The Storyteller

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!” A

“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,” A

“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 A

“What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Wipe your tears away, I thought,” Magnus said.

“Strange.” A

“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 A

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, “A

“Yes?” A

“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,” A

“Please, don’t start crying again,” Linda said gently, gently rubbing A

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 a

“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 A

“A

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 A

“A

“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.

“A

“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, A

“You’ve got an alibi,” A

“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 co

“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, A

“Actually I called because …” Abel said and stopped. A

“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 ru