The Storyteller

Save something. He had the feeling that the whole situation was getting too much for the boy. Someone had to help.

He still wasn’t sure what had happened. There was Michelle, for example. He had the feeling that A

And then he heard steps behind him. The sound was almost hushed by the snow, but it was there. Probably it was just someone who’d come from the restaurant-ship, someone taking a walk between drinks. Or it was a person also waiting for a date. He turned. He saw a silhouette, its outline not very clear against the pale lights of the ship. It was too dark out here on the river. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone; he’d meet her in half an hour—that would be enough.

He turned back and walked farther down the frozen river, a little farther downstream, and then he would climb the stairs again and be back on shore. It would be time by then … the steps behind him were catching up with his. Maybe they were hers? Maybe she’d come early as well and seen him? He’d ventured so far from the lights now that it was absolutely dark around him. He’d thought the streetlights at the other side of the river would light the ice here, but the chunky bodies of the old vessels hibernating here, those antique monsters of sailing ships, shut out the lights.

He felt fear creeping up inside him. He didn’t really think it was her. For the last few days, he’d been the follower, the pursuer, the spy—unseen, he hoped, unheard, u

It didn’t make any sense to run away. He wanted to know now, to know who was following him. He wanted to talk to that person. He was still afraid, but he was sixty-three years old—it wasn’t as if he’d never been afraid before, and up to now he’d always overcome his fear. This wasn’t a deserted beach, after all; this was the city harbor, in the middle of town; the restaurant-ship was only a few hundred meters away, the street even less.

He turned again, wanting to wait for the figure to reach him, but it already had … it was standing directly in front of him. He wasn’t met by a face. It was the barrel of a pistol. Of course, he knew the face behind it, even in the dark … it wasn’t as dark as he’d thought. He heard himself breathe in sharply, in an onset of panic—and of surprise.

“You?”

“Of course,” the figure answered. “Didn’t you know? Haven’t you known for a long time?”

“I …” He took a step backward, and the thin ice creaked beneath his feet. Directly behind him, there must have been a frozen-over hole.

“You started snooping around,” the figure said. “Like a mediocre detective. It’s not good to want to know too much.”

“I …” He tried to think. What if he screamed? What if he slapped the weapon out of that hand and ran toward the shore? He wasn’t fast—he knew that—and he felt paralyzed, his legs frozen stiff, like the ice on the river. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t scream, either. His vocal cords were ice-cold.

“Why?” he heard himself whisper. “Why all this?”

“Did you ever love?”

He nodded. “I think I did …”

“Not like this maybe. If you really love, nothing and no one is allowed to get in the way. Do you understand that? I won’t allow anything to happen to her. This is not about me. It has never been about me. Turn around.”

“No,” he said. “And why?”

“Because I can’t look someone I shoot in the eye.”

He heard something like a suppressed sob, and at first he thought it was himself. But then he realized it was his opponent. And he understood one thing: he must not turn around. No matter what happened. There had to be a solution. A way to get out of this, unharmed. He didn’t feel hatred for the figure holding the pistol, only pity. Maybe this was somehow his fault … he should have understood sooner … he should have intervened …

“Turn around.”

He didn’t. He took a step back. He felt the thin ice give way beneath him. It happened quickly. One second he was standing on the river, and the next, there wasn’t anything beneath his feet. He didn’t feel the cold. The world just disappeared.

And somewhere in the city, someone was wandering the streets aimlessly, hands deep in the pockets of a jacket, white noise in his ears. Somewhere, far away from the river and much later. Somewhere and sometime. No saint.

And somewhere else—and we know where, don’t we?—someone was waiting on a restaurant-ship … in vain.

And somewhere, a silver-gray dog with golden eyes barked in his ke

And somewhere, on a leather sofa, two bodies were moving, entwined like a puzzle, like ice floes, and the light fell on dyed-black hair and on red hair, while in the ashtray, the butt of a joint slowly turned to ashes. How late was it? They hadn’t looked at the clock when they’d gotten back …

And somewhere, somewhere very close by, a vanished person lay in deep, exhausted sleep.

In the middle of the night, A

“Abel?” she whispered. He didn’t answer. He was fully dressed and he was cold as snow.

She pushed the memory aside with all her force, rolled over on her side and put her arms around him. She tried to warm him, but she couldn’t. It was as if he would never, ever become warm again. The shutters shut out the night and created a new, denser night in the room, a kind of absolute night without up and down, right or left. She couldn’t see a thing, all she could do was feel. And she felt the torn cloak of love, the one she had made up to explain things to herself. It was real in that night; she could feel its fabric brush against her skin. She lifted the cloak and put it around the two of them to shut out the world and all reason. She buried her fingers in his hair, laid her hands on his ice-cold cheeks.

And then she heard a strange and frightening sound, like the whimpering of a dog, very low … it lasted only seconds, but it was such a desperate sound, such an infinitely helpless sound, that she shuddered. “Abel,” she said again. She wanted to ask him something, but she didn’t know what. She just held him tight, and, finally, she fell asleep, still holding him in her arms.

When she awoke in the morning, she was in bed alone. She walked over to the guest room barefoot. Abel and Micha were still asleep, together in one of the beds. She must have dreamed that encounter in the night. He’d never been outside.

““THE SNOW IS MELTING,” MAGNUS SAID AT BREAKFAST and pointed outside, where thick round drops were falling from the roof. “My robins will come back.”

The sun was shining on the snow. It would take some time for the snow to go, but it was a begi

Nobody said much at breakfast. It was a good kind of Saturday-morning sleepiness, A