The Storyteller

  “A bad one. I hold this literature intensive class, but I read my share of crime thrillers too, you know. So let’s assume … assume Abel did kill Rainer Lierski. If things are as you said they are, he had a reason.”

  “And somebody else killed Marinke? To make it look like Abel did?”

  “Maybe. Or else … maybe the truth lies elsewhere. Maybe there’s someone out there acting absolutely irrationally. Someone who actually thinks she can solve a problem by killing a social worker. Who wants to protect Abel and Micha but doesn’t understand anything. A person who’s messed up her life completely and thinks she can only help from the shadows, a person who also hates Lierski for something he did … a person who drowned her intellect and her charm in alcohol a long time ago …”

  Anna pressed her nose against the cold windowpane. Down there, in the yard, a dark figure was standing near the bike rack, hands dug deep in his pockets as always.

  “Somebody acting absolutely irrationally,” Anna repeated in a whisper. She looked at Knaake. “Who?”

  “Michelle,” he said.

  The thought was new and strange, and Knaake shook his head right after he’d spoken the name. “Of course, these are only wild speculations.” He went back to his desk and screwed the lid back onto his thermos. “Like I said before, I don’t know Abel’s mother. But if you want … I could try to find out some things. It would be like a game … a change from gathering dust between high literature and stupid detective stories.” He shook his head again, as if to shake the dust out of his nearly gray beard.

  “A dangerous game,” Anna said.

  “I’d prefer to play it myself, however … instead of your playing it.” And then Knaake put a hand on her arm, all of a sudden. “Anna, you’re not the only one I’m worried about. There’s someone in the schoolyard, someone suffering in a horrible way. I’m sorry … how stupid … I don’t know what happened between the two of you. I don’t know if it can be forgiven. The hardest thing always is to forgive yourself.”

  Knaake tucked his leather briefcase under his arm and opened the door. “Take care,” he said. “I’m not sure we’ll be having school tomorrow. They said there’ll be a big storm tonight. Get home safely.”

  “I can’t go home yet,” Anna murmured. “I may ride out to the bay before the storm comes. I need to think.”

  “Don’t stay out too long,” Knaake said as she left.

  A big storm? Actually, a thaw had set in. Outside, drops were quietly falling from the trees and the sun shone warm and bright.

  The hardest thing always is to forgive yourself …

  He doesn’t mean me. He means Abel. But Abel already told me that that’s not possible, he said so in that letter, and maybe in every letter he wrote.

  Abel wasn’t standing by the bike racks anymore. It was as if he, too, had melted away. Anna got onto her bike, still feeling the pain between her legs, a hurt that might never leave her, but she didn’t ride home. The wind was refreshing and warm; it blew her out of town, down the bike path along Wolgaster Street, past the Seaside District, past the turn leading to Wieck and the harbor, past the woods of the Elisenhain, past the new housing development—around the bay to Ludwigsburg. In summer, the beach near the village was crowded, but not as crowded as Eldena. There was no entrance fee and no fence. The beach out here was much narrower, wilder, and longer—a beach full of mysterious corners and secret hiding places in the tall beach grass. Anna left her bike near the long building housing the old café. There was snow on its thatched roof now.

  She walked between the wind-bent pines down to the beach. Out on the ice, white swans and black bald coots were huddled in weird lumps. You could walk across the bay to Wieck—the café lay exactly opposite. Today, there was no one on the ice.

  She wandered along the beach, the wind at her back. She stepped over ice floes the sea had stacked, one on top of another, into strange works of art. She realized she’d stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat and pulled her hat down low on her face. As if she was him, she thought. All she lacked now were the earplugs of the old Walkman, full of white noise. But no, she didn’t need those—the wind produced its own white noise, and she was at the very center of it.

  The coastline turned to the right, away from the bay, leading out toward the open sea, and she followed it until the sand became too narrow. When she could walk no farther, she forced herself to climb up the short slope through the trees. There was a path up there, a path that led back through the pine forest. But she didn’t want to go back, not yet. She found a bench between the trees, a cold, snow-covered bench. She sat and looked out over the ice.

  She had come to think, but her head felt empty.

  When she closed her eyes, summer crept out of the trees around her. She could feel it enveloping her, feel the sunlight on her skin. The snow long gone, a thin line of beach lay beneath her, golden yellow. The pines waved fresh green needles, the beach grass swayed in the summer wind. And there someone was building a sandcastle, a castle with towers decorated with shells and sea grass, with flags made of colored paper, with pinecones for inhabitants—the builder was a small girl with blond braids, dark and wet from swimming, a girl in a pink bikini bottom and a large knitted dark-blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up on top. Anna heard her laugh—there must be other people down there she couldn’t see from here—she heard a woman’s voice … Michelle, she thought, Michelle is here; she’s come back; everything’s all right; this is next summer; and everything has turned out all right in a secret way. There must have been some other explanation for everything. Neither Abel nor Michelle had had anything to do with the murders; otherwise they wouldn’t be here now, would they? And Abel had always loved Micha just the way you’re supposed to love a little sister, or the way a father loves his daughter, no less. And me, I’m down there at the beach, too, she thought, together with them. Didn’t I just hear my own voice? She opened her eyes and the vision was gone.

  The beach lay silent under the snow.

  But all this, she thought, this summer scene … if it happened, it would mean I’ve forgiven him. That I’ve forgiven what happened in the boathouse. The hand. The pain. The sound of running feet, fleeing.

  No, thought reasonable Anna. It is not possible. Not this. That cloak of love you were wearing—he’s torn it to shreds, undoing the seams of trust that held it together. How can you ever wear those shreds?

  I could mend it, said unreasonable Anna, with impossibilities; with the impossibility of forgiveness itself, use that as a thread. You would always see how torn the cloak is, of course. It would never look new again. A love in pieces. And I would never be warm in a cloak like that, of course.

  Abel knew that, Rose girl, the sea is cold.

  She realized that the temperature had dropped suddenly. The thaw had stopped; the wind was icy, and it was bringing new snowflakes, only a few at first, but there was a dense white wall closing in, slowly consuming the sky. For a moment, she still felt the sun of the daydream on her skin, and then she noticed she didn’t feel anything at all. It had been an illusion. The cold had rendered the skin on her cheeks numb. There was no feeling in them anymore, and her fingers in the gloves seemed to belong to someone else. How long had she been sitting here? How long had she been dreaming of summer? She’d thought it was only seconds, but now she wasn’t sure. Evening was creeping in, the sky was darkening. Stiff with cold, she had trouble standing up. She had to go back, back to her bike, back home, back to where it was warm.

  The moment she stepped onto the path leading back through the pines, the snowstorm reached Ludwigsburg. The wind threw handfuls of snow into her face; she ducked down, crouching low; she heard the pines creak and moan; and somewhere, a big branch broke with a loud crack. It sounded like a shot. She hunkered down deeper, trudging as best she could, but she wasn’t really getting anywhere. The storm was filling the path with snow, making it disappear. Snow found its way into Anna’s boots, her clothes; she cursed under her breath,
bracing herself against the wind, her head lowered. By now, she could no longer feel her feet. The way back had become endless.

  And then she saw that someone was following her. Someone was there, a dark figure in the swirling snow between the dark tree trunks. She could only see it out of the corner of her eye. She turned around. There was no one. She must have imagined it. It must have been something else—a bent tree, a thicket, a shadow. She fought her way on, step by step, and the shadow returned to the edge of her field of vision, a flexible shadow, hunched like herself. Again she turned, and again there was no one.

  She knew, though, that the figure would reappear once she turned her back to it.

  And suddenly, fear gripped her with icy claws. Absolute, sheer terror.

  Fear of the storm that was too strong for her, fear of the shadow behind her, fear of the cold and the dark that would inevitably come, fear of being alone. Was the figure behind her just something bred and born of this fear? A creature sprung from her own imagination? What if it wasn’t? She stood, holding onto the trunk of a pine, her breath unsteady; she was freezing, shivering. She could almost feel the metal at her neck, the metal of a weapon pressed against her skin. It was only her wet scarf, of course. I’m afraid, she’d told Knaake, afraid that another dead body might be found in the snow.

  But never, not even for the blink of an eye, had she thought this body might be hers. She forced herself to walk on, but she still didn’t seem to be moving forward; she looked back, far too often, in vain; the figure following her melted into the forest every time she turned her head. She thought of Linda and her insane fear that something might happen to her only daughter.

  How sensible Linda’s worries seemed now!

  All the worst things, the things at the mention of which you would just shake your head and laugh, all those things were coming true. Stop worrying, I’ll be home on time, I’m not gonna get raped. Stop worrying, I’m not gonna get myself killed. Stop worrying. Stop worrying.

  She felt the person following her coming closer; she felt it clearly. And something in her longed to drop in the snow and wait. Her breath became more ragged; it felt as if she were breathing snowflakes, in and out, along with the sharp and icy wind.

  “Abel,” she whispered. “If that’s you, hurry. Come here. End all this. I’ve had enough.”

  But suddenly, she knew it wasn’t Abel. It was someone else. She didn’t know how she could tell—she just could. That wasn’t much use, she thought.

  And she understood that she wasn’t only fighting the snowstorm, she was also fighting herself and her capacity to forgive. If the absolutely impossible was possible … the snowflakes the wind hurled at her were wet with the blood of the night in the boathouse, the icy storm that took her breath away felt like a hand covering her mouth. Could she leave this behind? Find something beyond?

  She moved through a snowstorm made from the tiny white pieces of torn envelopes. And she was alone in this storm. She realized she longed for Abel’s presence, the Abel he had been before the night in the boathouse, the Abel she had kissed on a sunny day in town. If that Abel had been here, she would not be so afraid, even of death.

  “I will die,” she whispered, almost soundlessly, as she stumbled on. “I will die, and I know what will happen. They will make him responsible for my death. They’ll think it was him, that he killed me out here … the real killer will make them believe that. It all makes sense. But who …” Who knew that she’d come out to Ludwigsburg? Only Knaake. She began to feel colder. What if she’d confided in the wrong person? The murderer’s island, she thought, is empty; the murderer is among us … what about the lighthouse keeper’s glasses, the glasses he’d supposedly forgotten on the ship? The little queen had returned to search for them, and she’d run directly into the arms of the red hunter … and why had the lighthouse keeper made them take down the sails in the storm? It had sounded sensible, but still, the little queen’s green ship lost speed, allowing the black ship to close in … but wasn’t that just a fairy tale?

  She could see the figure clearly now; she whirled around—nothing. It was a broken tree. And then, she made out the long silhouette of the café. Soon, she was struggling to unlock her bicycle. The lock was covered in ice … finally, thankfully, it gave way. But the storm was too strong for her to ride. So she just pushed the bike along the road, against the storm.

  There were three cars in the parking lot next to the café, all three of them covered with snow. She didn’t remember if there’d been any cars when she’d arrived. Maybe. Maybe their owners were out walking like she was, or maybe they’d left their cars here weeks ago. She pushed her bike on against the storm, along an endless, narrow lane; at some point, the path would lead onto Wolgaster Street, but that wouldn’t be for another mile. A mile more of white, icy nothingness—a mile along which no one could help her. A grave a mile long.

  She lowered her head again and clutched the bike. Could she use it to defend herself somehow? To push it toward the person following her—to shove it in his face and run? It’s no use, she told herself. Where would you run to? But she didn’t let go of the bike.

  It was her last comfort.

  She didn’t turn around again. She knew her pursuer was still there. Turning around wouldn’t help; he could choose any moment to catch her. Maybe he liked chasing her, making her afraid; maybe he liked it when she turned; maybe he was secretly laughing. She wouldn’t do him any more favors.

  She tried to recall her dream of the warm summer day. If this snowstorm was to be the last thing she saw, she wanted to picture something pleasant in the meantime. But the cold wind blew the nice pictures and thoughts right out of her head; all it let stay was the fear.

  It was beginning to get dark now; she was barely moving forward anymore because the snowdrifts on the lane were too high—then, behind her, she heard the sound of a car engine. She stopped. It was him. It had to be him. Him or her. Her pursuer. When the car stopped beside her, she realized that tears where streaming down her face. It was a miracle she actually felt those tears; she’d thought she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

  She let the bike drop into the snow. She let herself drop into the snow. Somebody jumped out of the car, came toward her, grabbed her, and pulled her up.

  “My God, are you mad?” said Bertil. “What are you doing here?”

  Ten minutes later, she was sitting in the passenger seat of an old Volvo, still crying. She couldn’t stop. Bertil had put her bike in the backseat next to his dog. The car had gotten stuck in a snowdrift when he’d stopped, and he had to drive backward and forward several times before it pulled free. Warm air from the heater was starting to fill the car.

  “It’s going to get warmer in a minute,” Bertil said. “I’ve been looking for you. I just had to find a place where I could turn the car …”

  “A place … to turn the car?”

  “Yes. I passed you once already, a few minutes ago. But I could only turn in front of the café. Don’t say you didn’t see the car. I flashed the lights at you so you’d see me and know I was coming back for you …”

  “I was walking with my head down,” Anna said. “I didn’t see you. You’ve … you’ve been looking for me? How come you knew …?”

  When she said this, he stopped the car, reached over, and pulled her into his arms; and she didn’t fight it. He smelled different from Abel. He smelled of snow and peppermints and dog.

  He was warm and alive. He was there. He’d been looking for her.

  “Gitta saw you ride out here,” he explained. “She told me. She said that if you were going in this direction, you were probably heading out to Ludwigsburg … she knows you … I waited for a while. In case you came back. But then I thought it might be a good idea to go and have a look just in case.”

  “Yeah,” she replied between the sobs she still wasn’t able to control. “Yeah, that was a good idea. Bertil, I … I thought someone …” She stopped.

  “You’re ice-cold,” he said
and turned the heat up. “Why did you come out here? Didn’t you hear the storm warning? Or have you just gone crazy? I don’t even know if we can make it back in the car. The roads are a mess.”

  “Yeah,” was all she said. “Yeah.” She held onto him, onto the warmth of a living being. She didn’t want to go anywhere; she just wanted to sit here in the car and hold onto someone. No matter who it was. At some point, he let go of her and started driving again. In the back, the silver greyhound was panting. Anna turned around. He had golden eyes. How strange.

  The windshield wipers were racing. Bertil drove along in second gear, avoiding the snowdrifts. In some places, he had to pick up speed to get over one, and then he’d stretch out his arm in front of Anna as if to keep her from flying through the windshield. He was swearing through clenched teeth. Then, between the curses, he asked, “What happened, anyway? With Tannatek and you?”

  She swallowed the last sobs. “Nothing.”

  “Are you kidding me? Of course something happened. And that’s the reason you rode out here in spite of the storm warning, isn’t it? Did he harm you?”

  She looked away. More than I could find the words for, she thought. But I am not going to tell you. The pain is mine alone.

  “If he did,” said Bertil as he maneuvered the Volvo around another snowdrift, “if he harmed you, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

  Anna held onto the door handle and noticed that she hadn’t fastened her seat belt. “Better watch the road,” she said, “or you’ll kill us instead.” But inwardly, she thought that she’d heard almost exactly the same sentence before. Abel had said that about Micha’s father. If he touches Micha, I’ll kill him.

  The wheels slipped and spun for a moment, but Bertil managed to right the car again. “Snow chains,” he said, “what you need now are snow chains. Damn. I can’t see a thing.” The wind blew snowflakes against the windshield, the flakes like mad dancers seeking the spotlight; it was hypnotizing, the to and fro of the wipers and the steady appearance of new flakes, coming nearer, growing bigger, and disappearing.