Queen of Hearts

… then suddenly an elderly lady
came out of the old pub …

I awoke a couple of hours later and jumped up in the back seat to discover we were high in the Alps.

‘Are you awake now?’ Dad asked. ‘We’ll be in Dorf in about half an hour. And we’ll spend the night at the Schöner Waldemar.’

A little later, when we drove into the village – which I felt I knew better than anyone else in the car – Dad pulled right up in front of the little bakery. The grown-ups tried to exchange secretive glances, but I saw through them.

The bakery was completely empty. The only sign of life was a little goldfish which swam round and round inside a glass bowl with a big chip out of it. I felt like a fish in a glass tank, too.

‘Look,’ I said, pulling the magnifying glass out of my jeans pocket. ‘Don’t you see, it’s exactly the same size as the chip in the glass bowl.’

It was the only piece of visible evidence I had to prove I wasn’t telling any old cock-and-bull story.

‘Well, I’ll be blowed,’ exclaimed Dad. ‘But it doesn’t look as if it’s going to be that easy to find the baker.’

I wasn’t sure whether he said this to conclude the discussion in a kind way, or whether deep down he had believed everything I had said and was suddenly terribly disappointed that he hadn’t met his father there and then.

We left the car and trudged in the direction of the Schöner Waldemar. Mama started to quiz me about who I usually played with in Arendal, but I tried to shake her off. The baker and the sticky-bun book was certainly no game.

Then suddenly an elderly lady came out of the old pub. When she saw us, she came hurrying over.

It was Grandma!

‘Mother!’ Dad cried out.

If nobody else heard him, then at least the angels in heaven must have, it was such a heartrending cry.

Grandma threw her arms around us all. Mama was so bewildered she didn’t know what to do with herself. In the end, Grandma hugged me tightly and cried.

‘My boy,’ she wept. ‘My sweet boy.’

‘But – why … how …’ Dad stammered.

‘He died last night,’ said Grandma sadly, looking at us all.

‘Who died?’ Mama asked.

‘Ludwig,’ whispered Grandma. ‘He called me last week, and then we spent a few days together here. He told me he had had a visit from a young boy in his little bakery. Only when the boy had gone did he realise that it could have been his own grandchild and the man driving the red car could be his son. It is all so terribly sad, and yet at the same time wonderful. It was so good to see him. Then he had a heart attack. He … he died in my arms at the village infirmary.’

Now I broke down completely, weeping bitterly. I felt as though my own misfortune had clouded everyone else’s. The three adults did all they could to comfort me, but I could no longer be comforted.

Grandpa was not the only one who was gone. I felt as though the whole world had disappeared with him. He could no longer confirm everything I had said about Rainbow Fizz and the magic island. But maybe – maybe that had been the intention. Grandpa was an old man, and I’d only had the sticky-bun book on loan.

When I had pulled myself together a few hours later at the Schöner Waldemar, we sat in the tiny dining room with the four tables.

Now and then the fat lady came over to me and said, ‘Hans Thomas? Nicht wahr?’

‘Don’t you think it was amazing that he knew Hans Thomas was his own grandchild?’ asked Grandma. ‘He never even knew he had a son.’

Mama nodded in agreement. ‘It’s quite extraordinary,’ she said.

It wasn’t quite so simple for Dad, however. ‘I think it is even more mysterious how Hans Thomas knew it was Grandpa,’ he said.

All the adults looked at me.

‘The boy realises that the sticky-bun man is his own grandfather at the same time as the sticky-bun man realises that the boy from the north is his own grandson.’

They all stared at me seriously, they seemed almost worried, but I continued: ‘The sticky-bun man shouts down a magic funnel, so his voice carries hundreds of miles.’

In this way I received some kind of compensation for all the doubt which had surrounded my judgment. I also understood that I would never be able to share the sticky-bun book with anyone.

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Дата добавления: 2015-10-28