The Storyteller

“When she heard this, the little queen kneeled down and put her arms around the dog.

“‘Why do you say YOU?’ she asked. ‘What about you? Are you leaving us?’

“‘Yes,’ the silver-gray dog replied. ‘I’ll try to detain them for a while.’

“He struggled free of the little queen’s embrace, and, with a great leap, he jumped—no, he flew—through the air toward the black ship.”

“WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?” MICHA ASKED BREATHLESSLY.

“I don’t know what happened next,” Abel said. “Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. We’ve got to wait. And now, we’re there.”

They had left the snow-covered beeches behind and were standing at the end of Hain Street again, in front of the little Russian store at the corner. Abel unlocked his bike. “The lock has nearly frozen,” he said. “It’s really damn cold.”

“Let’s go home and have hot apple juice with ci

“Maybe A

“Should A

Abel shook his head slowly. “Come with us.” And then a grin crept onto his face. “It’s probably high time you learn some important things, like how to flip a pancake in the air.”

The gray staircase was almost familiar now, the beer bottles piled in front of a door, the sharp teeth of the steps, the uneven banister. They hadn’t gotten any farther than the first floor when the door downstairs opened.

“Abel!” Mrs. Ketow called. “Wait!”

“Go ahead,” Abel said to Micha as he bent over the banister. Below, Mrs. Ketow’s plump figure stood, tracksuited as always, holding onto the banister with one hand, trying to bend her head so she could look up at Abel.

“I just wanted to say … about Michelle … I know she ain’t comin’ back, right? I know she ain’t comin’ back.”

Abel narrowed his eyes and looked at her. “How do you know?” he asked and started to walk back down the stairs very slowly. A

“I could tell the authorities. But I don’t,” Mrs. Ketow said in a lower voice. “I know a lot, I do.”

Abel stood in front of her now. She was a lot smaller than he was. Her tracksuit was stained; her stringy hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, which exposed her broad and somehow featureless face. One strand of hair, above her temple, was dyed bright red. A

“I know why the social worker keeps coming to your door,” Mrs. Ketow went on. “Want to take the little one from you, don’t they? You can’t keep her, Abel, you know that. I just wanted to say, no worries. I have three foster children already, but that’s okay, I could take a fourth one; there’s room enough here. The little one, she could stay here, in this house. It’d be better for you—you could always see her; I’d let you—she’d just live with me. She’s older than the others, so it’d work out pretty well. I’d tell those social workers … I don’t have problems with them people …”

Abel took another step forward, and Mrs. Ketow stepped back.

“Give your friends from the social services office my best,” he said coldly. “And tell them Michelle will be back.” He looked dangerous again, a huge gray wolf in the stairwell, baring its teeth, and even though they were invisible teeth, Mrs. Ketow saw them.

“Michelle … I mean, she was okay,” she said, stepping back farther. “We got along well, smoked a cigarette together from time to time …”

“I’m not Michelle,” Abel said. “Why don’t you take care of the foster children you already have—that’s what social services is paying you to do.” With these words, he turned and went up the stairs, this time without stopping. On the fourth floor, he unlocked the door to the apartment, slipped off his shoes, and covered his face with his hands for a moment, standing there in the hallway, just breathing. A

“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. A

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 …” A

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

And A

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

A

“Who?” A

“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 A

The person standing in the door was not Michelle, of course. It was a man whom A

“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 A

“I don’t know who you are,” he said to A

Now, sinking into it, A

Marinke sat in one of the armchairs, opposite A

“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 Ta

Micha shook her head. “Why would I do that?” she asked, and A