Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

“Bastian, my boy!” he said over and over again. “My dear little boy, where have you been? What happened to you?”

A few minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table and Bastian was drinking hot milk and eating breakfast rolls, which his father had lovingly spread with butter and honey. Then the boy noticed that his father’s face was pale and drawn, his eyes red and his chin unshaven. But otherwise he looked the same as he had long ago, when Bastian went away. And Bastian told him so.

“Long ago?” his father asked in amazement. “What do you mean?”

“How long have I been gone?”

“Since yesterday, Bastian. Since you went to school. But when you didn’t come home, I phoned your teachers and they told me you hadn’t been there. I looked for you all day and all night, my boy. I feared the worst, I put the police on your trail. Oh God, Bastian! What happened? I’ve been half crazy with worry. Where have you been?”

Then Bastian began to tell his father about his adventures. He told the whole story in great detail. It took many hours.

His father listened as he had never listened before. He understood Bastian’s story.

At about midday he interrupted Bastian for a little while. First he called the police to tell them his son had come home and that everything was all right. Then he made lunch for both of them, and Bastian went on with his story. Night was falling by the time Bastian came to the Water of Life and told his father how he had wanted to bring him some but had spilled it.

It was almost dark in the kitchen. His father sat motionless. Bastian stood up and switched on the light. And then he saw something he had never seen before.

He saw tears in his father’s eyes.

And he knew that he had brought him the Water of Life after all.

Bastian’s father sat him down on his lap and hugged him. When they had sat like that for a long while, his father heaved a deep sigh, looked into Bastian’s face, and smiled. It was the happiest smile Bastian had ever seen on his face.

“From now on,” said his father, “everything is going to be different between us. Don’t you agree?”

Bastian nodded. He couldn’t speak. His heart was too full.

Next morning the winter’s first snow lay soft and clean on Bastian’s windowsill. The street sounds that came to him were muffled.

“Do you know what, Bastian?” said his father at breakfast. “I think we two have every reason to celebrate. A day like this happens only once in a lifetime—and some people never have one. So I suggest that we do something really sensational. I’ll forget about any work and you needn’t go to school. I’ll write an excuse for you. How does that sound?”

“School?” said Bastian. “Is it still operating? When I passed through the building yesterday, there wasn’t a soul. Not even the janitor was there.”

“Yesterday?” said his father. “Yesterday was Sunday.”

Bastian stirred his cocoa thoughtfully. Then he said in an undertone: “I think it’s going to take me a little while to get used to things again.”

“Exactly,” said his father. “And that’s why we’re giving ourselves a little holiday. What would you like to do? We could go for a hike in the country or we could go to the zoo. Either way we’ll treat ourselves to the finest lunch the world has ever seen. This afternoon we could go shopping and buy anything you like. And tonight—how about the theater?”

Bastian’s eyes sparkled. Then he said firmly: “Wonderful! But there’s something I must do first. I have to go and tell Mr. Coreander that I stole his book and lost it.”

Bastian’s father took his hand

“If you like,” he said, “I’ll attend to that for you.”

“No,” said Bastian. “It’s my responsibility. I want to do it myself. And I think I should do it right away.”

He stood up and put on his coat. His father said nothing, but the look on his face was one of surprise and respect. Such behavior in Bastian was something new.

“I believe,” he said finally, “that I too will need a little time to get used to things.”

Bastian was already in the entrance hall. “I’ll be right back,” he called. “I’m sure it won’t take long. Not this time.”

When he came to Mr. Coreander’s bookshop, his courage failed him after all. He looked through the pane with the ornate lettering on it. Mr. Coreander was busy with a customer, and Bastian decided to wait. He walked up and down outside the shop. It was snowing again.

At last the customer left.

“Now!” Bastian commanded himself.

Remembering how he had gone to meet Grograman in Goab, the Desert of Colors, he pressed the door handle resolutely.

Behind the wall of books at the far end of the dimly lit room he heard a cough. He went forward, then, slightly pale but with grave composure, he stepped up to Mr. Coreander, who was sitting in his worn leather armchair as he had been at their last meeting.

For a long time Bastian said nothing. He had expected Mr. Coreander to go red in the face and scream at him: “Thief! Monster!” or something of the kind.

Instead, the old man deliberately lit his curved pipe, screwed up his eyes, and studied the boy through his ridiculous little spectacles. When the pipe was finally burning, he puffed awhile, then grumbled: “What is it this time?”

“I . . .” Bastian began haltingly. “I stole a book from you. I meant to return it, but I can’t, because I lost it, or rather—well, I haven’t got it anymore.”

Mr. Coreander stopped puffing and took his pipe out of his mouth.

“What sort of book?” he asked.

“The one you were reading the last time I was here. I walked off with it. You were telephoning in the back room, it was lying on the chair, and I just walked off with it.”

“I see,” said Mr. Coreander, clearing his throat. “But none of my books is missing. What was the title of this book?”

“It’s called the Neverending Story,” said Bastian. “It’s bound in copper-colored silk that shimmers when you move it around. There are two snakes on the cover, a light one and a dark one, and they’re biting each other’s tails. Inside it’s printed in two different colors—and there are big beautiful capitals at the beginning of the chapters.”

“This is extremely odd,” said Mr. Coreander. “I’ve never had such a book. You can’t have stolen it from me. Maybe you swiped it somewhere else.”

“Oh no!” Bastian assured him. “You must remember. It’s—” He hesitated, but then he blurted it out. “It’s a magic book. While I was reading it, I got into the Neverending Story, and when I came out again, the book was gone.”

Mr. Coreander watched Bastian over his spectacles.

“Would you be pulling my leg, by any chance?”

“No,” said Bastian in dismay. “Of course not. I’m telling you the truth. You must know that.”

Mr. Coreander thought for a while, then shook his head.

“Better tell me all about it. Sit down, boy. Make yourself at home.”

He pointed his pipe stem at a second armchair, facing his own, and Bastian sat down.

“And now,” said Mr. Coreander, “tell me the whole story. But slowly, if you please, and one thing at a time.”

And Bastian told his story.

He told it a little more briefly than he had to his father, but since Mr. Coreander listened with keen interest and kept asking for details, it was more than two hours before Bastian had done.

Heaven knows why, but in all that long time they were not disturbed by a single customer.

When Bastian had finished, Mr. Coreander puffed for a long while, as though deep in thought. At length he cleared his throat, straightened his little spectacles, looked Bastian over, and said: “One thing is sure: You didn’t steal this book from me, because it belongs neither to me nor to you nor to anyone else. If I’m not mistaken, the book itself comes from Fantastica. Maybe at this very moment—who knows?—someone else is reading it.”