Small G: A Summer Idyll

by Patricia Highsmith

  Rickie stopped himself from asking why. Luisa had her moods, she would have her reason.

  Dorrie looked surprised. “OK, the three of us. Come on, Rickie.”

  “Can’t. Won’t.”

  Then Luisa was in the BMW with Dorrie, heading toward Zurich’s center. Dorrie said she knew a restaurant called Der Fang.

  “Cold lobster salad—a speciality,” Dorrie said.

  They lifted stemmed glasses of white wine. The restaurant was air-conditioned and had some space between tables, a luxury. Dorrie was asking her questions about her family, how she had encountered Renate, but the questions were light, not like an inquisition.

  “And your stepfather?”

  “Oh—a child-molester,” Luisa replied bluntly. “This went on till—I suppose I threatened something when I was fourteen or fifteen. It’s funny how I forget, maybe because I don’t want to remember.”

  “Really a molester?” asked Dorrie, wide-eyed. “Fooling around in bed and all that?”

  Oh yes. And it was a miracle she hadn’t become pregnant, though she had made an effort to wash herself. Luisa spoke flatly. If her biology was uncertain, so was that of a lot of girls and women who became pregnant when they thought they couldn’t have been impregnated (Luisa had read about such), and after all she was talking facts.

  “My God,” Dorrie said, impressed. “I think you look remarkably normal—considering.”

  This made Luisa laugh. She told Dorrie about the years from fifteen to seventeen when she had done her best to look and act like someone who slept in the streets, riding motorcycles with boys, smoking and drinking wine in bar-cafés, making her mother and stepfather furious, for different reasons.

  “I wanted to be a tough and I was. I can still see myself talking with the fellows and the town whore in the neighborhood square—and people staring at me, wondering if I was a girl or boy.”

  “Trying to make yourself as unattractive as possible to girls and boys, it sounds like.”

  That was true, for that period. Unattractive to her stepfather, for sure.

  “I wanted to say something about Petey tonight.”

  “Petey? Rickie’s friend?”

  “Yes. I liked him very much, you know.”

  “I know. I heard—something.”

  “Sometimes I think I’m not over it yet. I suppose I am over it, it’s just that I haven’t felt like that since.”

  Luisa tried to describe those weeks, maybe only six or seven, when she’d been so happy and sure of herself. It hadn’t mattered that Petey hadn’t been in love with her. She had felt outside herself, like a person everyone on the street might look at twice—though people hadn’t. She had been happy, and she wondered if that feeling would ever come again. Luisa told Dorrie about Petey saying so earnestly and gently, “Don’t be in love with me . . . I don’t want you to be sad.” That hadn’t mattered. She had assured Petey she wasn’t sad, wasn’t going to be disappointed, no matter what. And that was true, until Petey had been killed. Then she had thought: Petey is no more, but her love was still alive, which she supposed was a natural feeling for a while, maybe a long while. Now she wondered if she would ever again exist in such a special way, because of another person.

  “Does that come just once in a lifetime, do you think?”

  Dorrie looked into a corner of the room for a few seconds. “I dunno. Maybe only once. And maybe three times. You’re not even twenty, after all.”

  Dorrie was perhaps twenty-four. Luisa didn’t want to ask. “I wanted to say—tonight, it’s not like that with Teddie. Never could be. I couldn’t have said all this in front of Rickie, you know. And I didn’t want to say Petey’s name. And yet—he knows, I’m sure, the way I cared for Petey.”

  “Does he? I knew Petey. A nice, serious boy, but what you’re talking about is all one-sided, your own idea of Petey—isn’t it? Because you were never very close to Petey, let’s face it. So it’s like a dream.”

  “I know,” said Luisa firmly, as if she meant to hang on to her dream, and why not?

  “You see, here—I reach a point where I can’t say one more thing. So I’m going to change the subject. The lemon meringue here is especially good.”

  They ordered, and espresso to follow.

  “I have an idea. Come to my place. I’d like you to see it. Telephone Renate, if you want to, to make sure you can get in tonight.” Dorrie had to laugh here. “If not, you stay on my camp-bed tonight, and I’ll take you to Renate’s around the time the girls arrive in the morning, and you go in with one of them.”

  Luisa had thought of that. She felt better suddenly. But Renate was not going to say on the telephone whether she could get in or not tonight.

  When the bill arrived, Dorrie said, “I’m inviting you tonight, OK? Suppose when you phone Renate, she’s all sweetness and wants you to come home?”

  “I don’t think I will phone her.”

  “Good! That’s progress.”

  Independence. But the truth was, Luisa did not want to hear Renate’s yelping voice on the telephone. Put it off till tomorrow, Luisa thought, and don’t ruin tonight. They got into the car, and Dorrie drove first across a large avenue Luisa knew, then into darker residential streets, some tree-bordered.

  “And here we are,” Dorrie said, pulling in at an unlit curb, “with a parking place, extra lucky. I have a garage though.”

  Then Dorrie was unlocking a partly glass front door, turning on a light in the lobby. They took a lift to the third floor, and Luisa saw the lobby light go off as they rose. Dorrie unlocked another door and put on a light.

  “My place is disorderly—but no more than usual. Welcome!”

  A short hall with a doorless cupboard for coats was followed by the one room Dorrie had mentioned. A low double bed showed an expanse of rumpled white sheets.

  “Bed still unmade. This morning was a rush.” Dorrie gave a laugh. “I’d ask you to sit down, but my bed’s the sofa once I fold it. However—there’s a chair.” She gestured toward a white-covered easy chair. “Excuse me.”

  A naked female mannequin, bald-headed, stood in a corner by the front windows, one foot raised as if to step up a curb. A blue-and-red dishcloth hung neatly over her forearm. There were two big bookcases, a record player, a small TV set.

  Dorrie was back from somewhere, bearing what looked like firewood. It was the camp-bed. Luisa helped.

  At last it was up, stretched taut, hard as the floor, Luisa thought, amused. Here came a pale blue sheet, so large, Luisa suggested they just fold it over. Then a pillow.

  “Now I’ll check the facilities.” Dorrie disappeared again, and returned after a minute, waving a still-wrapped toothbrush. “Yours. Standard equipment here, for the unexpected guest.”

  Luisa went and took a shower, cool and delicious. There were cartoons on three walls of the bathroom, half of them by Rickie. On the back of the door was a large photograph of Japanese wrestlers in action, and by some retouching of breasts and rouging of lips, these had become convincing females. Luisa got into the pajamas.

  Dorrie went into the bathroom.

  Luisa stared at the TV that Dorrie had turned on, and thought of tomorrow morning. An impulse to ring Renate vanished as soon as it had come: the damage was done, and phoning so late would make things worse.

  “Now, set chronometers,” said Dorrie, reappearing in blue pajamas, strapping on her watch. “Ten to midnight, I’ve got. I’m usually up by seven. What time do your girls go in?”

  “Around eight. Not exactly on the dot, but—”

  “I’ll have you there by ten to eight. All right?”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “Glass of something? Anything—water?”

  Luisa didn’t want anything. “I like your place.”

  “Really? I hope so.”


  Lights out.

  Luisa lay listening to the traffic noises, the closer, more frequent whoosh of cars. She felt that Dorrie was not asleep either, that they both lay thinking, wanting to sleep because they had to get up. Luisa blinked, watching the car lights ripple and flow over the ceiling. Independence, Luisa thought, was sweet. And tomorrow, of course, she must fight for it, defend it. She sensed a battle just beginning.

  21

  Dorrie Wyss stopped her car almost in front of Renate’s house at seven minutes to eight. “How’s that for timing?” she asked, proud of herself.

  Luisa was already opening her door. She realized that she didn’t want any of the girls to see Dorrie, lest they report something to Renate. And here came Vera.

  “’Bye, my sweet. And call me anytime you feel like it. OK?” Dorrie gave a kiss to the empty air between herself and Luisa.

  Luisa nodded and slammed the door.

  “We-ell, you’re up early,” Vera said, brushing her long dark hair back, smiling. “Or up late.”

  “’Morning, Vera. Up early,” Luisa said in a casual tone. She hung back and let Vera ring the bell.

  They were buzzed in, and began climbing the stairs.

  A man passed them, coming down on his way to work. Murmured good mornings, as Luisa didn’t know his name.

  Renate was holding the door open. “Good morning, Vera. Another hot day ahead—or so it seems.”

  “Ye-es, tough luck,” said Vera, cheerful as ever.

  “’Morning,” said Luisa without thinking, and realized that Renate was taking the I-don’t-even-see-you tack. Fine, better than scolding. Scolding would come later; Renate wouldn’t be able to resist that.

  Luisa returned to her work of yesterday. She had had a cup of coffee and part of a bun at Dorrie’s, and one of Dorrie’s cigarettes. And they’d left the beds! What a happy atmosphere at Dorrie’s compared to this! Today Renate would go out silently on her way to Jakob’s after nine-thirty, Luisa supposed, but to Luisa’s surprise, Renate said around that time, “Coming out for your second coffee?” It sounded awkward.

  “Yes, sure,” Luisa answered. Then she understood: Renate probably wanted to watch Rickie this morning, to see if she could discover anything from his behavior.

  “It is warm again today,” Luisa said as they walked. “Worse than yesterday, I think.” She had slowed her usual pace, as always, to match Renate’s step-and-drag, step-and-drag, though in public Renate made more of an effort at a normal gait than at home.

  “Hm-m,” was the reply.

  In Jakob’s, Luisa went to reach the Neue Zürcher Zeitung down from the circular rack, as she often did. As she turned to go to Renate’s table, Rickie came in with Lulu on the lead.

  “Hello, Luisa!” Rickie called.

  “Hi! Hello, Lulu!”

  Lulu, happy at hearing her name called, stood on hind legs for a moment to greet Luisa.

  “Had a nice time last night?” asked Rickie in a normal voice, as if unaware that Renate was within hearing.

  “Very nice. Thanks,” Luisa said. “Talk to you later, maybe.”

  “Do that!” A smile, and Rickie went on to his usual table.

  Luisa saw that Renate’s eyes had fixed on Rickie. Luisa felt curiously sure of herself this morning. What had she done wrong, after all? Spent the night in a girl’s apartment, so what? And Dorrie Wyss had been a good hostess, considering how small her flat was.

  Andreas bade them good morning and took their usual order, espresso with cream.

  “You stayed at Rickie’s house last night?” Renate asked.

  Luisa answered slowly, “No-o.”

  “Then where?”

  Renate didn’t know Dorrie’s name, but would know her by sight as one of the gay group, Luisa thought. “Does it matter? I was back in time for work—as usual.”

  “It matters because you are in my employ,” Renate said with an effort at keeping her voice low, “and I can report you to the authorities.”

  “For what?” asked Luisa, in a polite tone.

  “For disappearing—not telling me where you are in the evening—the night.”

  Andreas was serving, putting two little pieces of paper with the tally under Renate’s saucer.

  “That is not in order,” Renate continued, when Andreas was out of hearing, “unless you tell me beforehand where you’re going—that you’ll be out all night!”

  She said the last three words as if the phrase were a sin all by itself.

  “I am not managing a hotel, Luisa. In a hotel you would have your freedom, of course.”

  Where was all this written, Luisa wondered. Nowhere that she knew of. Luisa was mustering a reply, when Willi Biber appeared on her left, staring at Renate, apparently wanting to speak with her.

  “Frau Renate,” he mumbled, hands shaking. He gestured toward the door. “Today—”

  “What about today, Willi?”

  Luisa stared at Willi’s thin, pale face, fascinated by his struggle. What was he trying to say?

  “—coming to my house,” Willi said.

  Renate showed impatience. “I think they are repairing your door. Didn’t Frau Wenger say so?”

  Willi shook his head in long, slow twists.

  “Luisa, could you leave us just for a moment? I think Willi does better if there are just the two of us,” Renate said with a pained expression. “Sit down, Willi.” She gestured toward the end of the table, where the bench curved against a partition.

  Luisa slipped out at the other end. She had been at pains not to glance at Rickie. Now she walked toward him.

  “Luisa,” he said softly, “I think you have been dismissed. Please sit.”

  Renate was listening to Willi with concentration, making a downward movement with one hand, as if to ask him to keep his voice low.

  “And what did you do last night?” Rickie asked.

  “Oh—a very nice dinner. Dorrie treated me, because I hadn’t a franc in my pocket. And then, I was sure Renate was going to make it hard for me to get in the house. So I stayed the night at Dorrie’s place.”

  “Did you? Good! You mean you didn’t phone Renate last night?” he asked in a whisper.

  “No.” Luisa had to smile.

  Now Rickie chuckled, and his eyes strayed to Renate and Willi, still in conversation. Rickie reached for his cigarettes. He was thinking that Willi was talking about something more important than his doors being repaired, and that could be that the police wanted to see him today. But would the police ring up first and make an appointment? Maybe, via the Wengers. Rickie decided not to mention this possibility to Luisa. Best to try to reach Freddie Schimmelmann. Renate seemed to be concluding matters, trying to nudge Willi into departure.

  “I think your jailer is requesting the pleasure of your company again.”

  Frau Hagnauer was not beckoning, but the toss of her head as she tried to catch Luisa’s eye meant, “Come here, now.”

  “A happy day to you, dear Luisa, and let me have your news, will you? Phone me today or this evening,” Rickie said.

  Luisa was on her feet. “I’ll try.”

  Willi Biber, shuffling toward the main door, disappeared from Rickie’s view. Renate had been giving Willi orders about something, Rickie thought. Her bony forefinger had struck the table again and again as she spoke. It was time he got to the studio, so Rickie left some coins and went out with Lulu, deliberately not glancing at Renate’s and Luisa’s table.

  Renate was saying, “You never told me where you were last night.”

  Luisa had drained the last cold drops of her espresso. Frowning slightly, ready to depart, she said, “At a friend’s.”

  “A boy or a girl?”

  “A girl,” said Luisa, annoyed.

  She’d done n
othing wrong, but Renate had been deprived of the pleasure of locking her out last night, or at least of delaying her getting in! Luisa had a premonition of a lucky, happy day, despite Renate’s sourness. And Luisa realized that a lot of her happiness—yes, happiness—was because she felt able to count on Dorrie Wyss now as a friend, just as Rickie was a friend, someone who would lend money, a key, a bed, in case of need. I’m not an orphan anymore, Luisa thought.

  MATHILDE BROUGHT A COFFEE to Rickie’s worktable. He was looking up Freddie’s two numbers which he had noted in a business address book.

  Freddie’s home did not answer. His work number said that Officer Schimmelmann was on duty in a car, and was the message urgent?

  “Yes,” said Rickie. “If you can reach him, would you ask him to ring Rickie Markwalder—just Rickie—when convenient. But by noon, if possible.”

  Then Rickie forced himself to concentrate, pencil in hand.

  The third telephone call that morning was from Freddie. “I was going to phone you,” Freddie said. “Senn and a doctor are coming at three this afternoon—to talk with our friend, y’know?”

  “I suspected that.”

  “At his place,” Freddie continued. “The Wengers’. I’d like to be there but I wouldn’t care to bet I can make it today.”

  “Try,” Rickie said at once. “I can’t, of course. Listen—I think you remember—the woman at the Wengers’ in a long dress?”

  “Um-m—yes.”

  “I have a hunch she’ll be there—to help her protégé. You follow me?”

  “Yep, Rickie.”

  “I’ve a hunch she was rehearsing him this morning in the Small g. Where can I reach you—say around six?”

  “Um-m—you can’t. I’ll get back. At your house tonight?”

  “Likely enough. Try anyway, Freddie—and my thanks!”

  RENATE WENT VERY SOON to the telephone after she and Luisa returned from Jakob’s. She wanted to speak to Therese Wenger, whose L’Eclair number she had to look up in the book. She used the telephone in the sitting room, which offered more privacy than the hall.

  Therese answered.