Small G: A Summer Idyll

by Patricia Highsmith

  “Could I have a shower, Rickie?” Freddie’s tone was almost pleading.

  “But—naturally.” It was natural, after a long day, to want a shower. And Freddie had tried tonight, tried beyond his assigned work or duties, to help. Rickie got a big towel.

  Freddie had hung his jacket on the back of a chair and his damp shirt over that. “Y’know, Rickie, we’ll never get the truth out of Willi unless we can get him in a room and bust him. His—stupidity is going to save him.”

  Rickie knew. “I wonder what else he’s going to do,” he mused, “if Renate programs him? Maybe a girl next time.”

  “A girl?”

  Rickie laughed. “Oh, Dorrie’s getting fond of Luisa, I think. Remember Dorrie—the blonde girl who’s a good dancer? I don’t mean it’s serious—but Renate’s jealousy knows no bounds.”

  Freddie chuckled, not very interested, and went off to the bathroom.

  When he returned, he rather shyly proposed what Rickie had expected him to propose. “Why not?” Freddie asked.

  Rickie hadn’t told him that he was “clean.” And Freddie wasn’t clean. “Did I tell you—I was summoned by my doctor—and I’m not HIV positive.” Rickie’s voice was firm. “Dr. Oberdorfer said he was testing me for two months—making me practice safe sex.”

  Freddie looked dumbstruck. He stared at Rickie for a few seconds. “Really, Rickie? But that’s wonderful! Neither am I HIV positive, y’know? I was only—”

  “But you said you were.”

  Freddie shook his head, smiling. “I thought with both of us playing it safe—I said it so I could be with you. Thought I had to, from what you said.”

  No HIV, plural the two of them. And Freddie willing to lie about a thing like that! “You’re telling me the truth now?”

  “I swear. I am.” Freddie raised his right hand. “I get my checkups. So why not, Rickie?”

  Rickie thought also, why not? He could trust Freddie. So Rickie headed for his third shower that day, then for another pair of small beers to take to the bedside.

  They both laughed: safe sex again. It was almost like being married, Rickie thought. In certain ways, better. Freddie wasn’t a teenager. Freddie wasn’t a thief, either. Rickie had grown used to finding his wallet empty in the morning, or earlier, if his young companion—one of the “little ones”—had wanted to depart, say, at 3 A.M. How many gold or silver cigarette lighters—?

  The curious thing was that despite Freddie being thirty-eight, Rickie’s sex life was becoming better. Certainly better than—if he faced it—with the pretty boys. So rambled Rickie’s thoughts as he lay smoking a cigarette, sipping from the still cold bottle. Freddie seemed to be dozing. Long-distance telephone calls too, Rickie remembered, to impress a former or even current boyfriend, now holidaying in Acapulco or Florida. People like himself, dumb enough to pick up such boys, simply had to pay, pay also with being abandoned. And with Freddie he could feel safe in regard to HIV. It was the horrid existence of the HIV virus, Rickie thought, that made one think: It floats in the air, it can be exchanged with a glance, it rubs off on sheets, though he knew that was not true. HIV had become a specter, however; that much was true.

  Wakening, Freddie said, “Oh, I almost forgot something.” He eased himself out of bed. He swung his big towel round himself, then reached into a pocket of his jacket. He produced a little gift-wrapped box.

  Rickie felt embarrassed. “For me? Oh, you shouldn’t have.”

  Under the gift-wrapping Rickie found a white box from a jewelry store whose name he knew. Inside was a silver key ring—his initials in a flat silver circle attached by braided black leather to the key ring proper.

  “It’s really good-looking. Thank you very much, Freddie—looks very expensive.”

  “Na-aa, I swear.”

  “I’ll start using it right away.”

  Rickie had a happy idea—ice cream. There was a box of vanilla in his fridge. Rickie put on pajama pants and top and fetched it, plus spoons. Freddie donned his undershorts, his now dry blue shirt, and they sat on the edge of Rickie’s bed, spooning delicious bites. “You know, Freddie—I think Dorrie and Luisa have a date tonight—if Luisa can escape.” Rickie gave a short laugh. “Luisa’s having it rough—Renate trying to coop her up.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing—apart from Renate seeing Dorrie—fully clothed—standing in Luisa’s room.” Rickie smiled. He’d told Freddie about that on the phone. “But Renate doesn’t want Luisa to have any—well, boyfriends, I suppose. They’re maybe ‘bad for her work,’ and girlfriends—gay ones out! Dorrie’s got a crush on Luisa.”

  “But Luisa doesn’t like girls, does she?”

  “No. Maybe she could, I dunno. Renate kept Luisa from seeing Teddie tonight—the first night since that injury he could go out. And he’s had another good word from the Tages-Anzeiger, he told me, so he may get his second article published. And there’s Renate—the old closet dyke, listening in on Luisa’s phone calls! Oh, and the crise now with Renate’s eye.” Rickie filled Freddie in on that, which Luisa thought an imaginary ailment.

  “What Renate needs is a real shock,” said Freddie. “A prank—a surprise party. Make her blow up! Drop dead! Think of something, Rickie. You’re good at that.”

  “All right, I’ll think.”

  26

  For the second weekend, Renate managed to keep Luisa at home and away from her friends. This was fairly easy: she reminded Luisa that the ophthalmologist had said that she wasn’t to lift anything, even a kettle of hot water.

  On Monday, Renate and Luisa made another trip to Dr. Widmer for a ten o’clock appointment. He pronounced the eye “all right.” No inflammation. Renate spoke of a sensation of pressure, still. The doctor tested the vision. It was equal to the other eye.

  “If you want to see me—I am here,” said Dr. Widmer, as if he didn’t want to see her, but if she insisted—

  That was not very nice of him, Renate thought, not a professional tone to use. In the taxi riding homeward, Renate mulled over Dr. Widmer’s attitude, even his remark that the black patch seemed unnecessary.

  “From now on too,” Renate said to Luisa, “you can keep your food separate from mine in the fridge.”

  “Oh—I was already doing that,” Luisa said calmly.

  Renate hated her calm. There was something the matter with the girl. Well, that was plain, wasn’t it? Renate, her one eye gazing out the window as the taxi sped along, looked at Luisa suddenly and said, “Taking on a girl like you—from nowhere—I should have known.” She said it firmly, as if there were something in Luisa that rendered her hopeless, unredeemable, for the rest of her life.

  At home, Renate saw that the girls had their work assigned for the day, and instructed Vera to double-check on a navy blue jacket whose gores were tricky. Renate was slowly making Vera her foreman, which she was already, but she was nudging Luisa out of any and all vantage grounds of the past.

  Still feeling the sting of Dr. Widmer’s offhand treatment, Renate announced to the workroom that she would be out for lunch, back she hoped before three. She went into her bedroom and telephoned for a taxi to arrive in forty-five minutes. That would give her time to freshen up and apply a little makeup.

  Renate asked the driver to go to the Hotel zum Storchen, which had a rooftop restaurant, but en route she decided to try the Storchen’s bar instead. It was of a comfortable size, with a piano, and some tables for two at which one person did not look odd. She had removed her eye patch as soon as she was out the door of her apartment house.

  What a shame the old days were past, Renate thought as she savored her lobster meat, when she and Luisa might have been enjoying a similar lunch together. Once in a while she had given the girl a treat, of course. Those days were before Luisa had plunged herself into the homosexual scene. Who would’ve thought
it! Renate took consolation in sips of delicious white wine. The meal was followed by an espresso and a cigarette.

  At the hotel door, she asked the porter to summon a taxi. She had given him a two-franc piece, and he held the taxi door open for her. Renate was not sure how it happened, but suddenly her face was on the taxi floor, her nose scraping along the corrugated rubber mat.

  Renate gasped.

  The taxi driver opened the other door. The porter was trying to take her arm to help her. Renate had to crawl backward out of the taxi in order to get to her feet. And was her long skirt up at the back? Certainly the porter would’ve had a fine view of her feet, one in a slipper, the other in an ugly boot!

  “Madame!” said the porter, extending a forearm.

  “Are you all right?” asked the taxi driver.

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Finally settled in the taxi, Renate gave the driver her address, and turned her attention to keeping the blood from dropping on to her dress front. She thought she had a slight nosebleed, and some kind of scratch along the bridge of her nose. She put the eye patch on before she opened the apartment door.

  From the workroom, she heard the murmur of voices, and a shrill “Ha-a—ha-a!” which Renate recognized as Stefanie’s.

  Renate entered her bathroom, and washed the smeared blood from her nose and cheeks. She was glad no neighbor had seen her downstairs just now! A nasty scrape on her nose. That would create little dark red scabs. Renate applied alcohol.

  Then she entered the workroom, where the conversation died at once, though Vera and Luisa did not stop their work.

  Stefanie looked at her, and said, “Oh, Madame Renate, what happened?”

  Renate noticed that Luisa glanced at her face, then continued to pin something. “Oh, nothing! It’s because with this eye patch I can’t judge distances, you know.”

  Renate sent Luisa down to the local pharmacy for calcium tablets and more aspirin.

  FROM RICKIE, LUISA LEARNED THAT Teddie had had his second article, “A Night in Town,” accepted by the Tages-Anzeiger, which proved to Luisa that a letter to her from Teddie was missing.

  Luisa was convinced that there was no limit to the twists that people in authority could invent. Rickie saw things the same way, though he had never said it in so many words. This was why Luisa liked being with him and talking with him. And he took chances. He had told her a story of being in a hotel in Istanbul in which the air-conditioning didn’t work, and his windows were not made to open, the hotel told him. Rickie had finally driven his right fist through a windowpane. He had shown Luisa a scar on the outer edge of his right hand.

  “Have another evening with Dorrie,” Rickie said. “What’s the harm? Or with Teddie. He’ll want to celebrate when that second article comes out.”

  Yes, Luisa was sure of that. “Tell him I’ll try.”

  “Try? You’ll make it! You make a date with him now—and we’ll make it.” Rickie meant if she rang Teddie up now.

  Luisa didn’t. She was then in Rickie’s flat, at just before seven on a Thursday evening.

  Rickie saw her hesitation and said, “Come on then, you and I are going to a cinema tonight. It’s a new film made in China. All right? Do you want to ring the old witch?” He gestured gracefully toward his telephone.

  It seemed so easy. Luisa dialed, stood up straight, and informed Renate that she was going to a cinema and would be home later. Before twelve, she added for politeness’s sake, and hung up before Renate could reply.

  “Splendid! Now we’re free.”

  She felt free. They shared a cold beer, checked the film time in Rickie’s newspaper, then rang for a taxi. In town they had time for a wiener before the film started. They’d go to a Chinese place afterward, said Rickie.

  The picture was not as great as they had expected. In the talky parts, Luisa’s thoughts wandered to the prison that the apartment, the workroom had become. Renate was trying to push Vera into her place. Well, so be it, Luisa didn’t care. Vera, who was a Schneiderin anyway, higher than Luisa, didn’t want a “favored” place, because she didn’t like Renate. Who did like her? Vera realized that she could get excellent training from Renate, and that was all she wanted—plus perhaps a good recommendation from Renate when her contract was finished. What did the girls think of the present state of affairs? They’d never guess that—or would they?—that Renate had blown her stack over a date or two with a boyfriend, then a girlfriend? Luisa was learning not to underestimate what another person might guess or divine. But Luisa doubted if Vera and the others could imagine Renate’s intensity, once she realized that she, Renate, might not be number one in Luisa’s—what? Affections? Luisa’s eyes focused as a ball of red fire sank into a horizon of dark blue water.

  “FIN” appeared in large white letters on the screen, and the audience began to stir.

  “You see? You’re going to need it,” said Rickie when they were out on the pavement. He handed her the tweed jacket that he had insisted on taking from his closet.

  “Rickie!” a voice cried.

  It came from a tall young man in a beige summer suit, who was going into the cinema for the next show. Rickie introduced him as Markus. The young man grinned.

  “So, Rickie,” he said, glancing at Luisa.

  “Yes. Isn’t she a darling? She has metamorphosed my life. Wears my clothes!”

  “Hah-ho-o!” said Markus, and drifted away.

  Luisa was smiling. She felt happy—for the first time in days.

  They walked to the Chinese restaurant.

  With a taxi, Luisa was in front of her house before midnight. Rickie paid the taxi off, and insisted on waiting until he was sure she could get in. If she couldn’t, she was to come home with him.

  Luisa entered the house and climbed the stairs. Rickie had told her to keep his jacket “till next time.”

  The apartment door opened easily, and then Luisa was confronted by Renate looking shocked.

  “Don’t bring that in the house! Whose is it?”

  “I had to borrow it. I was cold.”

  “Get it out of here! Out!” Renate snatched the jacket, which Luisa was carrying over her arm, clumped into the sitting room, and without putting the light on raised the window higher and threw the jacket out.

  “All right, I’m going to get it!” Luisa headed for the door.

  “You do and you won’t get back in tonight!”

  Luisa went out the door and closed it, and sped down the stairs. Rickie was just bending over a bush by the front step, retrieving the jacket.

  Rickie laughed softly. “I could hear her!” he whispered. With a movement of his head, he indicated that she should come with him.

  27

  Luisa awakened just after six on Rickie’s big sofa, clad in large yellow pajamas, under a white sheet folded double. She felt happy and rested too, though she’d slept hardly six hours. Soon she’d be drinking coffee with Rickie here in a pleasant atmosphere, maybe eating bread and jam with him. Enjoy this while you can, Luisa told herself.

  She walked barefoot on Rickie’s wall-to-wall carpeting. Luisa put on water and accidentally clanked the kettle on the hotplate. “Damn!”

  Rickie slowly awakened. He wanted tea this morning instead of coffee, because it was a special morning. He appeared in pajamas and a striped cotton dressing gown. “Ah, Markus should see us now, breakfasting together!”

  “Oh-h—the fellow at the cinema! Yes! Bread, Rickie?”

  “No, my dear, my diet. I try. I give up a lot of things, but not my beer or my croissant in the morning.”

  “Arf!” said Lulu.

  “Lulu, at Jakob’s—not here. It’s the word ‘croissant.’”

  They sat at Rickie’s polished dining table. Butter and jam and sliced bread for Luisa. A cigarette and tea without sugar
for Rickie. Luisa stopped herself from saying thank you again to Rickie. She felt so happy and secure with him, as if he could arrange anything, protect her, hide her, if necessary. “Renate took a bowl out of my hands and threw it in the sink—about four days ago.”

  “Broke it in the sink?”

  “I’d nearly finished a bowl of soup—out of a can—so in she comes humming, not saying anything. Then, ‘Filthy soup!’ she says, and bang! I rinsed the pieces and dropped them in the bin. My heart was beating like blazes. ‘Now you can complain!’ she said and—when I didn’t react at all, she hit me with her fist on the shoulder. Can you imagine? I saw the blow coming so I just tensed my shoulder and she fairly bounced!” Luisa laughed, remembering.

  “I think you’re taking it all very well.”

  “The bowl was one I’d brought from home—made by a woman potter I knew when I was about eight. And like a fool I’d told Renate this.”

  “It won’t last forever—this monster in your life,” said Rickie. “I’m sorry you have another six months of it.”

  “Five months and a week. Even so.” She looked at her watch: seven twenty-two already.

  Rickie went to a cabinet in his living room and pulled out a drawer. “My apartment here.” He held a key between his fingertips. “Give me your key ring, I’ll put it on for you. Anytime, day or night—just come.”

  Wordless, Luisa put the key ring back in her trouser pocket.

  “Use the bathroom. I have plenty of time.”

  When she came out of the bathroom, dressed, Rickie said, “Shall we have lunch? What time? I’ll meet you at Jakob’s.”

  Luisa twisted on her toes, nervous. “She’ll say she needs me to make her lunch. She’s playing the invalid now.”

  At ten minutes before eight, Luisa encountered the cheerful Stefanie on the front path.

  “Out already or out all night?” asked Stefanie.

  Luisa whispered, grinning, “Don’t you recognize my same clothes?”