“No,” she said. “Why? Why do you do it?”
“Has Micha been sleeping for long?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m not answering any questions,” he said, smiling. “I’m not one of the answering people. I’m the storyteller.”
She got up and walked over to the old record player to put on one of the LPs she’d found in Linda’s Leonard Cohen collection. She turned the volume very low so as not to wake Micha, returned to the sofa, and leaned against Abel.
Travelling lady, stay a while until the night is over
I’m just a station on your way I know I’m not your lover.
Well I lived with a child of snow when I was a soldier
And I fought every man for her until the nights grew colder
She used to wear her hair like you except when she was sleeping
And then she’d weave it on a loom of smoke and gold and breathing …
“What does that mean?” Anna whispered. “What does all that mean?”
Abel ran his fingers through her hair again, and his hand wandered down and stayed on her throat. “It means everything,” he whispered back. “And nothing.”
And why are you so quiet now standing there in the doorway?
You chose your journey long before you came upon this highway …
Travelling lady, stay a while until the night is over
I’m just a station on your way I know I’m not your lover …
“I thought about not coming back,” Abel said suddenly. “Of disappearing. Somewhere.”
Anna nodded. “It wasn’t an outing. You ran away. From Marinke. Michelle never called. Of course she didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, did she?”
“I told you I’m not answering any questions.”
She took his hand in hers and made it glide lower, under her T-shirt. It was a surprisingly hesitant hand; it very nearly fought against hers. Then the hand lay on her left breast, and she wondered if she could somehow manage to get rid of her bra without destroying the moment. In movies, these things happened so naturally; people were never wearing impractical clothing; there were never any hooks and eyes or buttons to get in the way.
“Anna,” whispered Abel. “I’m not sure …”
“Isn’t it enough if I’m sure?”
“But Micha …” He gave up and kept his hand where it was. And then he kissed her. And she thought, this is our third kiss, and wondered if it would be possible to count all the kisses in a lifetime or if there would be too many after a while. Though, with Abel, there wouldn’t be much danger of losing track. She tasted blood in his mouth—her lips must have cracked with the cold—or was she just imagining that? She tasted the sea, in which he had been floating unconscious, as a sea lion, inside a fairy tale. She tasted the picture of a black net and of the sails that fell down like withered leaves … she wondered if she would ever meet him alone, without Micha.
With that guy, you’ll only have a relationship based on fucking, she heard Gitta say. Anything but, she thought. Oh, Gitta, anything but …
And then she heard the door—and voices in the hall. Never had a kiss ended so abruptly. Anna opened her eyes, looked at Abel, and smiled. He didn’t smile. He jumped up. She stood up, too, more slowly, and took his hand. “Wait,” she said quietly. “Don’t run away. Please. They don’t bite, you know.”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Of course you should,” she said.
Micha woke up and yawned. “What’s going on?” she asked sleepily.
“We gotta go,” Abel said.
He looked around, in a panic, as if he wanted to run out into the yard and flee over the roofs. He pulled his hand from Anna’s. He seemed totally lost in the big living room, in the blue air, lost in an ocean full of clinking pieces of ice.
The living room door opened, and Magnus and Linda came in at almost the same time. Linda stopped, surprised. Then she smiled.
“I see,” she said, and now, she wasn’t smiling anymore; she was laughing, a gentle, blue laugh. “Does that explain it?”
“What?” Anna asked.
“Your secretiveness,” Magnus answered, shaking his head, setting his bag onto an armchair. “Yep, looks like that explains it.”
Abel didn’t say anything; he looked from Linda to Magnus and back again, like an animal in a trap, his eyes flickering nervously.
“This is Abel,” Anna said. “And that’s his sister, Micha.”
“Hello, Micha,” Linda said.
Magnus put out a hand, and Abel understood, with minimal delay, what was expected, and shook it. He still hadn’t said a word.
“Nice to meet you,” Magnus said in his low bass voice. “Are you at school with Anna?”
Abel nodded.
“I need some coffee urgently,” Magnus declared and turned toward the kitchen. “Anyone care to join me?”
“Micha probably doesn’t drink coffee,” Linda said. “Maybe hot chocolate would be the better choice?”
“Hot chocolate is a very good choice,” Micha said. “You have an awfully nice house. And so many books! I have been swinging in Anna’s hammock …”
“Micha,” Abel said and took her hand. “We have to go now.”
“Why do we have to go?” Micha asked. “Is it that late? We don’t have an appointment, do we? We could just …”
“Come on.” Abel pulled her in the direction of the door.
“Abel …” Anna said.
“Thank you for the offer of coffee,” Abel said putting on his parka. “But we actually do have an appointment. We totally forgot about the time.”
He helped Micha into her pink down jacket with the artificial fur collar, and before she could say any more, he shoved her out the door. Then he shut the door behind them.
Anna opened it again. “What the hell are you doing?” she called. “Come back, you idiot!”
But Abel had already lifted Micha onto the carrier of his bike.
“No,” he said. “Try to understand. There are too many thorns on the island of the rose people.”
“There weren’t any thorns until now!” Anna said in despair. “Until right now …”
“Think of what happened in the Mittendrin,” Abel said, and now his voice was sharp like the edges of ice floes in an ocean. “Come on. You said that they will be happy to see you, all these fine friends of yours, and then? What happened then? It will be the same with your parents.” He shook his head and got onto his bike.
“What’s he talking about?” Micha asked.
“I don’t think he knows,” Anna replied and went back in. She slammed the door shut behind her and tried to breathe steadily. Magnus came from the kitchen, carrying a cup.
“Heavens,” he said and put the cup down onto the dresser in the hall. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Anna.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Wipe your tears away, I thought,” Magnus said.
“Strange.” Anna stared at the handkerchief in her hand. “This seems to happen to me a lot lately … that I’m crying and don’t even realize.”
“Come into the living room with me,” Magnus said in a commanding tone that he very rarely used. “And have a cup of coffee with us or a glass of whiskey, or whatever. But now, you’ll tell us what this is all about.”
“Okay,” said Anna.
They talked late into the night—or, rather, she talked. She was a traitor. She knew she was a traitor. It was none of Magnus and Linda’s business how Abel and Micha lived. But suddenly, it was as if a dam had broken, a dam behind which more tears lay, a flood of tears, a flood of stammered, drowned words and half descriptions.
Linda made sandwiches so the tears had something on which to fall. Magnus put the whiskey aside and opened a bottle of white wine instead.
And in the end, he said, “Anna?”
“Yes?” Anna asked.
“What do
you want us to do?” He looked at her, earnestly; it was an important question. “Tell us what you want us to do … to help. I am a very critical person. I’m not sure if I approve of this, but in love … you might think this is a stupid remark … but in love, there is no criticism. In love, there is no rationality. I’ll give you money if you need it. I will make calls on his behalf. Tell me what we should do.”
“I don’t know,” Anna said. “If I knew, everything would be easy. He won’t take money—he says he doesn’t want charity. He doesn’t want anyone to interfere. On some days, he acts like he doesn’t even know me. And after today … I …”
“Please, don’t start crying again,” Linda said gently, gently rubbing Anna’s back. “Everything will turn out all right.”
On Saturday, the body of a man was found under the sand and snow on the beach in Eldena. In the pocket of his leather jacket, there was a wallet with a driver’s license identifying him as Sören Marinke. He had been forty-four years old. His woolen sweater and the sheepskin lining of his jacket were stiff with frozen blood. Shot in the neck, the radio announcer reported.
“ANNA?”
She blinked, opening her eyes slowly. The rays of sunlight coming in through the window were reflected by the flute sitting on the music stand and fell to the floor like glass splinters. The hands of the old-fashioned clock on the edge of the bookshelf showed ten to four.
She had lifted her cell phone to her ear … still half-asleep … she must have nodded off reading.
The radio was talking to itself in a low voice. If one subtracted the half hour she’d been sleeping with her head on the desk, and if one assumed she’d gotten up at about seven o’clock, then she’d heard the news of Sören Marinke’s death eight times at this point. The story had grown details, like blossoms, since then, but only a few: a man walking his dog had found Marinke in the morning, or rather the dog had found him, and Anna had instantly wondered the color of the dog. Was it silver-gray? With golden eyes? Surely not … Later, the announcer said that the body had been there for quite some time, maybe a day, covered by sand and snow. It was completely frozen by the time it was found … obviously, it was impossible for a body to freeze totally in just a few hours …
“Anna?”
Eight times, she had calculated; eight times, she’d held her breath; and eight times, she’d breathed again, relieved. For eight times, she’d come to the conclusion that Abel couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with Marinke’s death. His alibi for all of yesterday was Anna herself. And the day before, Thursday, he had been to the island of Rügen with Micha. If they had really been there, that is. If …
“Anna, are you there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think I am,” she said, but her voice sounded far away. “I was … thinking … must have fallen asleep over my books. I’ve spent the whole day working out a stupid study schedule …”
No, she thought. No, that’s not true. I spent the whole day not calling you. For, of course, it was him. Abel.
“Anna,” he said, for the fourth time, as if there was nothing more to say, now that she’d finally answered. Nothing but her name. As if he’d just called to make sure she existed. She got up from her chair and went over to the window with the cell phone, her name ringing in her ears like an echo.
“Abel,” she said, “I’m going to mark this day in my calendar with a red pen.”
He was silent, sending something like a question mark through the line. “You never call me,” she said. “Usually it’s me who calls you.”
“Did you hear the news?” Abel asked, ignoring her remark.
He was right, she thought, this was no time for flirting.
“Yes,” she answered. “Your social worker is dead. A wolf bit him to death and buried him under the sand on the beach in Eldena.”
“No,” Abel said, with a pained tone in his voice. “No, he didn’t. The wolf wasn’t there. They’ve been here, Anna. Police. They … they visited … everyone whose cases … whose cases were on Marinke’s desk. It seems there were quite a few people not happy with his interference … Thursday. Looks like he died on Thursday, but they weren’t sure, or else they didn’t want to tell me they were sure. It’s all a mess … about the time of death … because of the cold …”
“You’ve got an alibi,” Anna said. “For Thursday. You were on Rügen.”
“An alibi, oh yeah,” Abel murmured. “That’s right. A wonderful alibi. A six-year-old girl. They will be back, believe me. They need a culprit. And I’m … I’m connected to both Rainer and Marinke. Everything fits.”
“But you didn’t shoot Marinke …”
“Do you think it was me?”
She hesitated; then she said, “The bus drivers, Abel! Didn’t you go by bus to Rügen? And the conductor in the train, too … I mean, they’re older than six.”
“I hope so.” He laughed.
“Can’t you find out how to contact these people?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, maybe. Maybe it’s possible. It’ll take a lot of calls, though. Tomorrow is Monday.”
And now, he’ll put the phone down, Anna thought, and I’ll sit here alone, again, with my books and my radio and the slightly varying radio news reports of Marinke’s death.
“Actually I called because …” Abel said and stopped. Anna heard Micha say something in the background, impatiently, as if she wanted to have the phone.
“Because we thought it might be nice to meet for a cup of hot chocolate again, in that café near the beach,” Abel said. “I mean, if you’re free.”
No, she thought. No, I’m not free. I don’t have time. I have finals in front of me, and a discussion with Linda behind me. A discussion in which she asked me—absolutely rightly—if it is smart to pursue a relationship in which one of the parties just has to open his mouth for the other party to come running.
“Give it to me!” Micha said breathlessly. “Anna, listen! I had this idea … it works like this: you bring your flute … for, you see, Abel told me the rest of the story—I mean, the part I missed because I was asleep—and we tried to wake up the dog after those two policemen had left … we tried all day long, but the dog just won’t wake up. He’s breathing, lying on the deck and breathing, and that’s all … and so, I thought, you know, if you play the flute, really nicely and everything, isn’t it possible that it will wake him up? In a fairy tale, that could happen, don’t you think? And we could cook dinner together … we have spaghetti, you know, and …”
“One thing at a time,” Anna said, smiling. “I’m on my way.”
“Are you calling it a day, study-wise?” Linda asked, peeling onions, wiping her hands on a blue apron. Anna nodded and hugged her. “I might be out late,” she said.
Linda took a corner of the apron and wiped away a tear that might have come from peeling onions. “Okay, honey, I hope not too late.”
“Wait,” Magnus said. She was half out the door already. “Here. If you stay for dinner … one usually brings something if one’s invited to dinner at someone else’s place.”
He held a bottle of red wine in his outstretched hand, a bottle of good wine, wine so old it was about to turn to vinegar. Valuable wine. Anna shook her head. Magnus stuffed the bottle into her backpack and nodded.
“Talk to him,” he said. “Maybe it’s easier with a good bottle of wine. Talk to him about my offer. At least try.”
And Anna hugged her father, too, because he believed that a bottle of good wine could solve most problems. Or, who knows? maybe he didn’t really believe that. She got onto her bike.
For some reason, she’d thought that everything would be the way it was the first time: that Abel and Micha would be sitting in the back of the café, in the stern of the glass ship; that there would be exactly one empty chair at their table; and that she would walk toward it, a vague, light happiness filling her body. But, of course, nothing is ever as it was the first time. The café was packed. There were even people seated at tables on the terrace, outs
ide in the cold wind, with the collars of their jackets turned up and their hands around cups of tea and coffee in search of a little warmth. And when Anna saw Abel and Micha waiting next to the stairs, amid people coming and going, she didn’t feel light and happy. Instead, she felt a pang of sorrow.
She’d heard shreds of sentences as she’d passed people on her bike—bloody, raw shreds of words that were full of pleasant shivers. She knew why these people were here: to be near the place it had happened. All these people had heard the news. One group came in from the beach across the way, from the other side of the mouth of the little river, and Anna heard: “police tape … dogs … traces … snow dug up … did you see where he was lying?” Others were on their way to the beach: “have a closer look … maybe draw a conclusion … creepy … just imagine that … maybe during the night … and then that shot from behind.”
Anna followed Abel and Micha out onto the pier in silence. The pier was quiet and free of people. “Why are we meeting here?” Anna asked. It was the first thing any of them had said. “Why here, with all these people?”
“Because we always come here, that’s why,” Micha said, but Abel shook his head. “That’s not the only reason,” he said in a low voice. “There’s something else. You … you might think it’s stupid, but … but I wanted to see who’d be here. This is the place where all rumors converge … I bet he’s here, too, because he’s also interested in the rumors.”
“Who?” Anna asked.
“The murderer,” Abel said, looking out over the sea. They had arrived at the very end of the pier, where a green light attached to a post was guiding the ships home, a light with neither a lighthouse nor a lighthouse keeper attached to it. “They will blame me for this, I’m sure,” Abel said. “And there’s only one way to convince them that it wasn’t me … a better way than phoning bus drivers and train conductors. If I find the real murderer, if I present that murderer to them on a silver tray … understand? Then they will have to believe me. Then they will have to let me go.”
The Storyteller Page 22