The Storyteller
Authors: Antonia Michaelis
The Storyteller
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.
ISBN: 978–1–4197–0047–7
Text copyright © 2011 Antonia Michaelis
Book design by Maria T. Middleton
Translated from the German by Miriam Debbage
AIN’T NO CURE FOR LOVE
© 1987 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE
© 1984 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
HALLELUJAH
© 1985 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
SISTERS OF MERCY
© 1985 Sony/
ATV
Songs,
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
TAKE THIS WALTZ
© 1988 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, Publisher(s) Unknown. All rights on behalf of Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
First published in Germany under the title
Der Märchenerzähler
in 2011 by Verlagsgruppe Oetinger, Hamburg.
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Chapter 12: Three Days of Sunshine
To Anna K. and the lighthouse keeper, whose names I borrowed
To Charlotte R., Bea W., and Fine M.,
who will turn eighteen sooner or later
To Kerstin B., Beate R., and Eva W.,
who were eighteen once
And to all those who never will be
BALLAD FOR THE YOUNG
My child, I know you’re not a child
But I still see you running wild
Between those flowering trees.
Your sparkling dreams, your silver laugh
Your wishes to the stars above
Are just my memories.
And in your eyes the ocean
And in your eyes the sea
The waters frozen over
With your longing to be free.
Yesterday you’d awoken
To a world incredibly old.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.
You had to kill this child, I know,
To break the arrows and the bow
To shed your skin and change.
The trees are flowering no more
There’s blood upon the tiled floor
This place is dark and strange.
I see you standing in the storm
Holding the curse of youth
Each of you with your story
Each of you with your truth.
Some words will never be spoken
Some stories never be told.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.
I didn’t say the world was good.
I hoped by now you understood
Why I could never lie.
I didn’t promise you a thing.
Don’t ask my wintervoice for spring
Just spread your wings and fly.
Though in the hidden garden
Down by the green green lane
The plant of love grows next to
The tree of hate and pain.
So take my tears as a token.
They’ll keep you warm in the cold.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold
You’ve lived too long among us
To leave without a trace
You’ve lived too short to understand
A thing about this place.
Some of you just sit there smoking
And some are already sold.
This is the age you are broken
Or turned into gold.
This is the age you are broken or turned into gold.
BLOOD.
There is blood everywhere. On his hands, on her hands, on his shirt, on his face, on the tiles, on the small round carpet. The carpet used to be blue; it never will be blue again.
The blood is red. He is kneeling in it. He hadn’t realized it was so bright … big, burst droplets, the color of poppies. They are beautiful, as beautiful as a spring day in a sunny meadow … But the tiles are cold and white as snow, and it is winter.
It will be winter forever.
Strange thought: Why should it be winter forever?
He’s got to do something. Something about the blood. A sea—a red, endless sea: crimson waves, carmine froth, splashing color. All these words in his head!
How long has he been kneeling here, with these words in his head? The red is starting to dry, it is forming edges, losing a little of its beauty; the poppies are wilting, yellowing, like words on paper …
He closes his eyes. Get a hold of yourself. One thought at a time. What must be done? What first? What is most important?
It’s most important that nobody finds out.
Towels. He needs towels. And water. A rag. The splatters on the wall are hard to remove … the grout between the tiles will be stained forever. Will anybody find out? Soap. There’s dried blood under his fingernails, too. A brush. He scrubs his hands until the skin is red—a different red, a warm, living red flushed with pain.
She’s not looking at him. She’s turned her eyes away, but she always turned away, didn’t she? That’s how she lived—with her eyes turned away. He throws the dirty towels into the dark, greedy mouth of the washing machine.
She’s just sitting there, leaning against the wall, refusing to speak to him.
