The Storyteller

“Sometimes I can’t tell the difference anymore,” A

They sat on one of the benches along the shore and drank Magnus’s wine from the bottle. It was too cold not to be close to each other, so the unwritten rules were softened. They sat, huddled together like winter birds on a branch. The wine warmed them a little, from inside.

“When these final exams are over, I’m going to write,” Abel whispered. “About everything. Not just a fairy tale for Micha. About the beauty and the desolation. About the cold of these nights. There are words for everything … you just have to find them. I want to sit at a writing desk that is so big I could sleep on it, and I want to see the sea from there. I’ll have it one day … it’s going to be so big that Micha can sit on it and watch me write. Or she could draw a picture to go with the words.”

“And me?” A

“You’ve got your own place in the world,” Abel answered. “You’ll go away and forget us. Aren’t you pla

“Crap,” A

She put the bottle down and kissed him; she pushed the unwritten rules far, far away; she undid the buttons of her coat, the zip on his sweater she was wearing; she wanted to take his hand in hers, again, as she’d done on her parents’ sofa.

He freed himself and stood up. “Let’s go back to the bikes. It’s getting late.”

But they walked arm in arm. They walked slowly, taking a detour around the huge boathouse where the university sailing-club boats were dry-docked in winter. A

They stood in the darkness, listening intently. There was nothing.

“Somebody forgot to lock it up,” Abel said. A

“There are just small boats in there,” Abel said. “Why do you want to go in? We …”

“Come on,” A

“And what if I am?” She led him to the open door, pulling him into the boathouse.

“We can’t …” he began, but she put a finger on his lips.

“Nobody’s watching us. I want to see the boats. Maybe I’ll learn how to sail one day … do you know how?”

“No.”

“There must be a light switch somewhere …”

“Oh, great … switch on the light, and everybody will know for sure that we’re here. I don’t need any more trouble than I’ve already got. Please, forget about the switch. If you insist on looking at these boats … I’ve got a flashlight …”

The white light appeared in the darkness. Abel had been wrong. There weren’t just small boats; there were yachts as well, one obviously being worked on. There was a short ladder beside it, a mess of cables on the floor, and next to them, a portable sander. Maybe it was this boat’s owner who’d forgotten to lock up. They wandered among the sleeping boats for a while, A

“I’d like to sail on this one once,” she said, “or on that one over there … but none of them are like the little queen’s ship … am I right?”

Abel shook his head. Then he put a finger to his mouth and switched off the flashlight. A

“Abel, we’re not alone in here,” she whispered, “are we?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered back. The ru

A second later, she heard him laugh, relieved. “You can open your eyes,” he said. “It’s not our murderer. It’s a rat.” A

But A

She kissed him again and saw him put the flashlight on the boat next to them. Her hand crept under his sweater, under his T-shirt, and lay on his warm, bare skin—i

Now, she thought, a little dizzy, maybe from the wine. Yes. Now. I’ve got to do it now before courage leaves me. Right now, I’m not A

They were still locked in a kiss, and A

“A

“Sure it will.” Her lips were so close to his that she brushed them while speaking. “Don’t worry …”

She let go, but just to get rid of her sweater, the T-shirt … it was a single smooth movement, easier than she’d thought it would be. She unfastened her bra, and then stood there, naked down to her waist. She wasn’t cold. She’d never been warmer. Heavens, she really was drunk. Somewhere in her head a tiny voice said, what are you doing here? This is so not A

She saw that the light of the flashlight painted strange patterns on her breasts—she was a work of art, art of the night. Look, she wanted to say, look, this is all part of the fairy tale. But he averted his eyes.

“Why are you worried?” she whispered. “Don’t you know more about this than I do?”

“No,” he whispered, and there was despair in his voice. But she ignored it. He was still looking away.