He looked around, reached into the pocket of his parka, and took out a small plastic bag. She leaned forward, expecting some sort of powder; she didn’t know much about these things. She had tried Google, but Google Drugs hadn’t been invented, a problem that Google would certainly rectify soon … He took something out of the milky-white plastic bag with his thumb and forefinger. A blister pack. Anna saw that there were still a couple of blisters left in the bag … and they were full of pills. The ones he held out to her now were round and white.

“You said it’s for celebrating?” he asked, his voice low. “Like … staying awake, dancing, having a good time?”

Anna nodded.

Tannatek nodded, too. “Twenty,” he said.

She took a twenty-euro note out of her purse and put away the blister pack quickly. There were ten tablets. The price didn’t seem high to her.

“You know how to use that stuff?” Tannatek asked, and it was obvious that he figured she didn’t.

“I don’t,” Anna answered. “But Gitta does.”

He nodded again, put the money away, and grabbed the earplugs of his old Walkman.

“White noise?” Anna asked, but by now she didn’t really want to continue the conversation; she only asked so that she could tell herself later that she hadn’t been too scared to ask. Her heart was racing inside her chest. All she wanted to do was run away—far away from the schoolyard, from Tannatek, the fighting dog, from the white tablets in her purse, far, far away. She longed for the cool silver of her flute in her hands. For a melody. Not for white noise, for a real melody.

She didn’t expect Tannatek to hand her one of his hopelessly ancient earplugs again. But he did just that. The whole I’ll-try-to-understand-the-Polish-peddler-thereby-turning-into-a-more-interesting-person project suddenly made her nauseous.

What floated through the earplug into her head was not white noise. It was a melody. As if someone had heard Anna’s wish. “It’s not always white noise,” Tannatek said. The melody was as old as the Walkman. No, a lot older. “Suzanne.” Anna had known the words by heart since she was small.

She gave the earplug back, perplexed.

“Cohen? You’re listening to Leonard Cohen? My mother listens to him.”

“Yeah,” he said, “so did mine. I don’t even know how she got into him. There’s no way she understood a word. She didn’t speak English. And she was too young for this kind of music.”

“Was?” Anna asked. The air had grown colder, just now, about five degrees. “Has she … died?”

“Died?” His voice turned hard. “No. Just disappeared. She’s been gone for two weeks now. It doesn’t make much of a difference anyway. I don’t think she’ll come back. Micha … Micha thinks she will. My sister, she …” He stopped, looked up from the ground, and leveled his gaze at her.

“Have I lost my mind? Why am I telling you this?”

“Because I asked?”

“It’s too cold,” he said as he pulled up the collar of his parka. She stood there while he unlocked his bike. It was just like when they had first spoken—words in the ice-cold air, stolen words, homeless-seeming, between worlds. Later, one could imagine that one hadn’t said anything.

“Doesn’t anybody else ask?” Anna said.

He shook his head, freed his bike. “Who? There is no one.”

“There are a lot of people,” Anna said. “Everywhere.” She made a wide sweep with her arm, gesturing to the empty schoolyard, the concrete block that was their school, the trees, the world beyond. But there was no one. Abel was right. It was only the two of them, Anna and him, only they two under the endless, icy sky. It was strangely unsettling. The world would end in five minutes.

Nonsense.

He managed to free his bike. He pulled the black woolen hat down over his ears, nodded—a good-bye nod, maybe, or just a nod to himself, saying, yes, see, there is no one. Then he rode away.

Ridiculous—to follow someone through the outskirts of town on a bicycle on a Friday afternoon. Not inconspicuous either. But Abel didn’t glance back, not once. The February wind was too biting. She rode along behind, down Wolgaster Street, a big, straight street leading into and out of town to the southeast, connecting the city with Gitta’s sterile housing development; with the beach; with the winter woods full of tall, bare beeches; with the fields behind them; with the world. Wolgaster Street passed by the ugly concrete blocks of the Seaside District and the district of “beautiful woods.” The German Democratic Republic had been quite ironic when it came to naming city districts.

Leaving the endless stream of cars behind, Abel crossed the Netto supermarket parking lot and turned through a small chain-link gate, painted dark green and framed by dead winter shrubbery. Once inside, he got off his bike. A chain-link fence surrounded a light-colored building and a playground with a castle made of red, blue, and yellow plastic. On the NO TRESPASSING sign on the gate, the ghost of a black spray-painted swastika skulked. Someone had crossed the nasty image out, but you could still see it.

A school. It was a school, an elementary school. Now, long after the bell had rung to announce the weekend, it was bereft of life and human breath. Anna pushed her bike into the dense shrubbery near the gate, stood beside it, and tried to make herself invisible.

At first, she thought Abel was here on business: Ding-dong—the Polish peddler calling! The frame of the big modern front door was made of red plastic; someone had taped a paper snowflake to the window. An attempt to make things nicer, friendlier: it felt strained somehow; like forced cheerfulness, it belied the desolation Anna saw. It made the cold February wind seem harsher.

Anna watched as Abel walked across the empty schoolyard; she wondered whether there was a limit to desolation or whether it grew endlessly, infinitely. Desolation with a hundred faces and more, desolation of a hundred different kinds and more, like the color blue.

And then something strange happened. The desolation broke.

Abel started running. Somebody was running toward him, somebody who had been waiting in the shadows. Somebody small in a worn, pink down jacket. They flew toward each other, the small and tall figures, with arms outstretched—their feet didn’t seem to touch the ground—they met in the middle. The tall figure lifted up the small one, spun her around through the winter air, once, twice, three times in a whirl of light, childish laughter.

“It’s true,” Anna whispered behind the bush. “Gitta, it is true. He does have a sister. Micha.”

Abel put down the pink child as Anna ducked. He didn’t see her lurking. Talking to Micha, he turned and walked back to his bicycle. He was laughing. He lifted the little girl up again and placed her on his bike carrier, said something else, and got on the bike himself. Anna didn’t understand any of his words, but his voice sounded different than it did at school. Somebody had lit a flame between the sentences, warmed them with a bright, crackling fire. Maybe, she thought, he was speaking a different language. Polish. If Polish burned so brightly, she would learn it. Don’t fool yourself, Anna, Gitta said from inside her head. You’d probably learn Serbo-Croatian if it helped you talk to Tannatek. Anna replied angrily: his name is Abel! But then she remembered that Gitta wasn’t there and that she’d better hunker down if she didn’t want to be spotted by Abel and Micha.

They didn’t see her. Abel rode by without looking left or right, and Anna heard him say, “They’ve got Königsberg-style meatballs today; it’s on the menu. You know, the ones in the white sauce with capers.”

“Meatballs Königsberg,” a high child’s voice repeated. “I like meatballs. We could take a trip to Königsberg one day, couldn’t we?”

“One day,” Abel replied. “But now we’re on a trip to the students’ dining hall and …”