The Storyteller (24 page)

“Pancakes?” he asked.

She nodded.

And then she was sitting next to Micha on the narrow windowsill in the kitchen, while Abel mixed the batter for the pancakes. The
kitchen was filled with the smell of sugar and batter and hot oil; the window fogged up. Anna drew a ship on it with her finger, and Micha drew a dog at the bow. From the old cassette player on the kitchen table, Leonard Cohen was singing:

Oh the sisters of mercy they are not departed or gone

They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on …

And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me their song

Oh I hope you run into them you who’ve been waiting so long …

Mrs. Ketow was far away.

“See, when they start coming loose at the edges, then you shake the pan a little and throw the pancake in the air,” Abel explained. “Look, like this …” Anna slid down from the windowsill. She stood behind him to get a closer look and, for a moment, placed her chin on his shoulder. She would have liked to have stood like this a little longer, but Abel stepped back and flipped the pancake, which turned over in the air. When he caught it in the pan again, Micha clapped her hands.

“Abel,” she said, “can do everything in the world.”

And Anna thought, if you could just flip your way through finals!

“Wait,” Micha said. “I think I heard something. Maybe …”

Anna followed her to the hallway. The doorbell was ringing, obviously for the second time now. “Maybe it’s her,” Micha whispered.

“Who?” Anna asked.

“Michelle,” Micha said. “She always loved Abel’s pancakes. Maybe she smelled them and came home.” She ran to the door and
opened it wide before Anna could say or do anything. Anna wanted to believe that Michelle really would be standing in the doorway and everything would be okay. If only she could believe hard enough …

The person standing in the door was not Michelle, of course. It was a man whom Anna had never seen before. He wore a suede jacket lined with sheepskin, a knitted sweater with a brown pattern, and jeans. A silver ring shone in his left ear, and a broad smile brightened his three-day stubble. Under his arm he was carrying a black leather folder.

“How nice you finally got around to opening the door,” he said, putting his foot against it so that Micha couldn’t close it again. He took hold of her hand to shake it, then he shook Anna’s hand, and then he came in and closed the door behind him.

“I don’t know who you are,” he said to Anna, “but my name is Sören Marinke. I’m from the social services office. I’ve been here before, but no one would ever let me in. I think it’s high time we talk.”

Now, sinking into it, Anna noticed that the sofa in the living room was too soft, as if it could suffocate you. It was silent now in the kitchen. She knew Abel was listening.

Marinke sat in one of the armchairs, opposite Anna and Micha.

“Well,” he began, leaning forward in the armchair and putting his hands on his knees like someone who plans to discuss something in a very direct way and then immediately enact it.

“You’re Micha, aren’t you? Micha Tannatek? I’m Sören Marinke. You can just call me Sören …”

Micha shook her head. “Why would I do that?” she asked, and
Anna had to bite her lip not to laugh. Marinke looked somewhat irritated. “Micha … I’m here about your mother.”

“She’s on a trip,” Micha said. “Her name is Michelle. She’ll be back soon.”

Marinke nodded. “We were wondering whether it might be a good idea if you lived somewhere else in the meantime. Till she’s back from her, uh … trip.” He threw a glance at Anna. “Are you related somehow?”

Anna shook her head. “I’m just a … a friend.”

“She’s Abel’s girlfriend,” Micha explained, and although this was not the time for it, something inside Anna jumped up and down with childish joy. She was … really, she was? She was Abel’s girlfriend?

“Abel,” Marinke said, taking a paper out of a folder to check something. “That would be Abel Tannatek … Micha’s half-brother, is that correct?”

Anna nodded. Marinke obviously noticed another note because he quickly added, “I’m very sorry about … about Micha’s father. But we have to find a solution. Micha’s mother … do you know her? Do you know where she is?”

“No,” Anna said. “Nobody seems to be sure.” She wondered if she should have lied. If she should have said, sure, I know her, she’s just gone for a while, she does this from time to time …

“This … Abel … it says here that he’s seventeen … if Ms. Tannatek is really coming back in a few days, well … when you’re seventeen, you should be able to live by yourself for a few days. It would be silly to try to find a placement for him, too … we would … I mean, I would turn a blind eye to that … but the little one definitely needs someone to look after her.”

“That’s what Abel does,” Anna said. She wondered why Marinke hadn’t asked where Abel was. He probably knew perfectly well that Abel was home and that he could have asked him these questions directly. Did he hope to get information out of her first, maybe information that Abel wouldn’t have given him?

“If these notes are correct, he’s taking finals and graduating in a few weeks. He can’t look after a little girl all day long at the same time.”

“Yes he can!” Micha exclaimed, jumping up from the sofa. “Sure he can! I don’t wanna go anywhere else! I never ever want to live with anyone else anywhere!”

“Please sit down,” Marinke said. “Let’s work this out together. Don’t you have any other relatives?”

“We do have Uncle Rico and Aunt Evelyn,” Micha replied, her voice hollow when she said it. “But I don’t like them. I don’t go there unless I have to. We stayed there once, at Christmastime. They don’t like kids. They hate it if you’re too loud and stuff. Uncle Rico got really angry about something. Sometimes he smacks people across the face and shouts. They live as far away as the moon, and I won’t go there. They wouldn’t want me anyway.”

“There’s the possibility of a foster family,” Marinke said. “See, Micha, if your mother’s not coming back soon, then you could just … I mean—until she does come back—you could live with another nice family. But that is not the most important thing at the moment. What is most important is that we find out who is responsible for you, I mean, legally …” He realized that both Anna and Micha were staring at him, and he started to fidget in his chair uneasily. He glanced toward the kitchen. “The thing is,” he went on in a low voice to Anna, “you see … I understand that the brother is not interested
in our help. Like many people. I could go so far as to have the police pick Micha up from school, but I don’t want to do that. For me, personally, this job is much more than just a job, I … I’d like to find the best solution for everyone … and to me, the best solution seems to be that we find out where the mother is. Maybe you want to think again about whether you know where she is …”

“Why are you here?” Anna asked.

“To help,” Marinke replied, astonished. His eyes were green like the forest in summer, and they looked as if he meant what he said. She wondered if it was possible to explain things to him. No. He wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.

“We don’t need anyone’s help,” Micha said. “I’ve got Abel and Abel’s got me, and we’ve both got Anna, and we don’t need anyone else besides that.”

Heavens, Anna thought, please don’t let me start crying now.

“You need money to live on,” Marinke said.

“We’ve got enough money,” Micha said. “Sometimes we even go out for hot chocolate. And we bought a book, to celebrate.”

“And where do you get the money from?” Marinke asked.

“How do you know that Michelle Tannatek’s on a … trip?” Anna asked quickly.

“Someone called us,” Marinke replied. “A neighbor who’s been worried. And Michelle hasn’t picked up her social services check for a while.” He sighed. “I guess it would be better to talk to …” He nodded toward the kitchen … Finally.

The kitchen door opened, and Abel walked in, carrying a plate stacked high with pancakes. Anna was confused. Did he want to prove that Micha wasn’t starving? It was strange to see him standing there in the doorway, like a big brother from a fairy tale, holding
a mountain of pancakes, when, except for the fact that he was carrying pancakes, he didn’t really look like a fairy-tale brother at all. He had rolled up his sleeves, as if to make clear that he could throw Sören Marinke out of the apartment if he wanted to. The red scar on his left upper arm was shining, and he was having difficulty controlling his emotions. Threatening … that was the word. He looked threatening—like he’d looked in the student lounge, or in the Mittendrin, when he had stood face-to-face with Bertil. The plate with the pancakes was a ridiculous stage prop in his hand.

“Abel … Tannatek.” Marinke stood up. “I am …”

“I know. You’re from the social services office,” Abel said. “I got that. But this is a totally unnecessary discussion. I just talked to Michelle. She called a few minutes ago. She’ll be home soon. I’ll send her over to you as soon as she gets here. Tomorrow.”

“She … she called just now?” Marinke wrinkled his forehead. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“I can’t force you to believe me,” Abel said with that icy voice he sometimes had, “but tomorrow, you’ll hear from our mother. I guess you have a phone number …”

Marinke leafed through his notes, then searched through his jacket pockets, and finally found a card, which he gave to Abel. “The telephone number’s on there, too,” he said. “Call me. I mean, in case your mother … is, uh, unable to make it for some reason. We can talk. We can talk about everything.”

Abel put down the card on the table and set the plate next to it.

“What would we talk about?” he asked. “About Micha, and about how she’s suffering here, without her mother … going hungry and all?”

“No, I just …”

“You’ll want to see the apartment, of course,” Abel said politely, his tone as sharp as a knife. “You want to know if we live in squalor. You just want to make sure that there aren’t forgotten children, starving in their beds, like in other places … the newspapers are full of those kinds of stories, aren’t they? The interesting thing is that the mothers of those kids are usually there.” He gestured toward the hallway. “Please. Look around. Poke your nose into our cupboards. Search for any evidence you want.”

“Abel …” Anna began. But the look he gave her made her stop.

“Okay,” Marinke said. “If you insist I conform to the stereotype, I’ll give you what you want to hear … naturally, I’m the bad guy from social services, who tears apart families for a living and puts children into unheated orphanages, where they’re forced to live on nothing but bread and water.” He shook his head, his voice still friendly. “I’m here to help,” he repeated. As he reached out to put a hand on Abel’s shoulder, Abel took a step back.

“Have a look around the apartment,” he said. It was almost a command.

“Okay, okay.” Marinke went into the hallway; Abel, Micha, and Anna followed him.

“What’s the point of this?” Anna whispered. “Abel, this won’t help …”

Marinke opened every door a few inches. It was obvious he didn’t want to snoop. The situation was uncomfortable enough. Micha opened the door to her room. “This is my room. Please look around … I’m sure you don’t have a loft bed like this,” she said. Anna saw a smile glide across Marinke’s face. “Abel built it,” Micha added quickly. The smile on Marinke’s face faded. Maybe, Anna thought, this is the same sadness I feel. Maybe Sören Marinke
walks through his own apartment from time to time and feels sad because it’s so beautiful. Marinke turned and left Micha’s room, walked back through the hall, back to the front door. Now, Anna thought, now he will leave, and we’ll be by ourselves again, and Abel can stop looking so threatening, and I can ask him about that call from Michelle … Suddenly, her cell phone rang. It was a reflex to reach into her pocket and take the call. A stupid reflex. She should have let it ring.

“Anna,” Magnus said. “Where are you?”

She saw Abel looking at her, but she couldn’t read his eyes. “Why?” she asked.

“Flute lesson,” Magnus answered shortly. He didn’t ask any questions.

“Shit,” Anna said.

“Just tell me where you are. I can come and get you. If we take the car, we can still make it in time.”

Abel’s eyes were still on her. “No,” she said. “I’ll come home. Now. Could you drive me from there? I’m going to be late, I know, but could you?”

“Hurry up,” Magnus said. “I’ll wait.”

Anna put her phone back in her pocket. “I totally forgot that I’ve got a flute lesson today,” she said. “My teacher will be waiting for me. I’ve gotta … I’ve gotta go …” She turned to Abel, helpless. “I don’t want to, I’d rather …”

“If you have to go, go,” Abel said. Marinke held the door open for her. Why didn’t he leave? Take his stupid folder and his smile … Why couldn’t he leave them alone, for just a minute?

Fuck off! She wanted to shout, very loudly, and use words she didn’t normally use. Fuck off, are you blind, blind like the white
cat on the green ship? Don’t you see you’re interfering where you shouldn’t? Don’t you understand anything at all?

She reached out for Abel, but he stepped back like he had stepped back from Sören Marinke. “Go,” he said. “Your lesson’s more important.”

He didn’t shove her out the door exactly, but he drove her out, with the look in his eyes … and then, when Marinke had joined her in the hallway, he shut the door behind them. The last thing she saw was Micha shyly waving from behind him.

She climbed down the stairs, behind Marinke, without saying a word. It was as if they were one entity all of a sudden, an enemy entity that wasn’t welcome in Abel’s world. Her leaving was a betrayal, and she had seen it in Abel’s eyes: she’d spent half the day with him and Micha, then gotten a one-minute call and left them instantly. A plate of fresh pancakes was standing on a table somewhere, slowly turning cold.

On the ground floor, Mrs. Ketow’s door was slightly ajar. Anna ignored that and stepped outside behind Marinke. She had to hurry. She didn’t have time to talk. But she talked to him anyway.