“Oh no!” said Rickie. “Leave that!”
“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Georg pulled out a ten-franc note which he dropped on the table. “Can I walk you home?”
“Best not,” said Luisa. “But thank you, Teddie. And thanks, Rickie.”
“Old witch would bite your head off!” said Rickie to Georg, now Teddie. “I’ll see you to Renate.”
Rickie did, led the way for Luisa between tables and dancers toward the old witch’s table. Lulu kept her calm on his shoulders, her eyes on a level higher than his.
“Look at Lulu!” someone yelled.
“Good evening,” Rickie said politely, bowing as much as Lulu permitted.
Renate, elegant in probably real gold earrings, slender necklace, the shocking-pink blouse and a satin skirt—long, of course—did not remove the cigarette holder from her mouth. She stood up, ignoring Rickie neatly, he realized, and shuffled her way round the corner of the table. Willi Biber stood at the table end nearer the bar and the door, without the wit to pull the table a little way toward him to assist Renate in getting out.
“Bonne nuit,” said Rickie sweetly to Renate. “Und schönen Sonntag!”
Pretending he was invisible, Rickie supposed, was Renate’s highest order of contempt. But Luisa was able to throw him a quick smile, at least, before she had to give ear to Renate. They were walking toward the door and home, the short, tense Renate and the lithe young Luisa, so politely listening to Renate’s mumbling.
And there was Dorrie Wyss! With a girl Rickie didn’t know. They were dancing, the short-haired blonde Dorrie moving with a beautiful energy, jumping as if on springs. People chanted, “One—two—three—four!”
“Dorrie!” Rickie cried, but she couldn’t hear him. The brunette with her was quite pretty, about twenty, with large silver circles in her earlobes. A new romance, Rickie supposed. Dorrie didn’t come every week to the Small g.
The music ended before Rickie got back to his table, and he sought Dorrie’s attention again, raised a hand.
And with a look of surprise, she raised a finger, index first, then a different finger, laughing.
Rickie pointed to the corner to tell her where he would be, and he saw her nod agreement. People shifted to make room for Rickie and Lulu on the bench. Georg was standing at the other end of the table, looking over the scene.
“Is your handsome friend tied up tonight—completely?” Ernst whispered in Rickie’s ear.
“Don’t you know by now?” Rickie replied. “What were you doing while I was gone?”
“Anything’s possible. My motto. Philip’s interested, too. He just went to the gents.”
“Philip is gadding about too much,” said Rickie with deliberate primness. “Exams coming up—” He saw Ernst’s gaze move again to Georg, or Teddie, dreamily.
Dorrie arrived, by herself. “Rickie! I’m back! Haven’t seen you in . . .”
Philip returned, Rickie introduced him, and from a distance Georg. Dorrie did know Ernst. Dorrie wasn’t in a sitting mood.
“Who was the pretty girl with you?” Dorrie asked, gesturing toward Renate’s table.
“You see? You don’t come here often enough!” Rickie said. “We have lovely girls here—”
“Answer my question!” Dorrie tugged her red waistcoat down gently. She wore attractive garb tonight, dark blue corduroys, white shirt, red waistcoat with brass buttons.
“Luisa,” Rickie said finally, and saw Georg glance at him.
“One of us?” asked Dorrie.
“Not sure,” Rickie said. “But you never know.” He felt mellow now, and loved the din around him.
“Kim,” Dorrie said, as her dark-haired friend with the earrings came up. Unlike Dorrie, whose straight blonde hair and blue eyes hardly needed adornment, Kim wore lipstick, and her short hair had been lacquered en brosse on top, while the short sides looked like a prison job. “She works with me just now. My assistant!” Dorrie said.
“How convenient,” Rickie replied, thinking that Kim’s hair reminded him of certain shoe brushes.
Dorrie Wyss was a windowdresser, and worked freelance for some of the finest stores and shops in Zurich. A crazy occupation, persuading window-shoppers to buy at the highest prices what they didn’t need. But wasn’t his work exactly the same—except that he made drawings?
“May I offer you beautiful girls something to drink?” Rickie asked.
“Thanks, Rickie, we want to dance.” Dorrie smiled, tense with nervous energy. “See you!”
“Come back—here!” Rickie shouted, pointing, not knowing what he himself meant—tonight or next week or both.
“If you bring Luisa!” Dorrie yelled over her shoulder.
10
A little after 1 A.M., Rickie and Teddie stood talking outside Jakob’s. His name was Teddie Stevenson, his mother was Swiss, his father American, Teddie had explained. He had told Rickie a different name, because—well, why?—because he liked to feel like another person, somebody else now and then.
“I’ve never done anyone any harm by it,” Teddie said. “I’m not trying to cover up anything.”
“Oh, I understand,” Rickie said, only half understanding.
Rickie had by now learned that Teddie had finished his military service, had acquired his Matura, and had told his mother that he wanted to relax for a few months, maybe several months, and decide what he wanted to do in life, and would she put up with that, let him live at home? And even be a little patient, Teddie had said. His mother had agreed. Rickie gathered that she was ambitious for her son. Teddie’s father was a “business consultant,” a term of vague meaning to Rickie.
“He had a company in New York, but he travels—to Paris, Milan, even Miami. Even Zurich, but when he’s here, he doesn’t usually see my mother. They may speak on the phone. After all, they’re divorced.”
From Jakob’s now came a drunken whoop.
“Big family?” asked Rickie, stalling for time, thinking that Teddie was going to aim for a taxi, phone for one in the next seconds.
Teddie looked as if he were tired of talking about family and self. “One sister. Married, lives in Boston.”
“Look—” Rickie took a breath. “As I said—Teddie—you’re welcome at my house tonight. Plenty of room.”
Teddie hesitated a couple of seconds only. “OK. All right. I will. Thank you, Rickie.”
They began to walk.
“Rickie!” A last tipsy hail from Jakob’s. “’Bye, Rickie—Lulu!”
Rickie lifted an arm in reply, half turning, and Lulu for an instant had pointed her nose at the shouter. “You phone your mother from my place, if you like.”
Teddie nodded. “I will.”
Rickie, once home, became the gracious host. “The telephone,” he said with a gesture.
The boy grimaced at the prospect but went and phoned at once.
Rickie barely heard him saying, “. . . I am sorry it’s late, but—perfectly OK . . . Yes . . . definitely . . .”
“All right, is it?” Rickie asked when the boy had hung up.
Teddie nodded. “Fine. No problem. Saturday night—my mother always reads late, so it wasn’t so bad.”
Rickie had been finding a clean towel and face cloth. “This will be in the bathroom,” Rickie said, going in that direction, and on returning, asked, “Are you hungry?”
“No, thank you.”
But twenty-year-olds were always hungry. Somewhat tipsy, Rickie had decided that Teddie should have his bed, the double one, while he would take the oversized sofa in the living room. He so informed Teddie, and turned his own double bed down and changed the sheets doggedly over Teddie’s polite protests. Teddie went to take a shower, Rickie seized the interval to put on pajamas, got a blue pair out for the boy, and laid them at the foot of the do
uble bed.
Teddie came out of the bathroom wearing only his underpants. An unbelievably handsome figure, a moving statue, barefoot, lithe, indifferent to Rickie’s gaze.
Rickie then took his shower, and emerged in pajamas and slippers.
The boy had donned the blue pajamas and was reading something, sitting on the edge of Rickie’s double bed, with the lamp on. He got to his feet. “I wanted to say good night, Rickie. And thanks. You’re sure it’s all right—like this?” He meant taking Rickie’s bed.
“But of course,” said Rickie, the affable host. He went to the kitchen, took a waxed paper with sliced prosciutto from the fridge, plopped it all on a plate and brought it into the bedroom. “Let us have one,” Rickie said. “A housewarming—a bite before bedtime, a—”
Teddie smiled and took a slice with his fingers, shook it, and tilted his head back as if he were eating asparagus.
Rickie set the plate on his dresser and did the same. “Good, is it not?”
“Delicious!”
“More.”
“No, thanks,” said Teddie.
“Some wine?” asked Rickie. “Coke!”
“No, I’m pooped. Glass o’ water.”
“Mineral? Cold?”
“Vom Fass!” Teddie said, grinning, looking tired.
Rickie presented a glass of tap water. “Milk? There is plenty.”
“Really, no. And thank you for the pajamas.”
Rickie looked at his slightly blurred vision of the Golden Boy, as Ernst or someone had called Teddie tonight. “I wish I had a color photo of you—like you are now,” Rickie blurted. “Good night, Teddie.” Rickie turned, just a little unsteadily, and feeling very noble.
“’Night.” The boy reached for the lamp switch.
Rickie crept between the folded sheet on the big sofa in the next room, pulled a thin blanket over him, intending to savor the evening, feel to his core the fact that Teddie Stevenson, the handsome one with his dark, level eyes, his dark hair still short from the military (so Rickie supposed), his body beyond Rickie’s power of description, more like an aesthetic impact than something solid—this creature of dream was sleeping in the next room and in his own bed! Rickie fell asleep while preparing himself for luxurious cogitation.
Around dawn Rickie awakened, and realized that he had to urinate, before he recalled that—Teddie was in the next room! Quietly Rickie got up, though with carpet everywhere, it would have been difficult to be noisy. He went via the hall, not glancing at the pale rectangle of his bed past the open door. And what if he were dreaming that Teddie were there, that he’d put a fantasy to bed there? And maybe Teddie had got up in the last couple of hours and departed—via the balcony window? Was he real or not? Teddie might as well be a fantasy for all the luck he would have in becoming Teddie’s lover!
Once more, Rickie slept, more lightly and with dreams. In one of the dreams, he and Teddie were in Venice. Teddie wore a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit and a straw hat, and presented such an attractive figure that everyone, and all things, like pigeons, turned to look. Teddie rode in a gondola, standing up, lifting his straw hat.
Rickie awakened. He had drawn the curtains, and had to peer at his watch: eight twenty-five. Teddie. Really Teddie? He was afraid to look and see. Breakfast. Good coffee. He had bread, eggs, the prosciutto. He went down a short hall to the kitchen. With the drip coffee started, he entered the bedroom to get some clothes.
Now he looked at the bed. Yes, there was Teddie, sound asleep, and it seemed with an erection. He could see it peaking the sheet. Normal, Rickie thought, especially at that age. How nice it would be to creep into that big bed, to begin without waking Teddie, to have him in his possession, as it were, before Teddie came fully awake! Rickie almost tried it, almost let his clothes drop (those in his hands), and didn’t. It might ruin everything, if there was anything to ruin.
Rickie dressed, shaved in the bathroom, tidied the sofa back to normal, and set the shiny table in the dining area with plates, napkins, orange juice.
Teddie woke up after nine, and sat up, visible through a doorway.
“Good morning!” Rickie called. “Coffee?”
Yes.
The dream continued. Coffee, and Teddie disappeared for a few minutes in the bathroom and came back. A boiled egg for each. Toast and Rickie’s best strawberry preserves, English brand. There he sat, in Rickie’s blue pajamas! He had a small mole on his right cheek, heavier black eyebrows than Rickie had thought. But the overall effect dazzled Rickie.
“Have you plans for today?” Rickie dared to ask.
“My mother and I— It’s a friend of hers. We have to go to lunch there.” Teddie smiled, licked coffee from his upper lip. “I promised.”
Rickie was focusing on the faint fuzz of a beard, some darker hair along Teddie’s jawline. It could not be said that Teddie needed a shave, not in Rickie’s opinion, anyway. He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you—do things to please your mum.” Then Rickie burst out in a short laugh, sounding and feeling like himself.
So did the boy laugh. “Sometimes,” with a shrug. “She was nice to me when I was at school—when my father was calling me lazy—” Teddie squirmed and glanced at his wristwatch. “Sorry. I’m OK for time. When my father more or less gave me up because I had to take a couple of subjects twice—my mother was always patient about it.”
“Good.” Feeling stupid, Rickie looked down at his empty eggshell. “I hope to see you again, Teddie! At our local, the Small g. It’s so marked in gay bar and restaurant guides; not totally gay, just partly, that means. Otherwise known as Jakob’s for an owner who died—ages ago. Best on Saturday nights, but not bad on Fridays. And—you must see my studio—where I work. Just two steps from here. Same street. If you have a couple of minutes.”
“Studio? You’re a painter?”
Rickie waved a hand deprecatingly. “Mediocre one. Some of these.” He gestured toward his gliding white birds. “The birds.”
“You did these?”
Rickie could see that Teddie was impressed. The boy got up for a closer look. Impressed, Rickie thought, because the paintings were neat, on canvas, brought off, successful. But great, no.
Then it seemed, in no time, he and Teddie were out on the pavement, the boy in the white clothes of last evening, and not needing to borrow a sweater, unfortunately, because the day was already warm. Teddie was going to take the tram home.
Click!
Rickie unlocked his studio door, and the yacking pair of white plaster ladies caught Teddie’s attention first.
“Oh, I like that!” Teddie smiled broadly.
Rickie showed him his work-in-progress—acrylic lipstick yet again—his enlarging machine, the kitchenette and the little room off it with a couch that was a single bed, and the bath with shower. Rickie got one of his business cards from a box, and added his home number. “Keep this. And if you ever want a change of scene—a meal—an evening at Jakob’s—”
“Thanks.” Teddie stuck the card in a back pocket.
“You’ve got your wallet?”
“Oh yes,” said Teddie, slapping a front pocket now.
“Enough money? If you need to take a taxi—”
“No, I don’t. I saw a tram stop . . .” He was ready to fly.
Lulu, sitting near the two plaster ladies, observed and listened.
“Phone me some time,” Rickie said.
“Oh sure. It’s an interesting place, Jakob’s,” shifting on his feet.
“May I kiss you on the cheek—good-bye?” Rickie saw the boy give a quick, shy smile, before the boy’s arms enveloped him, squeezed hard, and Rickie had no time to respond before Teddie laughed and released him.
“Thank you, Rickie. And I’ll phone you.”
And Teddie was out, climbing the cement steps
two at a time.
Rickie closed the door, looked at the attentive Lulu, then let his eyes wander around the emptiness of his studio. Had it all happened? Yes. Teddie had just been here, Teddie Stevenson. Rickie wandered slowly the route that Teddie had taken, past the sink and the short hall that led to the WC behind a white door, past a couple of tables and the tall bamboo in its white pot, past the window that revealed part of the cement steps.
A few minutes later, he was back in his flat, dreamily tidying, leaving his tousled bed to the last. It would be a long time before he changed those sheets.
And he hadn’t asked Teddie for his number! On the other hand, Rickie didn’t fancy Teddie’s mother answering. His voice didn’t sound like a teenager’s. He suddenly recollected Teddie’s hard embrace on his departure, like the embrace of a comrade before setting off—for the North Pole, maybe, or the Matterhorn. Nothing sexy about it. And Rickie remembered his interest in Luisa. Well and good. Luisa in the neighborhood—she was a nice attraction, a reason for Teddie to visit again.
Rickie opened a small beer, and forced himself to give thought to a decision he had to make about an all-purpose liquid detergent called Star-Brite.
The telephone rang so shockingly loud in the silence that the little bottle nearly slipped from his fingers. He was suddenly back with Teddie, thought it might be Teddie ringing—hadn’t he had time to get home?—and Rickie picked up the telephone with slightly trembling hand. “Hello?”
“Hello, Rickie,” said a female voice, his sister’s. “What’re you doing?”
“Oh—” hesitantly.
“I’d like to invite you for lunch . . . Come on. The Kronenhalle. Something nice. Robbie’s off for a motorboat ride with his friend Rudi on the lake . . .”
Rickie wavered. After all it was Sunday, and Dorothea sounded so warm and friendly. “The Kronenhalle—” One of the fanciest, heaviest places in town. “All right, Dorothea. With pleasure. And what time?”