queen went ashore with Mrs. Margaret. She took a few steps and had to laugh because she was walking with a rolling gait like a real sailor.

“‘Sea lion!’ she called out, for she wanted to show him, but when she turned back, there was a big silver-gray dog with golden eyes sitting behind her. ‘It is me,’ the silver dog said. ‘Ashore, I am something else.’

“The little queen found this strange, and she began to wonder which was the animal’s real form and if it had another.

“She knocked on the red door of the lighthouse, and the keeper opened it.

“‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I have been watching your ship through my binoculars. And I lighted your way so that you wouldn’t run onto one of the rocks that lie hidden beneath the water …’ He stroked his
graying beard contentedly and adjusted his round glasses. ‘Would you like to come up for a cup of hot chocolate?’

“They followed the lighthouse keeper to the top of his lighthouse, from where you could see far, far out over the sea. The water looked so smooth from here, you couldn’t pick out the waves; it was as if there were none.

“The lighthouse keeper tied an apron over his dark blue woolen sweater and stirred the hot chocolate on his little stove.

“The silver-gray dog lay under the table.

“‘There is another ship out there,’ the little queen said, as she was blowing into her cup. ‘A black one, on the horizon. Do you show that ship the way, too?’

“‘Of course,’ the lighthouse keeper replied. ‘I show all ships the way.’

“‘But how can you know which of them are bad ships and which of them are good?’ the little queen asked. ‘That black one, you see, it’s a bad ship. I know that, but maybe you do not, which is why you show it the way.’

“‘It’s true,’ the lighthouse keeper answered in great earnestness, ‘I don’t know the bad ships from the good ships.’ In his nearly gray beard, there were drops of milk.

“‘The black ship belongs to the hunters,’ the little queen continued. ‘They want to steal my heart, and if they are successful, I will die. We have to reach the mainland before they catch us. We have just enough of a lead for one cup of hot chocolate.’

“‘Oh,’ the lighthouse keeper said. ‘But that’s horrible! I might have shown many bad ships the way.’ He took off his glasses and scratched his head. ‘What am I here for then?’

“He turned to face the little queen, putting the glasses on again.
‘If I show the way to bad and good people alike, it amounts to the same as if I show the way to no one,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that so? Maybe … maybe I should just stop showing the way. Maybe I should go to the mainland with you.’

“The silver-gray dog came out from under the table and sniffed the lighthouse keeper’s shoes; then he watched him intently with his golden eyes. And in the end, he wagged his tail.

“‘See,’ the little queen said happily. ‘He’s saying you’re allowed to come with us.’

“‘That’s great,’ the lighthouse keeper said. ‘I’ll just pack my toothbrush. I might be of some help on that ship of yours. What’s her name, by the way?’

“‘I don’t know,’ the little queen replied honestly. ‘Maybe one day we’ll find out.’

So the lighthouse keeper turned out the light, making the lighthouse just a house. There wouldn’t be any light to show the black ship the way. But the day was still bright; the night was yet to come.

“The lighthouse keeper unfastened the line that held the green ship, and they sailed away with a bold breeze in their three white sails. Next to the ship, the round head of the sea lion popped up among the waves. The lighthouse keeper nodded his head in recognition.

“Meanwhile, behind them, the black ship came closer and closer still. The little queen felt the red hunter’s greed, and her diamond heart beat faster than ever before.”

Anna and Micha were silent for a while. Then Micha asked, “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Are you sure? Did you turn the page over?”

“I did. That was the second side. There isn’t any more. Not yet at least.”

“A heart made of diamond,” Micha whispered. “Do you think I’ve really got something like that? If they put me in one of those X-ray machines at the hospital, they could see it, couldn’t they?”

Anna laughed. “You’ve got a perfectly normal heart made of flesh and blood. This is just a fairy tale.”

“Yes, but …” Micha said.

At that moment, they heard the front door open and footsteps in the hallway. Anna sat absolutely still, and she saw that Micha, too, was trying not to breathe. It was as if they were standing aboard the green ship together, between the beautiful, dangerous waves of a blue winter sea. Rainer Lierski, Anna thought. He doesn’t have a key, does he? Did we leave the door open? How long have we been here? Surely more than enough time to walk here on foot from Wieck …

The door to Micha’s room opened. It was Abel. Of course it was Abel. Anna breathed a sigh of relief and climbed down, behind Micha, from the bed. But when she was standing in front of him, Abel’s eyes were colder than ever. They were as cold as the winter night on a ship in a fairy tale.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I … I made pancakes … for lunch …”

And then she remembered that she was still holding the pages. Abel followed her gaze and snatched them from her hand.

“Micha is perfectly capable of buttering a slice of bread for lunch,” he said. “That’s what she usually does. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

“I … no … I didn’t intend to …,” Anna began. “How was the French test?”

“The story is my fault,” Micha said. “I told Anna to read it to me. I found the pages. It was very nice, you know, having her read to me, and maybe you could show her how to make pancakes so that they aren’t burned around the edges …”

“Anna has to go now,” Abel said. “She’s got her own home and a lot to do there.” He didn’t touch Anna. He didn’t push her out of the room. He just looked at her. She held up her hands, helplessly, and walked toward the apartment door. Abel didn’t take his eyes off her as she put on her jacket and shoes. “Your bicycle is outside,” he said. “I rode it here.”

“My … bicycle? It was … locked?”

“With a combination lock,” Abel said, “the kind that anybody can open. I guess you’ve got the money to buy a better lock when you find the time.”

She made one last try. “Abel, I just brought Micha home! You asked me to do that.”

“I asked you for nothing,” he said in a hard voice. She had been wrong. He could be scary without the black hat. “It was your idea. And, now, leave us alone. Thank you for bringing her the key.”

Never had the words
Thank you
stung like that, like a blow. She ran down the stairs without stopping. On the ground floor Mrs. Ketow had opened her door just a little, to listen. Anna slammed the outer door shut behind her. She was crying. Shit, she was really crying. Searching for a tissue, she found the blister pack with the white pills in her pocket. Maybe, she thought, she should take one, just so … She pressed one of the pills out of the foil and put it in her mouth. It tasted bitter. She spit it out, a white pill in white snow—like
white paper waiting for letters, for words, for the next part of a fairy tale. He had locked her bicycle with the useless combination lock. She unlocked it and rode home, her head empty … white paper, white snow, white ice on a white street, white sails, white noise.

When she closed her eyes, she saw a diamond embroidered in white, embroidered onto the sleeve of a blood-red coat. Or was it tattooed onto Rainer Lierski’s bicep?

THAT NIGHT, ANNA COULDN’T SLEEP. SHE PUT HER
clothes back on and went downstairs to the living room, where Magnus was still sitting in his old armchair reading the newspaper, another sleepless person, but one of the steadier sort. She looked at his big, broad figure in the big, broad armchair; they were at one, he and his chair, a rock, unshiftable, unyielding, strong. When she’d been small, she had thought her father could protect her from everything. Everything in the whole world. Children are stupid.

Next to Magnus, on the small parquet table, a relic of some trip to the Middle East, there was a bottle of red wine and a glass. Anna took another glass from the cupboard and poured herself some wine. Then she sat down on the second armchair. For a while they drank and shared the silence, Magnus focused on his newspaper and Anna on her thoughts. Finally, he folded the paper.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied. He looked at her. She shrugged her
narrow shoulders. She was so much narrower than him, a slender branch in the wind. “The world,” she said.

“Yes. That’s what you look like. As if you have the world on your mind.”

“Why are people so different? Why are some happy and others unhappy? Why do some people have money and others … I know,” she sighed, “this sounds childish.”

“You could study the answers,” Magnus said, wineglass in hand. “Philosophy. Or, no … economics.”

“I need a sick note,” Anna said. “For my music class today. Two to four o’clock … about.”

Magnus raised an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything.

“When I was your age,” he started, “I also …” Then he stopped.

“Thank you,” Anna said, getting up. “And, Magnus.” She was already standing in the door.

“Yes?”

“The wine’s turned.”

The next day the white snow turned into brown mud. Anna asked Bertil if he had time to study math with her that afternoon. Gitta had a study date with Hennes.

“Unfortunately not just Hennes,” she complained, “but some other people too … rats …”

Abel came to school late and slept through geography class—they didn’t have literature that day. During break, Anna sat in the student lounge by herself. Through the window, she saw Abel talking to Knaake outside, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. All day she’d felt like she was swimming … her feet weren’t touching the ground and her head wasn’t in whatever she was doing.
Somewhere on the steps of the old concrete tower block, she had lost her grip on reality, as if a veil of tears was streaming over everything she saw. Knaake took off his round glasses and scratched his head with them. A single snowflake fell onto his nearly gray beard. And suddenly, Anna sat up.

The lighthouse keeper. The lighthouse keeper looked exactly like Knaake. The glasses, the dark blue woolen sweater, the beard—everything was right. Abel had written the literature teacher into his fairy tale. He’d come aboard to help the little queen. Knaake had promised to look for a job for Abel. Knaake was one of the good guys. She nearly smiled—but only a little. The world of fairy tales was easy: good and bad, cold and warm, summer and winter, black ship and white sails.

At lunchtime, she left Gitta and wandered alone to the bakery, the one farther away from school. When she got there, she wondered why she had come. The gleeful signs for colorfully wrapped treats with Ikea-like names made her nauseous. She wasn’t even hungry. Next to the bakery, there was a kebab stand with several tall white plastic tables in front, empty despite the lunch hour. Anna felt drawn to its loneliness, compelled by the kebab seller shivering in his thin jacket. She bought a cup of lukewarm coffee from him and stood at one of the tables to drink it. His coffee was even worse than the coffee from the machine in the student lounge. She started sketching patterns into a coffee stain left on the table.

“Anna,” somebody said. “Anna, I’m sorry.”

She started and knocked over her cup, and when she looked up, she felt coffee trickling down her sleeve. It was Abel. “Ex-excuse me?” she said.

He took a paper napkin from a plastic holder and handed it to
her. “I’m sorry I made you leave,” he continued. “I didn’t know that Rainer … Micha told me. You didn’t want to leave her alone. I … I didn’t want … see, it’s not anyone’s business how we live and … I’m sorry, really.”

She had never heard him search for words before. She smiled and fell back into reality with a bang, the veil of tears ripped; her sleeve felt very wet indeed.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re right. It’s not my business how you live. But, for the record, my room isn’t half as tidy.”

“Did Micha take you on a tour of the ‘villa’?”