Small G: A Summer Idyll

  Renate said, “I gather our Willi will have visitors this afternoon at three?”

  “Ye-es, he had a notice—in the post—and he brought it to us to read to him. And they also telephoned. A man called Senn, Detektiv. And another who is a doctor.” Therese Wenger spoke softly and clearly.

  “Oh? What kind of doctor?”

  “I didn’t ask. But we’ll be here to help Willi. Of course it makes him nervous,” said Therese calmly.

  “Of course! I don’t know why they want to see him again. I shall come over, Therese—just before three, if that’s all right with you.”

  It was of course all right with Therese.

  Just after two-forty, Renate spoke to her girls, said she was going out, probably for less than an hour, and were there any questions now?

  There were not.

  When Luisa heard the blessed click of the apartment door, she stood up. Check with Rickie. Something was going on.

  “Who wants another coffee?” Vera yelled.

  “With cake? Yes! Who’s serving?” asked Stefanie, grinning, her blonde hair dark with sweat above her forehead.

  “I will,” said Elsie, and got up.

  Luisa knew Rickie’s studio number by heart. She dialed it in the sitting room.

  In a few seconds, Rickie was on the line.

  “Excuse me, Rickie. Is there something happening today—now—”

  “They’re asking our simple friend a few questions today at three. Freddie told me. At L’Eclair, you know. The—authorities.”

  “I think Renate just went there,” Luisa said.

  “I am not surprised. Can you phone me around six today at my apartment?”

  “I’ll try. I’ll have to get out, of course, to phone.”

  IN KARL AND THERESE WENGER’S TEAROOM, five ladies were having tea and pastry, two pairs and one single at the tables. And Willi Biber was at work in the generous kitchen behind this room, washing mixing bowls and baking pans in the big sink. On Frau Wenger’s orders, he wore a loose yellow shirt over his sagging T-shirt, but he had already got the rolled-up sleeves wet, because they had sagged with his activities. Still, the arrival of the police and their entry into L’Eclair’s kitchen came at a time when Willi was respectably employed, and not three meters from his modest dwelling.

  “Willi?” said Frau Wenger, who preceded the men into the kitchen. “Your friend Frau Renate is here. And here is—”

  “Thomas Senn,” said the sturdy blond man in civvies, with a polite smile.

  “Officer Schimmelmann,” said Freddie. He carried a brown paper-wrapped package which he held in both hands.

  “Dr. Faas,” said a smallish, mustached man of about forty.

  Willi looked but didn’t even vaguely acknowledge these introductions.

  “Willi, if you dry your hands—I thought we might go up to my apartment.” Frau Wenger stood straight and attentive.

  “No, Madame,” said Thomas Senn, “we would like to go where the accident happened. That was in a street near here, I believe.” Senn was ready to move.

  Out they all went then, except Frau Wenger, into the warm sunlight. Feldenstrasse with its row of plane trees was two streets away. Hatless now, Willi towered over the others, even over Senn who was a tall man.

  “So,” said Senn, having glanced at a house number on his left. “Here by this tree—”

  Renate could see an X in chalk, worn but still there, on the pavement near the tree. She caught Willi’s eye, gave him a nod and a small smile of reassurance, almost a wink. He was sweating with nervousness, she could see.

  “Officer—” Senn gestured.

  Officer Schimmelmann at once pushed the cord off an end of the package, and pulled out the tripod section with its scratched yellow paint.

  “Do you know this object, Herr Biber?” asked Detective Senn. “Seen it before? It was found in the walk there—just behind you.”

  Renate said, “I think you should not put ideas in his head, sir. You see that he is handicapped.” She wished that Therese—so helpfully pro-Willi, so used to him—had come along, but she had casually stayed behind to tend the tearoom.

  “That’s why I’m here, Madame,” said Dr. Faas amiably, “to make sure Herr Biber is treated fairly—no pressure. I understand the situation. We all do. But it is necessary to ask a few things.”

  “Yes,” said Senn. “Just names to begin with. Teddie. You know a young man called Teddie?”

  Willi shook his head slowly. “No.”

  “Or Petey,” said Officer Schimmelmann. “You knew a young man named Petey, I think—several months ago?”

  Renate stamped a foot. “What are we talking about—and who?” She shot a glare at Schimmelmann, the little chum of Rickie Markwalder, an evasive type, no friend of hers or of Willi’s, certainly, and why a friend of Markwalder’s? Had Markwalder given him money? “I thought we were talking about a boy called Teddie—whom Willi does not know. Willi said to the officer here the other day that he didn’t know Teddie. Remember, Officer?”

  “Yes, Madame,” replied Officer Schimmelmann.

  Detective Senn said, “There are some coincidences. Peter Ritter was a friend of Herr Markwalder. So is Teddie Stevenson. Herr Markwalder has reason to know that Willi Biber—frankly, knew both by sight, anyway. Willi Biber was at Jakob’s bar last Saturday night and departed at a time when he could—could have followed Teddie—”

  “Stevenson,” Officer Schimmelmann put in. He had set one end of the metal piece on the pavement and kept his hand on the other end.

  “I’ll show the way it could have happened.” Senn reached for the metal piece, and the police officer presented it horizontally. Senn had stuck his notepad into a pocket. He took a couple of paces into the front path, turned, and held the metal in a position to use as a ram or to throw a short distance. He took a quick step toward the curb with it.

  Renate flinched.

  Willi’s expression did not change.

  Senn said, “Like that.” His voice was calm and neutral, and he was watching Willi Biber without staring at him. “But of course we’re not sure this was the weapon—” He went into the path again and stamped on a part of it. “Just because it was found here. Do you remember anything about this, Herr Biber?” Senn asked casually.

  Renate looked at Willi, but he was not looking at her.

  “No,” said Willi.

  “Have you ever seen this yellow—tripod piece before?”

  “No,” said Willi, shaking his head now.

  Renate sighed, as if with impatience. “This neighborhood has its share of drifters—troublemakers—on a Saturday night.” She addressed Senn.

  A window rattled above them. A man on the second floor of the next house looked out, curious. Senn paid him no mind.

  “What’s the trouble?” the man asked.

  After a few seconds, Senn said, “Nothing.”

  The man continued to watch.

  “Willi, did you know Teddie’s car was here?” Officer Schimmelmann asked, pointing toward the X on the pavement.

  “Yes,” said Willi.

  “He—then you know Teddie, Herr Biber? By sight, I mean. You know Teddie when you see him?”

  Willi looked to Renate, who was frowning and taking a deep breath.

  “Again,” said Renate, “you’re trying to tell him what he knows or doesn’t know! Dr. Faas—”

  “No, it’s a fair question,” said Dr. Faas. “Herr Biber, do you know Teddie when you see him?”

  Willi looked at a loss, as if he were thinking: Yes or no, and why? “Yes,” he said finally, positively.

  “Good,” said Detective Senn, visibly relaxing. “At least it’s something!” he added with a smile to Renate and to the police officer. “Herr Biber, do you remember seein
g Teddie at Jakob’s Biergarten—last Saturday night? The fireworks night?”

  “Yes,” said Willi, with a nod.

  “Do you remember when he left? Went out of Jakob’s?”

  Willi thought. “No.”

  “When you left?”

  “When?” asked Willi.

  “What time was it—about—when you left Jakob’s?”

  “No,” said Willi. His tone was flat.

  “He’s quite vague about time,” Renate murmured. “That question is useless.”

  Senn wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and made a note.

  “When you left Jakob’s—Saturday night—what did you do?”

  Renate gave a short, positive nod, which she doubted if Willi saw. She had rehearsed this one with Willi.

  “I went home.”

  Renate felt relief. Willi was not going to be shaken here, she was sure.

  On that note, the questioning seemed to be over. Senn looked at the doctor, who gave no sign, but merely closed his notebook.

  They began to walk in the direction of L’Eclair and Renate’s street. Willi, practical in his way, had lowered the sleeves of his yellow shirt to let them dry during the questioning, and now he rolled them up again in preparation for dishwashing.

  Good-byes and thank-yous and forced smiles all round, except for Willi, who didn’t bother with either.

  The police car was parked near L’Eclair with a POLIZEI card behind its windscreen. Renate lingered, looked back long enough to see that Officer Schimmelmann got into the car along with the doctor and Senn, who was driving. The car was not going in Markwalder’s direction.

  FREDDIE SCHIMMELMANN TELEPHONED just after six, when Rickie had been home hardly ten minutes.

  “Not great news,” Freddie said. “I was there, so was Renate. I thought it was better if I didn’t go over to see you afterward, Rickie, with the doctor and Senn there. I don’t want them to think we’re that chummy, y’know?”

  “And what happened?”

  “Not much. Willi denies he even saw that piece of metal, which we had with us today. He does admit knowing Teddie’s car was parked in that spot—admits that he knows Teddie on sight. But the rest—Renate was there, trying to steer him. Rickie, my hunch is it may be best to forget it. After all, Teddie’s not badly hurt. It’s a . . .”

  Rickie’s attention drifted. Yes, Teddie would mend, with an ugly but not big scar there.

  “Happens often that we can’t find the person who struck the blow, or stole the car—or we can’t prove anything if we do. So we have to let it go. But the incident is on record, of course.”

  “I know. I understand.”

  Rickie hung up, feeling that Renate had scored another little victory. Not so little with Willi unscathed, and maybe the police would not question him again. He should’ve asked Freddie about that. And Teddie scared off the premises, forbidden the neighborhood by his mother. Not bad, Frau Hagnauer.

  Frowning, he stood taller, and drew in his abdomen as much as he could. He felt rotten.

  Again his telephone rang.

  “Hello, Rickie, Luisa. Have you got any news?”

  “Willi says he never saw that piece of metal—that he went home from Jakob’s that night. But you know, Renate is just too interested. Why is she so interested, if he’s innocent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to come here for a nice cold Coke?”

  “Yes, but I can’t. I’m out buying buns at L’Eclair and I’m a little shy about phoning from here.”

  Rickie understood. “You know, my sweet, pop into my studio or apartment whenever you have a spare ten minutes. You don’t have to telephone first.”

  22

  “The news is good,” said Dr. Oberdorfer in anything but a cheerful tone.

  Rickie squeezed the telephone. The doctor had rung him.

  He was standing in his atelier, looking at Mathilde, who was paying him no mind, pecking out something on her computer, a pink Dubonnet at hand. “Then—why do you want to see me? Can’t you tell me now?”

  “I’d like to tell you face to face,” said the doctor. “Unless you have something very important to do just now, could you come to my office within the next hour?”

  Rickie of course said he could, even though he had an appointment at four that he might not be able to get back for. A new client. Wristwatches. Rickie asked Mathilde please to ring that company’s number, and beg off for him. “Something more important has turned up,” Rickie said. He felt that he was pale in the face.

  Before Mathilde telephoned, Rickie dialed for a radio taxi. “Soon as you can, please.” He’d get there with minimum effort. Then Rickie told Mathilde he thought he would be back within an hour—if not, he’d telephone. He went up to stand on the pavement till the taxi came. Had Dr. Oberdorfer heard of some mitigating drug in regard to HIV? Something that definitely prolonged the “incubation” stage in the lymph cells, before hell broke out somewhere?

  So what? Rickie asked himself, trying the philosophical tack. It was only a question of time, wasn’t it? Death, for anybody, was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? When was the very personal question, unfair to ask, except that with HIV it was sooner, or soon. That much was certain. Rickie had succeeded in squelching his anxiety about every little lump, real or imagined, on his neck, for instance. He had gone at least twice to Dr. Oberdorfer with pounding heart and unnecessarily. He no longer looked daily for a purple spot on his legs, Kaposi’s syndrome, just maybe twice a week. Now Dr. Oberdorfer had brought the time factor back: he had “good news,” meaning (what else?) some means, some new drug that was going to prolong his life, maybe by three years, maybe by a few months. Nice, of course, when you’re at the end. Maybe not to be sneered at.

  Rickie rang the bell at Dr. Oberdorfer’s office door, and was admitted by the fiftyish female nurse whose face Rickie knew well. It was a lean, neutral face with an expression that Rickie felt was professionally acquired: though very slightly “pleasant,” it gave away no hint of life or death in the news to come.

  “Oh yes, I think he’s ready now, Herr Markwalder.”

  Rickie went into Dr. Oberdorfer’s private office, which had a desk and chair and two other chairs, and whose walls bore no pictures, only framed diplomas.

  “Sit down,” said the doctor, words Rickie had dreaded.

  Rickie thought people were asked to sit when the news was going to floor them. He sat with head high, attentive.

  Now the doctor smiled. “And what do you hear from your young friend—Stevenson?”

  “Oh—better every day, I think. Doing well.”

  Dr. Oberdorfer cleared his throat. “Herr Markwalder, I have good news for you. You are clear of the HIV problem.”

  Rickie didn’t understand. “What?”

  “Yes. You’ve been using condoms? Lately?”

  Rickie’s mind spun back to Freddie, Rickie’s latest, that night with him. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

  “Not so difficult, is it?”

  “N-no.”

  “I was testing you. I’ll confess that. A two-month test, you might say. Do you understand?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “I confess I wanted to give you a real shock.” The doctor’s voice had become soft and Rickie had to strain to hear. “For your own good. I wanted you to find out you can live with ‘safe sex,’ if you understand me.”

  Rickie was beginning to. He was beginning to relax, and he had a long way to go.

  “It’s—no doubt out of order, what I did. You could sue me. I mean what I say. Go ahead and sue me, if you want to.”

  At that moment, Rickie felt like embracing Dr. Oberdorfer, shaking his hand, pressing it till the doctor cried for mercy.

  “I’ve never done such a thing before,” said Dr
. Oberdorfer, still speaking in a clear, low voice. “Maybe I won’t ever again. It would’ve been quite awkward for me, if you’d committed suicide, and left a note.”

  Rickie gave a short, loud laugh, which sounded odd, like a dog’s bark, not like his laughter. In fact, he didn’t feel like himself. He felt simply odd.

  “I like you, Herr Markwalder, but you lead a careless life. You take chances.”

  Now Rickie understood, completely. “I don’t feel like suing you.”

  Dr. Oberdorfer gave a small, rare smile. “Good. Well, that’s all. Except I shall say I hope you keep on—you know—taking life the safe way. All right?”

  Rickie stood up. Their handshake was firm. Rickie had extended his hand first.

  The inscrutable nurse again, then the second door closed.

  Must tell his sister Dorothea. Rickie walked. What would she say about Dr. Oberdorfer’s behavior? Rickie realized he was walking in the wrong direction for home or even a bus. He turned, and after a few brisk steps went back to his thoughtful pace. He was not going to die soon, that was the happy news. And he didn’t hate his doctor. “They’re very young kids,” Rickie remembered himself saying to Dr. Oberdorfer, months ago, remembered with shame now: sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds he’d picked up, anywhere. The kind who would manage to clean out his wallet, if he took them home, which he did, often. “You think the young ones can’t carry diseases just the same as the older ones?” Dr. Oberdorfer had asked. And he’d been looking for more of the same the night he had found Freddie Schimmelmann.

  For the umpteenth time in his life, Rickie told himself he was lucky.

  A quarter of an hour later, Rickie was pacing thoughtfully in the lobby of Dorothea’s apartment building. Dorothea was out. Shopping, probably, but it was nearer five than four now, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t have to wait long.

  “Rickie!” Here was Dorothea with two big plastic shopping bags. “How nice to see you! Something the matter?”

  “No. Got some news,” Rickie said. “Tell you upstairs. May I?”

  “But of course!”

  The lift. Silence. Dorothea had a worried look.

  “Good news,” Rickie said.