When she came back from the basement, Abel was brushing the snow off his parka while Micha was dancing around him, still balancing the plate of cookies, singing, “We’re staying, we’re staying, we’re staying overnight! We’re drying! We’re drying! We’re drying on the line!”
Abel lifted his arms defensively. “Will you stand still for a second?” he said. “Micha. We can’t stay overnight. We have our own home, and it’s not here. We can come back tomorrow and pick up the damn laundry then.”
“Damn is a word you’re not allowed to say,” Micha declared, folding her arms. “And did you look outside? It’s snowing again, and I’m sure there will be another storm! Please, Abel! Please!” She put down the plate on the floor and clung to his leg. “Please, please, please! Only this one night! I still want to play the piano a little bit and decorate the cookies and everything!”
“Do you have to go out tonight?” Anna asked in a low voice.
Abel covered his face in his hands. This time, he left them there longer, and she saw him try hard to make a decision. She actually thought she saw him curse silently behind his hands.
“I’ll just end up saying yes again,” he whispered. “I’ll end up saying yes to so many things, I’ll forget the difference between yes and no—and I’ll lose my mind.” He looked at Anna. “Keep my mind for me. See to it that nobody steals it. I might have to go out tonight. I don’t know yet.”
Was he waiting for a call? She didn’t ask. He was not an answerer after all. He was everything else. A seller of white cats’ fur. A storyteller. A stranger, still.
“You can sleep in the guest room,” she said. “The two of you. There are two beds.” And, in a much lower voice, “The key is in the door at night, inside. Take it with you so you can get back in. You’re not a prisoner. This is not a trap … just a broken dryer.”
• • •
And then they sat at dinner like one big family. The lamplight was warm, and the kitchen smelled of potato casserole. And Micha talked with her mouth full about how she had baked cookies and how she could almost play the piano already.
And Linda smiled. And Abel wasn’t fidgeting in his chair like he had been at lunch. Once, Anna took his hand under the table and pressed it very quickly, and he pressed back.
“Abel can make potato casserole, too,” Micha said and put her fork down. “He can do anything … pancakes and pasta and cake. Even birthday cake. With candles on top. We’ll have one pretty soon and maybe with strawberries because it’s nearly spring. Or we can have frozen strawberries. Abel can make strawberry cake!”
“He seems to be a real saint, that brother of yours,” Magnus said drily.
The conversation stopped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anna hissed. “Why the sarcasm?”
“What’s sarcasm?” asked Micha.
“Sarcasm is when someone says the opposite of what he means,” Abel said in a low voice. “So, in other words, I’m no saint. I’m the opposite of a saint. He’s right. And the opposite of a saint doesn’t belong here, I guess …” He pushed back his chair, his hands on the edge of the table, and Anna put her hand on his.
“Stay,” she said. “Please. Please. Magnus is just joking. You see, Micha, that father of mine is really good at shoveling snow and feeding birds and curing sick people, but he can’t even scramble an egg, and, compared to that, anyone who can make potato casserole is definitely a saint. To be honest, Magnus couldn’t even tell the difference between a snow shovel and a potato.”
Micha laughed; and Magnus laughed, too; and Linda tried to laugh with them. Only Abel didn’t laugh. But he didn’t leave either.
“I’ve already made up the beds in the guest room for you,” Linda said.
“Do you want us to help with the dishes?” Micha asked. “I’m really good at washing dishes …”
Linda shook her head. “Our dishwasher is also really good at washing dishes. Sleep tight.”
And Anna watched Abel and Micha go up the stairs, hand in hand, like a picture on an old-fashioned postcard—as if everything was still all right, still perfect. But nothing was all right anymore, she could feel it. And later, she wondered if it was at that very moment that Abel decided he had to go out. If maybe it didn’t have anything to do with a call. Maybe he wouldn’t have left the house that night if Magnus hadn’t made that stupid remark. And maybe things would have turned out differently as a result …
She lay in her bed reading for a long time, not able to sleep. The cell phone on her desk rang, but she didn’t answer it. Gitta, she thought. Who else.
They’d said good night to each other, she and Abel, good night and no more … a little like strangers. She’d heard him whispering with Micha for a while, but now everything was quiet. Finally, she tiptoed over to the guest room and opened the door. Light from the streetlight outside dripped into the room like rain. One of the beds was empty. They were lying on the other one, together, Micha rolled up like a kitten in Abel’s arms, fast asleep. And Abel? Was he sleeping as well or was he just pretending?
She stood there for a moment, looking at Abel. His face was so close yet infinitely far away. The shadow of the bed and the figures on it fell on the wall like a weird, distorted creature. An animal crouched low, waiting to strike. A wolf. She closed the door without a sound, crept back to her room, and crawled under her own covers.
He stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking out over the ice. The flakes had ceased to fall, but the river was covered with snow; even that thin layer of ice in the middle, where the fishermen had broken holes for their hooks, had frozen again—a network of invisible traps cloaked in snow, deceiving, dangerous. He knew where the frozen-over holes were; he knew where the ice was thin—he didn’t need to see it.
He pulled his scarf tighter. How cold it was! This winter was colder than any winter he could remember, and he’d seen many winters. To be precise: sixty-three of them.
The lights of the restaurant-ship were groping their way onto the ice, timid, as if they were afraid of the cold. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He was too early. She wouldn’t be here till ten. She had this unpronounceable name … Milowicz? Mirkolicz? He’d been surprised when she’d called him. Maybe she didn’t know anything. Maybe this meeting would be good-for-nothing. But maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe together, they could find out something.
Save something. He had the feeling that the whole situation was getting too much for the boy. Someone had to help.
He still wasn’t sure what had happened. There was Michelle, for example. He had the feeling that Anna was right, that she was really close, so close they couldn’t see her. But where was she? He’d found out some things, of course. He had his suspicions. But he wasn’t sure. He would have preferred not to know one thing that he did know now. That made him sad. Incredibly sad. He walked over the bridge, to the other side of the river, where the restaurant-ship lay. He went down the stairs and stepped onto the ice. It was solid, solid like stone. It felt good to walk on it.
And then he heard steps behind him. The sound was almost hushed by the snow, but it was there. Probably it was just someone who’d come from the restaurant-ship, someone taking a walk between drinks. Or it was a person also waiting for a date. He turned. He saw a silhouette, its outline not very clear against the pale lights of the ship. It was too dark out here on the river. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone; he’d meet her in half an hour—that would be enough.
He turned back and walked farther down the frozen river, a little farther downstream, and then he would climb the stairs again and be back on shore. It would be time by then … the steps behind him were catching up with his. Maybe they were hers? Maybe she’d come early as well and seen him? He’d ventured so far from the lights now that it was absolutely dark around him. He’d thought the streetlights at the other side of the river would light the ice here, but the chunky bodies of the old vessels hibernating here, those antique monsters of sailing ships, shut out the lights.