The Storyteller

by Antonia Michaelis

  Anna smiled. “If you want me to.” And she thought of Linda’s pancakes at home, in the blue air, beneath the old wooden beams: pancakes served with salmon and crème fraîche and a flowering branch from the garden on the table and Mahler’s symphonies on the old record player, which stood on the antique chest with its colored knobs. She balled up the blue universe and its flowering branches and Mahler symphonies and swallowed it with the last bite of burned Anna pancake. And suddenly, there was a lump in her throat so big she barely could breathe.

  “You look so sad,” Micha said. “Is something wrong?”

  “N-n-no. I just thought of something sad, that’s all.”

  “Oh,” Micha said. “I sometimes think of something sad, too. I know something to bistract you.”

  “Do you mean … distract me?”

  “I think that’s what I mean.” Micha leaned forward and whispered secretively, “Do you want to know what happens in the fairy tale with the little cliff queen?”

  “I do,” Anna answered.

  Micha nodded. “Me, too. He didn’t tell me anything last night. He told me he’s got to think it up first. But I know he wrote something down. I think I know where he keeps the paper. We could take a peek, what do you think?”

  “Maybe,” Anna whispered.

  So Micha got up and ran to the back of the apartment. Anna washed the plates while Micha searched for the secret pages. She also did the dishes stacked next to the sink. The water wasn’t draining properly—the sink was blocked. Anna recognized the pattern on the light, cheap cutlery, another relic, like the wallpaper, from DDR times. She wondered how old Michelle had been then. Had been? Had she really thought that?

  “Got them!” Micha exclaimed in triumph from the hallway, where she stood like Joan of Arc, holding a few white sheets triumphantly above her head—her own tricolor. Anna smiled. “Come to my room with me,” Joan of Arc commanded. Anna felt honored. Micha led her into a small room almost completely filled by a loft bed. Under the bed was a makeshift desk: a piece of chipboard over two sawhorses. There was no window.

  “Abel built the bed,” Micha explained. “Come on. There’s room for the two of us; there’s room for Abel and me, too. Be careful … the third step is a little loose …” She handed Anna two sheets of paper, both of which were covered with tiny handwriting. “You read. Mrs. Margaret and me, we’ll listen. She’s in the story, too, remember? That’s why she wants to know what happens …”

  “Of course,” Anna said. “I remember.”

  “The green ship with the yellow rudder sailed northwest for three days. The wind pushed it steadily forward; the little cliff queen stood at the bow, holding Mrs. Margaret, whose blue dress with the white flowers on it fluttered in the wind. Sometimes the sea was clear for hours, like blue glass, and then they could see far into the deep, where there were violet jellyfish with silver patterns and long ruby-red tentacles more beautiful than all the summer flowers in the world.

  “‘Yes, they are beautiful,’ the sea lion said, ‘but they are also dangerous. They can burn you with their beauty.’

  “The sea lion swam beside the ship; from time to time he disappeared, but when the little cliff queen started thinking that the sea was too big and that she was too small and lost, he would reappear all of a sudden. At night, the little queen and Mrs. Margaret slept in the cabin of their ship. There was a broad bed there, covered in polar bear fur. Where the polar bears used to live, the sea lion explained, the ice was melting. So they had come ashore and become politicians, but before that they were forced to get rid of their coats so as not to be recognized. The sea lion collected their fur from the waves …

  “One night, the little queen went up on deck to see the stars. She spotted the Big Dipper, but she also saw the outline of an apple tree and a mare and a canopy bed, all made of stars. ‘So this is where you have gotten to!’ she exclaimed in surprise. ‘How beautiful you are! The nights out here are so beautiful …’

  “‘Yes, they are beautiful,’ the sea lion whispered from the black night sea. ‘But they are also cold. They can freeze you with their beauty if you look at them for too long.’

  “And the little queen crawled back under the polar bear coats as quickly as she could. In the morning, the early sun was dancing on the water in red and orange sparkles, and the little cliff queen looked at the waves. ‘Maybe,’ she said to her doll, ‘it would be nice to swim next to the ship for a while like the sea lion does. The waves are so beautiful …’

  “‘Yes, they are beautiful,’ the sea lion said, popping his head out of one of the froth-covered swells. ‘But they are also greedy. They can devour you if you’re not careful.’

  “‘Oh!’ the little queen said. ‘Isn’t there anything that is just beautiful and not also dangerous?’

  “‘Maybe we’ll find something on our journey,’ the sea lion replied. ‘But we can’t waste too much time searching. Look behind you, little queen. There is something very dangerous and not at all beautiful.’

  “The little queen turned, and she saw that the black ship had come closer.

  “‘Last night I swam to it,’ the sea lion told her. ‘When I reached the ship’s bow, a hunter with a robe as red as blood was standing at the wheel. He had a blond mustache and eyes the same color as yours, little queen. And on the right sleeve of his gown, a diamond was stitched—the aim of his search: your heart.’

  “‘But what does he want my heart for?’ the little queen asked.

  “‘He just wants to own it,’ replied the sea lion. ‘That is enough. He wants to look on its beauty and know that his hands alone can touch it.’

  “‘How can you be sure of that?’ the little queen wanted to know. ‘You’re making that up, aren’t you?’

  “‘I wish I was,’ the sea lion sighed. ‘But the red hunter is not unknown in these waters. He has stolen many jewels. He keeps them on his own island, far from here, for a while. One day, however, they lose their sparkle, and he grows tired of owning and touching them. So he throws them back into the sea. Your heart, little queen, is the biggest jewel in all the world. And he’s been searching for it for a long time.’

  “‘What is the name of the hunter with the red robe?’ the little cliff queen asked with a shiver. ‘What shall I call him when I dream of him?’

  “‘When you meet him,’ the sea lion said, ‘he will ask you to call him father.’

  “On the morning of their first day at sea, they saw a light gliding over the water, flashing back and forth again and again. ‘That’s a lighthouse,’ the sea lion remarked.

  “‘Oh, let’s go there!’ the little queen cried. ‘Maybe the lighthouse keeper has a cup of hot chocolate for us!’

  “The sea lion turned his head toward the black ship. It had fallen back a bit. Two of its black sails seemed to be loose and not working properly, as if someone had bitten through the ropes at night. Someone who had swum near without making a sound, someone who had climbed the deck using the claws on his flippers …

  “‘Very well,’ the sea lion said. ‘Our advantage should allow for a cup of hot chocolate.’

  “Shortly after, they moored the ship at the lighthouse keeper’s island, and the little cliff queen went ashore with Mrs. Margaret. She took a few steps and had to laugh because she was walking with a rolling gait like a real sailor.

  “‘Sea lion!’ she called out, for she wanted to show him, but when she turned back, there was a big silver-gray dog with golden eyes sitting behind her. ‘It is me,’ the silver dog said. ‘Ashore, I am something else.’

  “The little queen found this strange, and she began to wonder which was the animal’s real form and if it had another.

  “She knocked on the red door of the lighthouse, and the keeper opened it.

  “‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I have been watching your ship through my binoculars. And I lighted your way so that you wouldn’t run onto one of the rocks that lie hidden beneath the water …’ He stroked his graying beard contentedly and a
djusted his round glasses. ‘Would you like to come up for a cup of hot chocolate?’

  “They followed the lighthouse keeper to the top of his lighthouse, from where you could see far, far out over the sea. The water looked so smooth from here, you couldn’t pick out the waves; it was as if there were none.

  “The lighthouse keeper tied an apron over his dark blue woolen sweater and stirred the hot chocolate on his little stove.

  “The silver-gray dog lay under the table.

  “‘There is another ship out there,’ the little queen said, as she was blowing into her cup. ‘A black one, on the horizon. Do you show that ship the way, too?’

  “‘Of course,’ the lighthouse keeper replied. ‘I show all ships the way.’

  “‘But how can you know which of them are bad ships and which of them are good?’ the little queen asked. ‘That black one, you see, it’s a bad ship. I know that, but maybe you do not, which is why you show it the way.’

  “‘It’s true,’ the lighthouse keeper answered in great earnestness, ‘I don’t know the bad ships from the good ships.’ In his nearly gray beard, there were drops of milk.

  “‘The black ship belongs to the hunters,’ the little queen continued. ‘They want to steal my heart, and if they are successful, I will die. We have to reach the mainland before they catch us. We have just enough of a lead for one cup of hot chocolate.’

  “‘Oh,’ the lighthouse keeper said. ‘But that’s horrible! I might have shown many bad ships the way.’ He took off his glasses and scratched his head. ‘What am I here for then?’

  “He turned to face the little queen, putting the glasses on again. ‘If I show the way to bad and good people alike, it amounts to the same as if I show the way to no one,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that so? Maybe … maybe I should just stop showing the way. Maybe I should go to the mainland with you.’

  “The silver-gray dog came out from under the table and sniffed the lighthouse keeper’s shoes; then he watched him intently with his golden eyes. And in the end, he wagged his tail.

  “‘See,’ the little queen said happily. ‘He’s saying you’re allowed to come with us.’

  “‘That’s great,’ the lighthouse keeper said. ‘I’ll just pack my toothbrush. I might be of some help on that ship of yours. What’s her name, by the way?’

  “‘I don’t know,’ the little queen replied honestly. ‘Maybe one day we’ll find out.’

  So the lighthouse keeper turned out the light, making the lighthouse just a house. There wouldn’t be any light to show the black ship the way. But the day was still bright; the night was yet to come.

  “The lighthouse keeper unfastened the line that held the green ship, and they sailed away with a bold breeze in their three white sails. Next to the ship, the round head of the sea lion popped up among the waves. The lighthouse keeper nodded his head in recognition.

  “Meanwhile, behind them, the black ship came closer and closer still. The little queen felt the red hunter’s greed, and her diamond heart beat faster than ever before.”

  Anna and Micha were silent for a while. Then Micha asked, “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Are you sure? Did you turn the page over?”

  “I did. That was the second side. There isn’t any more. Not yet at least.”

  “A heart made of diamond,” Micha whispered. “Do you think I’ve really got something like that? If they put me in one of those X-ray machines at the hospital, they could see it, couldn’t they?”

  Anna laughed. “You’ve got a perfectly normal heart made of flesh and blood. This is just a fairy tale.”

  “Yes, but …” Micha said.

  At that moment, they heard the front door open and footsteps in the hallway. Anna sat absolutely still, and she saw that Micha, too, was trying not to breathe. It was as if they were standing aboard the green ship together, between the beautiful, dangerous waves of a blue winter sea. Rainer Lierski, Anna thought. He doesn’t have a key, does he? Did we leave the door open? How long have we been here? Surely more than enough time to walk here on foot from Wieck …

  The door to Micha’s room opened. It was Abel. Of course it was Abel. Anna breathed a sigh of relief and climbed down, behind Micha, from the bed. But when she was standing in front of him, Abel’s eyes were colder than ever. They were as cold as the winter night on a ship in a fairy tale.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I … I made pancakes … for lunch …”

  And then she remembered that she was still holding the pages. Abel followed her gaze and snatched them from her hand.

  “Micha is perfectly capable of buttering a slice of bread for lunch,” he said. “That’s what she usually does. I didn’t ask you to come here.”

  “I … no … I didn’t intend to …,” Anna began. “How was the French test?”

  “The story is my fault,” Micha said. “I told Anna to read it to me. I found the pages. It was very nice, you know, having her read to me, and maybe you could show her how to make pancakes so that they aren’t burned around the edges …”

  “Anna has to go now,” Abel said. “She’s got her own home and a lot to do there.” He didn’t touch Anna. He didn’t push her out of the room. He just looked at her. She held up her hands, helplessly, and walked toward the apartment door. Abel didn’t take his eyes off her as she put on her jacket and shoes. “Your bicycle is outside,” he said. “I rode it here.”

  “My … bicycle? It was … locked?”

  “With a combination lock,” Abel said, “the kind that anybody can open. I guess you’ve got the money to buy a better lock when you find the time.”

  She made one last try. “Abel, I just brought Micha home! You asked me to do that.”

  “I asked you for nothing,” he said in a hard voice. She had been wrong. He could be scary without the black hat. “It was your idea. And, now, leave us alone. Thank you for bringing her the key.”

  Never had the words Thank you stung like that, like a blow. She ran down the stairs without stopping. On the ground floor Mrs. Ketow had opened her door just a little, to listen. Anna slammed the outer door shut behind her. She was crying. Shit, she was really crying. Searching for a tissue, she found the blister pack with the white pills in her pocket. Maybe, she thought, she should take one, just so … She pressed one of the pills out of the foil and put it in her mouth. It tasted bitter. She spit it out, a white pill in white snow—like white paper waiting for letters, for words, for the next part of a fairy tale. He had locked her bicycle with the useless combination lock. She unlocked it and rode home, her head empty … white paper, white snow, white ice on a white street, white sails, white noise.

  When she closed her eyes, she saw a diamond embroidered in white, embroidered onto the sleeve of a blood-red coat. Or was it tattooed onto Rainer Lierski’s bicep?

  THAT NIGHT, ANNA COULDN’T SLEEP. SHE PUT HER clothes back on and went downstairs to the living room, where Magnus was still sitting in his old armchair reading the newspaper, another sleepless person, but one of the steadier sort. She looked at his big, broad figure in the big, broad armchair; they were at one, he and his chair, a rock, unshiftable, unyielding, strong. When she’d been small, she had thought her father could protect her from everything. Everything in the whole world. Children are stupid.

  Next to Magnus, on the small parquet table, a relic of some trip to the Middle East, there was a bottle of red wine and a glass. Anna took another glass from the cupboard and poured herself some wine. Then she sat down on the second armchair. For a while they drank and shared the silence, Magnus focused on his newspaper and Anna on her thoughts. Finally, he folded the paper.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied. He looked at her. She shrugged her narrow shoulders. She was so much narrower than him, a slender branch in the wind. “The world,” she said.

  “Yes. That’s what you look like. As if you have the world on your mind.�
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  “Why are people so different? Why are some happy and others unhappy? Why do some people have money and others … I know,” she sighed, “this sounds childish.”

  “You could study the answers,” Magnus said, wineglass in hand. “Philosophy. Or, no … economics.”

  “I need a sick note,” Anna said. “For my music class today. Two to four o’clock … about.”

  Magnus raised an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything.

  “When I was your age,” he started, “I also …” Then he stopped.

  “Thank you,” Anna said, getting up. “And, Magnus.” She was already standing in the door.

  “Yes?”

  “The wine’s turned.”

  The next day the white snow turned into brown mud. Anna asked Bertil if he had time to study math with her that afternoon. Gitta had a study date with Hennes.

  “Unfortunately not just Hennes,” she complained, “but some other people too … rats …”

  Abel came to school late and slept through geography class—they didn’t have literature that day. During break, Anna sat in the student lounge by herself. Through the window, she saw Abel talking to Knaake outside, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying. All day she’d felt like she was swimming … her feet weren’t touching the ground and her head wasn’t in whatever she was doing. Somewhere on the steps of the old concrete tower block, she had lost her grip on reality, as if a veil of tears was streaming over everything she saw. Knaake took off his round glasses and scratched his head with them. A single snowflake fell onto his nearly gray beard. And suddenly, Anna sat up.

  The lighthouse keeper. The lighthouse keeper looked exactly like Knaake. The glasses, the dark blue woolen sweater, the beard—everything was right. Abel had written the literature teacher into his fairy tale. He’d come aboard to help the little queen. Knaake had promised to look for a job for Abel. Knaake was one of the good guys. She nearly smiled—but only a little. The world of fairy tales was easy: good and bad, cold and warm, summer and winter, black ship and white sails.