A Fairy Tale Read Online Free PDF

the building’s intercom. “But they give me strange looks at school and they call me names.”
    The boy daubs poo over the button next to “I and H Madsen.”
    â€œSo we’ll just have to smear shit on all the buttons.”
    We move on to the next stairwell. The boy smears poo on the intercom. Carries on until all the buttons are pale brown.
    We fail to find more dog poo when we walk around the corner; we look, but there’s none in sight. The boy pulls down his trousers and squats in an archway.
    While he strains and groans, he says: “We can’t give up now. What if we haven’t got the right buttons covered in shit yet? Think about all the poor people who’ll get shit on their fingers for no reason. That wouldn’t be fair, now would it?”
    Every day the boy waits for me in the courtyard.
    â€œI can count on you,” he says, when I come downstairs. I don’t like that so I start to dawdle; I draw and I look at the clock.
    And yet he’s always there when I come down.
    We play Squeeze the Rabbit, a game where I jump up in the air and he has to try to remove his hands before I land. Other days we play Bear with No Eyes, where I put a plastic bag over his head.

M y dad holds up a carton of milk to me; we’re in the dairy section of the supermarket.
    â€œ Möchtest du milch ?” he asks, and I know that if I want to drink milk in the next few days, I’d better get it right. “ Möchtest du milch ?”
    Find the right words, find the right answer.
    He cups a hand behind his ears: “ Entschuldigen, ich habe dich nicht gehört .”
    When we’ve paid at the till, he says “ Danke schön ” to the cashier.
    At night he kisses me on the forehead, tucks me up.
    â€œ Schlaf gut, Liebchen .”
    My dad’s waiting for me at the breakfast table. He has been to the baker’s for croissants.
    â€œ Bonjour, mon fils ,” he says. He pours a little coffee into my cup and tops it up with milk.
    My dad says you learn best when you’re standing up. Even better when you’re running. And best of all, if someone’s after you. Then he laughs.
    We visit museums.
    â€œIt’s easy to sneak in,” my dad says. “There are lots of ways you can do it: you can join a group of visitors, you can look for a discarded ticket on the sidewalk outside. But it’s always better not to.”
    My dad goes up to the attendant at the entrance; if it’s a woman, he’ll stand there for a little longer with her hand in his. If it’s a man, the handshake is short and firm. My dad’s voice gets louder when he talks to men; when they laugh together, it’s even louder. Sometimes he’ll touch their shoulder. Then we get in. Always without paying.
    We walk down a white corridor leading to the first floor, where the paintings are.
    â€œI know it looks as if they’re doing us a favour,” my dad says. “The nice people who let us in. No matter where we go, people help us.”
    I nod to show him that I’m listening. We’re standing in front of a painting of a fisherman beside a boat that has been dragged ashore; the sky behind him is grey.
    â€œBut we’re also doing them a favour. Take that man . . .” My dad nods back in the direction of the attendant who has just let us in, an elderly man with grey hair and a full beard, his uniform a little creased. “He has been standing there all day, he tears tickets, he tells tourists that they can’t bring ice cream inside, that photography isn’t allowed.”
    My dad always looks at me in this way right before he tells me the important part. The part I must remember.
    â€œThat man rarely gets the chance to do something for others. Do something without getting paid, just because he can and because he wants to.”
    In my head I try to repeat what my dad has just said.
    He points to the picture of the fisherman in