Small G: A Summer Idyll

  “Oh.” Her brows relaxed. She unlocked her door. “Now what is it?” she asked, and let the plastic bags slide to the floor. The worried look was back.

  “Sit down,” Rickie said pleasantly. “I’ll sit too.” The tables were turned! “Sit down” meant good news!

  Dorothea took the sofa, Rickie a straight chair.

  “I saw my doctor—Dr. Oberdorfer. I’m not HIV positive. I’m all right! He—”

  “What? Was that an error?” The frown again, the outraged sister.

  “My dear Dorothea—he told me he was trying to teach me a lesson. And he did. A very tough one, OK.”

  “Rickie, talk sense!”

  Rickie took a breath. “In a word—he was determined that I should practice—safe sex. You know.”

  Dorothea did.

  “So I did,” Rickie went on, “since he told me that.”

  Dorothea seemed to struggle. “But Rickie, that’s horrible—what he said.”

  Rickie shrugged. “He said I could sue him and to go ahead.” Now he laughed. “I understand. I said, ‘I don’t want to sue you.’” Rickie looked down at the carpet. “It’s tough—a tough lesson. OK. I’m not angry.” He said the last words feeling humble, like a child punished, knowing the punishment was justified.

  “You’re going to live, Rickie.” Dorothea had a wide smile now.

  “Live a little longer.”

  “You used to say it was a sword of Damocles.”

  “Well, that sword is gone—for me.” He stood up. The correct thing was to go, he thought. No more emotion. “I’ll take off, dear sister.”

  “A quick drink? A good brandy.”

  “No, thanks. Maybe I don’t need it.”

  “Nor I—I couldn’t be happier!”

  “You can tell Mother.” Mother was the respectful term, for rare occasions.

  “Does she know? I never told her.”

  “No? I somehow thought you had. I never did,” he said.

  Dorothea gave a big laugh. “Just as well, isn’t it?”

  Then Rickie was descending in the lift, feeling odd and awkward, as if in another world. He wasn’t going to go around announcing the news, he told himself, just if the subject came up. How many friends had he told, after all? Philip Egli. Freddie Schimmelmann, poor fellow. Take it easy, Rickie told himself. No celebrations.

  THE NEXT DAY, Rickie found a lumpy envelope in his post with Dorrie Wyss’s return address. The bulk was in a second envelope addressed to Luisa. A small sheet of paper bore a note to him:

  Hello, Rickie,

  I know Luisa’s address but—

  I trust you can get this envelope to her by hand, please. Important.

  Love to you,

  D.

  A pity, Rickie thought; he’d just seen Luisa and Renate drinking coffee at Jakob’s. The envelope had something rectangular and flexible in it, and it rattled when he shook it. A keycase. Dorrie’s housekeys. What a good idea! And he could do the same.

  “Oh Rickie,” said Mathilde, swiveling. “You asked me to remind you, Unimat comes today.”

  “Yes. OK. Thank you, Mathilde.” What was it? House paint? Make-up? No, toothbrushes. Rickie had finished his colored rough days ago, a neat drawing of brushes in bristling center and brush handles radiating, multicolored of course, like the petals of a flower, from white to dark purple. “What time?”

  “Three,” said Mathilde.

  Rickie pushed his hands into his pockets and began to walk slowly round his studio, eyes on the floor, the walls, unseeing. His strolls didn’t bother Mathilde. “I’m thinking. Pay no attention,” he might say. He made himself stop pressing the envelope in his right-hand pocket.

  His vision of Freddie Schimmelmann with police cap and thin-lipped, slightly twisted smile yielded to a stronger image of Teddie, the dark-haired boy with the quick, handsome eyes, saying, as he had on the phone two days ago, “Oh, I’m writing another article . . . Yes, aiming for the Tages-Anzeiger.” Teddie wanted to keep trying with this paper, trying to get a toehold. He had been in to see the editor. And of course Teddie had asked Rickie about Luisa, how was she, how did she look, though the iced tea and cake party had been hardly a week ago. “I’d love her to come to my place . . . We could spend a whole day together, if she ever has a day.” No comment from Rickie here. A day that Luisa didn’t have to account for to Renate Hagnauer? Yet how could Renate deny Luisa a lunch date of an hour or so? Well, Renate could and did, that was the answer to that one. Just as drifting nobodies in Zurich could stab and rob someone—anyone—and slope off unpunished, victorious. The world wasn’t dedicated to seeing justice done. Things were often the opposite of what seemed natural and right, which reminded Rickie of his early adolescence, childhood even, when without consulting a book or an adult, God forbid, he had known to keep his juvenile loves quiet, hidden, denied.

  Rickie bumped into the corner of a drawing table, and paused. Teddie was wrapped up in his journalism and in Luisa. He lit a cigarette. Wrapped up in anything but him. Rickie was only a go-between. Teddie hadn’t even expressed regret at not being able to come to the Small g any more: after all, Luisa could come to him.

  And Luisa? He sensed a cooling toward Teddie, not that Luisa had ever been intense, Rickie thought, nothing like the way she’d been about Petey.

  Mathilde, he noticed, was having a Dubonnet with ice. Rickie went to the fridge and took a Heineken. He decided to clean out a certain portfolio in what was left of the morning, chuck sketches that he would never need again. Rickie dragged over his largest metal wastebasket. The telephone rang.

  “Markwalder Studio,” Mathilde said. “Rickie—a girl. I think Luisa.”

  “Good!” Rickie said at once. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Rickie. I’d like to see you—now. Unless you’re tied up, of course.”

  Rickie said he was not busy till three, and to come over. She was at Jakob’s. Rickie went on with his discarding, folding old sketches, sticking them in the basket already lined with plastic for paper conservation.

  Luisa came on the trot, leapt down the stairs and knocked.

  Rickie opened. “Unexpected pleasure!” He wondered if they could talk with Mathilde present. “Something happen?”

  “Hello—Mathilde,” said Luisa. She lingered near the door.

  “Hel-lo,” said Mathilde. “How’re you?” She returned to her work on the computer.

  Luisa whispered: Teddie had rung, and she had managed to answer, when Renate rushed up and snatched the phone from her hand. “‘These are working hours.’ Renate said and she hangs up. It was so shocking—I just ran out. I had to talk to someone—you. The girls heard it all, of course.”

  Rickie gave Luisa a slow wink. “It won’t last forever. Now if you’ve got a minute—” He pulled the wrinkled envelope from his pocket. “From Dorrie this morning.”

  “Dorrie?” Luisa tore off a corner of the envelope. She saw a key case plus a note, an ostrich-leather case with two keys in it.

  “I guessed it,” said Rickie. “And I can do the same—with my keys. You have hideouts—safehouses, Luisa.”

  Luisa blinked, reading the note. “How nice! That’s really friendly. I have to go now, Rickie. I feel so much better! I always do when I see you.” But she was tense again. “’Bye, Mathilde!”

  Rickie watched her vanish up the cement steps. The day was starting in a positive way.

  LUISA HAD HER KEYS, and with the girls still at work, Renate had not played any trick with the inside bolt. Renate might suppose she had gone out to ring Teddie from a phone booth. Luisa felt she had done something bolder, made contact with both Rickie and Dorrie. In her room, Luisa pulled the key case from one pocket and Dorrie’s note from another.

  Dearest Luisa,

  You have a roof and a camp-bed any t
ime in Zurich. Not to mention shower, fridge, and TV.

  See you Saturday? I expect to come to the Small g.

  Love,

  D.

  Saturday was two days off. Luisa rubbed her thumb across the light brown leather of the key case. Elegant! She dropped the case with deliberate casualness into a shallow tray on her dressing table, and left her room to go back to work.

  Renate shot a look at her, but did not interrupt her lecture-in-progress to Vera about a piece of work now in Vera’s machine.

  That evening, Renate did not mention Luisa’s dashing out that morning, and they watched a TV episode of The Trackers, of which Renate was especially fond.

  Luisa would write a note of thanks to Dorrie, easier than phoning, even though she’d see Dorrie Saturday night. And what might she give Dorrie in return? She could make a black velvet vest for Dorrie, or design a jacket. No, a vest. But when could she make it, with Renate peering—everywhere?

  SATURDAY MORNING, LUISA HAD A LETTER from Teddie. The envelope bore a typewritten address and had no sender’s name. Having recognized the type as easily as if Teddie had written it by hand, she pushed the letter into her pocket and deposited the rest of the post on the kitchen table. Renate was in the workroom, where Luisa had emptied the five wastebaskets, and in a few minutes, they were going out to Jakob’s, as on working days. Luisa opened her letter in her room!

  Dearest Luisa,

  I just sent off my finished article to the Tages-A. “A Bump in the Road” or alternative title, “Night Adventure 2,” about being clobbered from behind, after dancing at a Biergarten. Be assured—no names! Didn’t write Jakob’s or the Small g. Or you, God forbid! About being knocked nearly out, and being helped to my nearest friends by total strangers! Human kindness!

  How are you? Please write a note or phone me as I’m usually in by orders. This reminds me, I can’t come to Jakob’s this Sat. night, but shall be thinking of you—dancing, being happy. Doctor says I can go out by next Wed., if I am careful. I take showers now and never think about it. No bandage. The scar will always remind me of you. That may not sound nice, but I mean it in a happy way.

  XX My love, my love, T.

  Luisa and Renate were going to Jakob’s Saturday night and Renate was even creating a dress for herself. This was an electric blue satin, embellished with flat gold braid depicting a serpent with a red eye, and red open mouth. The frowning, spitting dragon might have been a portrait of Renate, Luisa thought, so it was comical to Luisa on Saturday night to see Renate’s finely wrinkled face break out from time to time in quick, polite smiles, almost grins.

  By contrast, Luisa wore a white shirt whose tails hung out, black cotton slacks, and a thin red tie tied in a loose knot, casual gear, though Luisa felt tense and excited. She and Renate arrived shortly before ten. The dance floor swayed to “The Tennessee Waltz,” and a few of the dancers clowned to the sentimental melody. Luisa had a glimpse of Rickie at a table in the far corner to the right, then she avoided looking at him, lest Renate make a remark. Three strangers sat at the long table that Renate liked to think of as hers.

  “A coffee?” Luisa asked.

  “A white wine,” replied Renate.

  Luisa took her time getting to the front bar to order. First there was already a dense crowd, and second, Luisa loved feeling lost for a few seconds, moving toward invisibility, among a lot of people. It was the opposite of being stared at.

  “’Evening, Luisa!” said Ursie, working two beer taps.

  Luisa gave her order, wine and a small beer, and paid, then made her way carefully back to the long table. She was glad to render this service for Renate, because she knew Renate’s shyness about her crippled foot. It even pained Luisa a little that Renate tonight hadn’t bothered putting on one of her pretty slippers, of which she had five or six singles. Some were of patent leather, one of pale blue kid. One foot could show, the other must not, so most of the time Renate chose to hide them both.

  “Who’re you looking for?” asked Renate.

  Luisa hesitated. “No one!” She had, in fact, glanced over the dance floor for Dorrie, and hadn’t seen her. Still standing, Luisa saw Rickie in the far corner, talking with one of his friends. “I’ll be back!” she said to Renate, and started toward Rickie, circling the dancers to her left.

  Renate had a moment before pulled her sketchpad from her big handbag, and lit the cigarette in the long black holder. The present scene wasn’t ideal for sketching: young people in cool and careless garb, older ones in square-tailed sportshirts and loose summer dresses. A loud young man occupied the half-open telephone booth, and another fellow yelled at him to wind it up.

  “Rickie!” Luisa was smiling, making progress, but he hadn’t heard her.

  Then he shouted, “Ah, Luisa! Here she comes! Make room!”

  But nobody did make room, though Philip waved cheerily and the dark-haired Ernst called a greeting. Beer and wine glasses and ashtrays covered the table.

  Philip got up from a chair. “Dance?”

  Luisa pushed her beer onto the table.

  The lanky and limber Philip danced at a little distance from her. He wore white slacks, white shirt scarcely buttoned, and a T-shirt beneath. His hands were cool. How did he manage that? When Luisa touched his side, she felt his ribs.

  “Weren’t you taking exams?” she shouted.

  “Yep! Passed ’em!” Philip waved a hand.

  Luisa glanced toward the main door, the big bar, and saw Dorrie coming in, wearing a red vest, white shirt, and dark trousers. Was she alone? Luisa didn’t look again.

  They went back to the table. Above Rickie on the broad partition behind him sat an old-fashioned electric fan that turned slowly in a semicircle back and forth.

  “Your friend—Rickie’s friend,” Philip began, “the one who was hurt—”

  “Teddie. I heard from him today,” Luisa said. “His doctor says he can go out next Wednesday. Leave the house, I suppose. I should tell Rickie. Or you can.”

  Philip did, leaning across the table. “Teddie’s circulating again next Wednesday!”

  Rickie gave Luisa a slow nod of thanks for this information.

  Luisa realized with a start that Dorrie stood beside her, smiling, greeting Rickie, and giving a general “Good evening!” to the others.

  “No chairs? Must we dance all ni-i-ight?” Dorrie yelled in English.

  “Ye-es!” someone shouted.

  “Are you by yourself tonight?” asked Dorrie.

  “By myself—” Luisa, abashed, tried to laugh. Dorrie wore greenish eye shadow, spooky and effective. “Didn’t you see my boss—over at the usual table?”

  “No! I didn’t and who wants to see her?”

  “You alone?”

  “Ye-es!” said Dorrie firmly. “I have a date with you. Want to dance?”

  Luisa laughed, embarrassed. “Maybe later.” It was a good song, and the dance floor was filling. “Dorrie—the key case—it’s beautiful! Thank you.”

  “Most welcome—you are. You must make use of it.” She turned to Rickie. “How’re you, Rickie? And how’s Lulu?”

  “Umph!” said Lulu, which pleased Dorrie, but Rickie at once said, “That means she’s bored and wants some action.” Rickie sank out of sight, followed by Lulu, and reappeared on the other side of the table, wobbling to his feet. A man had got up to let him through. “Enough exercise to last me till next year! Come, dear Lulu!”

  Rickie extended his palms, and suddenly Lulu was on Rickie’s shoulders. “Bravo!” He steadied her with both hands on her sides, then off they glided to the music, Lulu’s forepaws on one shoulder, her hind feet on the other.

  “Look!”

  “It’s a statue!”

  “A real dog! Sure!”

  Lulu was as still as a white statue, however, her exp
ression calm. She was doing her work. The crowd gave her a hand, not a big one, but a hand, because she was balancing herself now. Some shouted her name. Ernst Koelliker whistled his admiration. Rickie was taller than most of the crowd, the dog still higher.

  “Yee-aye, Lulu!”

  Rickie smiled. He had rehearsed Lulu once at home, but tonight she excelled herself, because the crowd put her on her mettle.

  The music improved, which was to say it became a loud irresistible beat that got a lot of people up. Couples became groups. Luisa moved off with one hand held by Philip, the other by Dorrie. There seemed to be two circles of hand-holding people. Luisa had a glimpse of Rickie moving toward his corner table, with Lulu still on his shoulders.

  People were chanting “Group-a” or was it “Grappa”? A teenaged boy in blue jeans fell, and stayed on the floor rotating on his backside, with arms and legs outspread. Laughter. A blur of faces.

  Minutes later, when people at Rickie’s table had ordered food and more drinks, it occurred to Luisa with a faint pang of guilt that she ought to go back to Renate for a moment and see if she wanted to order something or go home. It took Luisa a few minutes to get there. A stranger asked her about “the boy who was attacked . . .” and Luisa gave her cheerful “next Wednesday” news. Luisa got within sight of Renate’s long table, and found it entirely occupied by people she didn’t know. Luisa looked toward the crowded bar section. No Renate in sight. Five minutes past midnight, she saw on her watch. That did give her a shock, that so much time had passed. Was Renate going to be angry when she got home? But Renate could have sent Andy with a message, if the lateness were that important. Luisa went back to her friends.

  23

  “Can I see your room?” Dorrie whispered.

  Luisa, surprised by the question, looked up at the house ahead: no light in the top window. See her room. And why not, Luisa thought? She and Dorrie had just been dancing together, not the only two girls or two fellows dancing together at the Small g tonight.

  “Why not?” Luisa whispered back. “Renate’s probably gone to bed, so we’d better be quiet.”