The Storyteller

The situation at school grew even more impossible. A

Once, she looked at him. He’d taken off his sweater. He was sitting there in his T-shirt, and she saw the two circular scars on his upper arm. But now there weren’t just two. There were three. The third one was bigger, or actually longer—a broad line. She looked away, looked again. The line was not a line. It was a row of single, circular wounds so close to each other that they melted into one. She tried to count them, but Abel turned his head, and she lowered her eyes.

The pain, she thought. The pain is the same as mine, just in a different place.

After the unbearable double lesson, she waited until everybody had left. Abel was the first to go. Knaake still sat at his desk. Then he looked at A

“I have to talk to someone,” A

“Let’s just assume something happened,” A

“Let’s not assume that,” he said softly. Did he know what she was talking about? No, he couldn’t.

“Okay, let’s assume it was not my fault … I mean, I did trust him,” A

She looked up. He was shaking his head. “No, A

Yeah, right, A

“Michelle disappeared,” A

Knaake was staring into his cup, as if he could find Michelle Ta

“There is this fairy tale,” A

“But you haven’t gone to the police.”

“No. I …” She didn’t say, I love him. It would have sounded so trite.

Knaake got up and went over to the window, cup in hand. “There are many possibilities,” he said. “An infinite number of possibilities. I’m no detective. But maybe there are more possibilities than you’re seeing.”

She lifted her head. “Yes?”

“Possibility number one is the simplest,” Knaake said. “Abel Ta

“And the second possibility?”

“Possibility number two: Somebody else shot them. And here we have two possibilities again. Somebody did it to help Abel. Or … somebody did it to make people think that Abel did it. But that all sounds a bit too much like an old black-and-white Mafia movie.”

“But are there other possibilities?”

“Sure. Dozens. For example, why do we think that it was the same murderer? Because of the shot in the neck? A nasty way to kill someone, by the way. The Nazis were known for this practice. Executions.”

A

“It’s possible, isn’t it? The second murderer copied the handwriting of the first.”

“You are a detective.” A

“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 …”

A

“Somebody acting absolutely irrationally,” A

“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,” A

“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. “A

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,” A