The Storyteller by Antonia Michaelis Page B

didn’t say anything.
    And because something had to be said, Anna said, “No. I don’t think she will die, no way. She’s going to make it. The sea lion will help her.”
    “But what can a sea lion do against a huge black ship full of diamond hunters?” Micha asked, not without logic.
    “Well, it’s a fairy tale, isn’t it? Maybe the sea lion can … change.”
    “Change? Into what?”
    Anna shook her head. “It’s not
my
fairy tale. I can’t tell you how it will end. I’m not in it.”
    She put
Faust II
back in her bag and stood up. “I don’t think Gitta’s going to make it, and I can’t spend all day waiting for her. I need to get going.”
    Abel got up from his chair as well. “We’re also leaving. Micha? Take the empty cup back.”
    “But not the straws,” Micha said and held them up, five brightly colored straws, bent in the heat, twisted into knots, into … something.
    “I made a sea lion,” she said.
    Anna nodded. “I see.”
    They left the cafeteria together, then passed through the revolving door and out into the cold. And Anna kept thinking, he hates the fact that I listened. He hates it. He hates me, maybe. He knows I’m spying on him.
    Outside, Abel stood at the top of the steps in front of the dining hall while Micha ran sliding over the frozen puddles—back and forth, back and forth …
    Anna stood there, too, not knowing what to do. Abel took a pouch of tobacco and some papers out of his pocket and started rolling a cigarette, but he stared at her the whole time, and she couldn’t leave with him watching her. It was like leaving in the middle of a conversation.
    “You don’t smoke, do you?” Abel asked. She shook her head and he lit up.
    Micha kept sliding.
    “Abel,” Anna said, finally. “Abel Saint-Exupéry.”
    “Yeah, it was a bit too much like Saint-Ex,” Abel said, as if he knew Saint-Exupéry personally.
    Anna nodded. “Literally. Nearly. ‘None of them will be my white mare …’”
    “The rose in Saint-Exupéry. Of course. I couldn’t predict that you’d be listening.”
    “I didn’t come to listen,” Anna said and thought, Well, that’s the lie of the day. “I … had to listen. It … is a wonderful story. Where do you get all those words from? All those pictures?”
    “From reality,” Abel said. “That’s all we got.”
    She realized he wasn’t wearing the black hat. The sunlight caught his thick blond hair. He stood straighter than he did in the schoolyard. And suddenly he was near, not physically but mentally. “Literature,” Anna began. “Lit class. Not that it’s important …”
    “It is important,” he said. “That is why I am in literature class. That is what I want to do. Tell stories. Not only to Micha. Later—I want to …” He stopped. “That … about Micha … it’s no one’s business. And the stories aren’t either.”
    “Yes,” she said. “No. What about Micha?”
    Abel contemplated the glowing tip of his cigarette. “That isn’t your business either.”
    “Okay,” she said. But she didn’t leave.
    Abel tossed the half-smoked cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. “What if I tell you that I’m not her brother but her father?” He laughed suddenly. “You can stop calculating … Not in the biological sense. I’m taking care of her. There are too many bad things out there. Somebody has to take care of her. You know I miss a lot of classes. Now you know why.”
    “But … your real father …?” Anna asked.
    He shook his head. “Haven’t seen mine for fifteen years. Micha’s got a different father. I don’t know where that guy is, but it’s possible he’ll turn up sooner or later, when he learns that Michelle has disappeared. Our mother. He’ll come looking for Micha then. And I know two people who won’t be at home.”
    Anna looked at him, questioningly. “Don’t ask,” he said. “There are some things you don’t want to know.” And suddenly he grabbed Anna’s arm, hard. “Don’t tell