“Crap,” Anna said. “I don’t even know if I want to go to England anymore. Maybe I’ll stay here. Will you build a drawer in your writing desk so that I have somewhere to sleep when it’s raining?”
She put the bottle down and kissed him; she pushed the unwritten rules far, far away; she undid the buttons of her coat, the zip on his sweater she was wearing; she wanted to take his hand in hers, again, as she’d done on her parents’ sofa.
He freed himself and stood up. “Let’s go back to the bikes. It’s getting late.”
But they walked arm in arm. They walked slowly, taking a detour around the huge boathouse where the university sailing-club boats were dry-docked in winter. Anna let her fingers glide along the fence. And then she stopped. “The door,” she whispered. “The door is open. The door of the boathouse. See that? Do you think someone’s in there right now?”
They stood in the darkness, listening intently. There was nothing.
“Somebody forgot to lock it up,” Abel said. Anna pulled him with her. “Come on!” she whispered. “We can have a look at the boats! Maybe there’s a green one with a yellow rudder …”
“There are just small boats in there,” Abel said. “Why do you want to go in? We …”
“Come on,” Anna begged. “Let’s do something stupid! It’s not every day you find an open boathouse full of sailboats!” She let go of him, took a few steps toward the entrance, and spun around once, twice, three times—her open coat flying, whirling around her like a dress. She spun and spun, her face turned up to the night sky, until she felt dizzy. She laughed. She felt reckless, wild. When she stumbled, Abel caught her in his arms and laughed, too, a little hesitantly. “You’re drunk.”
“And what if I am?” She led him to the open door, pulling him into the boathouse.
“We can’t …” he began, but she put a finger on his lips.
“Nobody’s watching us. I want to see the boats. Maybe I’ll learn how to sail one day … do you know how?”
“No.”
“There must be a light switch somewhere …”
“Oh, great … switch on the light, and everybody will know for sure that we’re here. I don’t need any more trouble than I’ve already got. Please, forget about the switch. If you insist on looking at these boats … I’ve got a flashlight …”
The white light appeared in the darkness. Abel had been wrong. There weren’t just small boats; there were yachts as well, one obviously being worked on. There was a short ladder beside it, a mess of cables on the floor, and next to them, a portable sander. Maybe it was this boat’s owner who’d forgotten to lock up. They wandered among the sleeping boats for a while, Anna touching the curves of plastic and wood with her hand.
“I’d like to sail on this one once,” she said, “or on that one over there … but none of them are like the little queen’s ship … am I right?”
Abel shook his head. Then he put a finger to his mouth and switched off the flashlight. Anna listened. Had there been a noise? The noise of running feet? She felt cold all of a sudden. The island of the murderer was empty. She had forgotten all about him. He was close, very close … She stepped closer to Abel, holding onto him like a child, as if she had changed into Micha, a panicky, six-year-old Micha. She felt her heartbeat mixing with his.
“Abel, we’re not alone in here,” she whispered, “are we?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered back. The running feet were coming closer now, someone was running behind the boats. There was a loud clattering noise … Anna held Abel even tighter. And Abel switched the light on again. Anna closed her eyes.
A second later, she heard him laugh, relieved. “You can open your eyes,” he said. “It’s not our murderer. It’s a rat.” Anna saw it now, too, a big brown rat sitting under one of the boats next to the bucket it had knocked over, blinking into the light, confused.
But Anna still felt Abel’s heart beating rapidly in time with her own. She didn’t let go of him, not this time. Instead, she put down her backpack and unzipped his parka. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d needed. The one opportunity she’d get. She wished it was summer. Summer is generous with opportunities, with warm evenings, with beautiful starry nights … with places like beaches or park benches and soft grass on pastures full of flowers. But in this story, all there seemed to be was winter, eternal ice-cold winter. And a boathouse full of sailboats, she thought, was at least free of snow …
She kissed him again and saw him put the flashlight on the boat next to them. Her hand crept under his sweater, under his T-shirt, and lay on his warm, bare skin—innocent at first—over his heart. She felt its rhythm, and she felt his hand, too; his hand had caught hers and held it captive, but she pulled it free. She had closed her eyes … it was easier to feel with closed eyes …
Now, she thought, a little dizzy, maybe from the wine. Yes. Now. I’ve got to do it now before courage leaves me. Right now, I’m not Anna Leeman but someone else, someone much more daring …
They were still locked in a kiss, and Anna’s hand made its way, as if on its own … it found a belt, opened it, found more and livelier body warmth … her coat had fallen from her shoulders. She thought about practical things … that they could use her coat to lie on, that this concrete floor was damned hard, but then, not only the floor … Her other hand discovered one of his hands, somewhere, and pulled it under her own clothes—and then the kiss ended abruptly. She realized that Abel was whispering her name.
“Anna, please,” he whispered. “Please, don’t do this. It’s not gonna work out … you want to have an adventure … a little girl who wants to have an adventure, but it won’t end well …”
“Sure it will.” Her lips were so close to his that she brushed them while speaking. “Don’t worry …”
She let go, but just to get rid of her sweater, the T-shirt … it was a single smooth movement, easier than she’d thought it would be. She unfastened her bra, and then stood there, naked down to her waist. She wasn’t cold. She’d never been warmer. Heavens, she really was drunk. Somewhere in her head a tiny voice said, what are you doing here? This is so not Anna Leemann—what has gotten into you? She ignored the voice.
She saw that the light of the flashlight painted strange patterns on her breasts—she was a work of art, art of the night. Look, she wanted to say, look, this is all part of the fairy tale. But he averted his eyes.
“Why are you worried?” she whispered. “Don’t you know more about this than I do?”
“No,” he whispered, and there was despair in his voice. But she ignored it. He was still looking away.
“Stop it. I don’t want this, I …”
Stop it? I’m just starting, she thought with a smile. I’m just starting to live. I’m just starting out in this world. She released his fingers and her hands returned to his body, to depths not yet fully explored, where she found proof that his body did want what hers did. It was obvious. His breathing, close to her ear, was strangely irregular. She smiled at that, too. His breathing was out of rhythm, strained, as if he was holding something back, something violent. He was talking to her again, through clenched teeth, words she didn’t grasp the meaning of. “This … for me … This has nothing to do with … with tenderness, only with … violence … don’t force me …”
She wasn’t forcing him, was she? Her fingers closed around his erection very gently, as if around something new that only belonged to her, something she was taking possession of. She didn’t know anything, she was just learning, she wasn’t forcing him, no …
And then, there was something like a click. Like the flick of a switch. All of a sudden. Abel’s passivity left. His hands tore her hands away, he freed himself, and she thought he’d push her away. But instead, he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her so fast she couldn’t react.
“Wait!” she said. His warm body was very close to hers, almost too close now, and his hands weren’t gentle, weren’t careful. She still wanted what he wanted, but it was happening too fast … or did it have to be like this? She wasn’t sure; she didn’t know much about this. He knew better, of course, but … “Wait!” she begged again. “Can’t we … please … you’ve gotta show me, how …”