The Storyteller

Only after she’d thought this did she hear what Bertil was actually saying. There was some noise in the background, people talking, music—it sounded like a club. What was playing had been prerecorded, and it wasn’t a good recording. The Bertil on the recording seemed to be repeating a question he’d already asked. “I said, ‘If I asked you, would you come with me as well?’”

“Where to?” somebody else asked. And this other person was Abel. A

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Bertil said, “and it doesn’t have anything to do with where. To my place, to your place … I don’t know where. Or do you already have an appointment with somebody here?”

“Bertil,” Abel said and laughed a strange kind of laugh, “I don’t get what this is all about. You hate me.”

“No,” Bertil said. It all sounded amazingly honest, but was it? When had this conversation been recorded? Where? And what were they talking about? “Hatred and love lie close to each other,” Bertil said, and that was the one sentence that did sound like a school drama production.

“This is bullshit,” Abel said. “Go away.”

“I thought it was a matter of price,” Bertil said in a very low voice.

“What do they usually pay you? I’ve got money, you know. Enough. You’d be my chance to find out something about myself. If I … until now, I thought I was … you understand …”

“Yeah,” Abel said. “I understand. But I’m not interested.”

“But you do go home with guys, don’t you?”

For a moment there was nothing but the broadband noise of the recording and the background music.

“It is,” Abel said finally, “a matter of price.”

At this, Gitta got up and ran out. A

Gitta knew she should have reacted more quickly. The sheer surprise had paralyzed her. Paralyzed her like A

“Bertil,” Abel’s voice said through the speakers, blurred by the bad recording. Cell phone, Gitta thought. Bertil recorded this with a cell phone. Inconspicuously, secretly. He’s not stupid.

“Bertil, I don’t know what it is you expect. I don’t do this on a daily basis. I’m not a … how do you call it? Not a professional. To find someone like that, someone who can … help you find out about yourself … show you stuff … for that, you’d have to go to Berlin or, I du

“What are you?” Bertil asked. “Bi?”

“That’s none of your business,” Abel said. “But no. I’m one hundred percent straight.”

“I don’t get it … you only go with guys.”

“It’s a market. And it’s a matter of price. It’s not so hard to clench one’s teeth if it means money. Even though you probably wouldn’t understand that.” Abel’s voice was bitter like bile.

“So, okay, thanks,” Bertil said. “I’m as one hundred percent straight as you. What I just said was … not totally honest, I’m afraid. It was more of a test. I just wanted to know. I mean, I did know—I’ve been watching you, but I wanted to hear it from you.”

“So you’re happy now?” Abel asked. “You know, I almost felt sorry for you. Do we understand each other? You’re not go

“Of course not,” Bertil answered. “I’m not suicidal.”

But he obviously was, Gitta thought. Even though he’d kept his promise. Technically, he hadn’t spoken to anyone about this conversation. He’d just played the recording …

When Gitta flung open the door, he was standing next to the secretary’s desk, alone, the cell phone in one hand, leaning forward and speaking one last sentence into the microphone, “I just thought,” he said, “that somebody should tell A

Then Gitta’s fist landed in his face.

But it was too late. She knew it was much too late.

A

Abel stood up and left. Without a word. He walked through the aisle between the desks, his eyes lowered to the floor. He closed the door behind him very quietly, and somewhere a second door closed behind him, the school door, possibly forever. He walked across the schoolyard. They saw him walk away, leave a world he’d never really been part of. They saw him pull his hat down low and get onto his bike. He forgot the Walkman’s earplugs. Maybe, A

She stuffed her books into her backpack and stood up. She felt that she was now the one the others were staring at. Some of them were whispering. Frauke threw her a glance so full of pity she could have thrown up. She covered her face with her hands, just for a moment, and took a deep breath. Then she walked down the aisle like Abel had, but she didn’t look down at the floor. She made herself look at the others, even at the teacher, at every single person in the room. Some of them averted their eyes. She walked upright, her head held high.

She walked through the corridors of the school with her head still held high, she left the building with her head held high, she pushed her bike through the slush in the schoolyard with her head held high. She rode out to Wieck, rode over the old bridge, rode along the harbor till she reached the mouth of the river. Near the café, she got off her bike and walked out to the pier with her head held high.

She saw that the ice was melting away. She saw that the bald coots were swimming in open water again, in the shipping cha

She understood now. She understood so much.

She remembered how Abel had opened the door of the apartment, wearing a T-shirt, his hair tousled, and how he hadn’t let her in. She remembered the words he’d said. Can I come with you? No, A