“I can be quiet.”
Luisa led the way. Keys. The feeble light of the minuterie. Alone, Luisa could have made it in the dark. She put a finger to her lips. They climbed two flights. Feeling for the keyhole with a thumb, then working the lock, Luisa got the door open. Again her hand found Dorrie’s easily, and she led Dorrie down the hall to a door on the right. There had been no light under Renate’s door on the left side of the hall.
“Come in,” Luisa whispered.
Then she closed the door, and put the harsh main ceiling light on, because its switch was the nearest.
Dorrie stood in her dark trousers, red vest, looking round, smiling a little.
Luisa’s bed was made, a single bed with head against the wall on the right, a night table near with a lamp. Her dressing table with its three drawers looked presentable, and so did two posters—one a Toulouse-Lautrec from the Kunsthaus, the other a de Chirico from a smaller show. A bookcase. Two chairs, one straight, the other upholstered in a green-and-brown-patterned material which Luisa liked: this chair stood near the inner court window whence came some light for reading on good days.
“Really OK,” Dorrie said. “Much higher ceiling than my place.”
“Would you—”
Rap-rap-rap!
My God, Luisa thought, and turned to open the door, but the door was opening.
Renate stood in one of her Chinese kimonos, scowling, then advancing. “What’s going on here? So much noise!”
“Noise? I’m sorry, Renate. We were whispering. This is—”
“Oh, I know, I know,” said Renate, clapping a hand to her right eye as if the light hurt her. She jerked her hand away and stood up straight, balancing on the ball of her bad foot, which Luisa could just see, naked. “What’re you doing here?” This in a throaty voice that Luisa had never heard before.
“I’m leaving, Madame,” said Dorrie with a quick smile at Luisa. “Nice to’ve seen you.”
Renate gazed at Dorrie as if at an object of horror, and stepped aside to let her pass.
“I’ll come down with you,” said Luisa, feeling her courage return. After all, she had said earlier to Dorrie that she’d walk her to her car.
“Oh, you will? To where?” said Renate, almost shouting.
“To her car,” Luisa replied. “It’s parked near where Teddie parked his.” This to Luisa was a dangerous dark area now.
The hall light was on. Luisa slapped her left pocket: her keys were there. Luisa and Dorrie went to the apartment door and out.
“What a tyrant!” Dorrie said, laughing, when they were down on the pavement. “You mean you can’t have any visitors?”
“She hates gays,” Luisa said reluctantly. “Claims she does.” They were whispering in the silent street. “I thought I told you, she thinks Teddie’s gay because he stayed one night in Rickie’s apartment—not the night he was attacked but the first night, when it got late or something.”
“Here’s my car, thank goodness,” said Dorrie. “Apart from the old battleax there—it’s been a nice evening! Thank you. Can I call you? In case something amusing turns up?”
Luisa hesitated. “Better if I call you. OK?”
“Sure, but do it.”
Before Luisa realized, Dorrie had touched her shoulders, and given her a quick kiss on the lips. Dorrie unlocked her car.
“Hope you don’t get hell tonight,” Dorrie whispered. A quick wave, and she was gone.
Luisa walked back toward her home, hoping Renate had decided to go to bed, knowing she probably hadn’t. Tonight furnished such rich ammunition! A dim light showed in the window of the sitting room. Once more the stairs, the unlocking. Luisa had half expected the door to be bolted from the inside and for the rest of the night.
Renate was standing in the hall, one hand over an eye. “Get the doctor!”
“What? Which—”
“Call the doctor! I can’t see to call!”
“Luethi?”
“Yes, you stupid girl!”
Luisa knew Luethi’s number was among those on a list by the sitting room telephone. She dialed the number, and got a recorded message that was interrupted by a sleepy female voice.
Renate yanked the telephone from Luisa’s hand.
The doctor had come on now.
“Hello, Dr. Luethi . . . Yes, Renate Hagnauer. It’s the retina, I think. You remember—I am keeping calm, as much as I can under the circumstances!”
Luisa retreated a step. Yet Renate would want her to play nurse now. She heard Dr. Luethi saying, “If I were there even—” a couple of times, and being interrupted by Renate.
“Tomorrow—you must. Please!” Renate said. “All right. At nine o’clock.”
At last, she hung up. Her right hand had stayed over her eye the whole time. “I’ve probably lost my sight!” she whimpered, almost in tears. “This shock—”
What shock, Luisa thought. Dorrie in her room? “Can I get you something? Tea?”
“Tea!” Renate scoffed. “A cold compress. Ice cubes. Oh, put them in a hand towel! Five or six cubes, not the whole tray!”
Luisa hastened to carry out this order, and found Renate in her bed, eyes shut, frowning. “Do you have pain?”
“Not so much, it’s these lights. Darting red and white—the doctor warned me, you know.”
Luisa vaguely remembered something about “a delicate retina” the last time Renate had been tested for glasses.
“If it’s really torn, then I’ll be blind in that eye. Or else have an operation that’s probably not successful!”
Renate radiated energy and wrath. Luisa wanted to remind her to stay calm, and was afraid to. “Something else I can get for you, Renate?”
“No. I’m sure you’d like to be off. So—”
“No, I’m here. Just tell me—”
“Nothing,” Renate interrupted. “So leave me.”
Luisa walked toward the door, then stopped and turned. “Good night.”
“Leave the door a little open.”
Luisa did so, not liking to, because she felt Renate somehow pursuing her down the hall. She took a shower, brushed her teeth, then went to bed. She fully expected a summons from Renate for something else during the night. How much was Renate pretending? Blinking in the darkness, Luisa reviewed the evening, Rickie with Lulu on his shoulders, waltzing and turning. And Dorrie—what a good dancer! Luisa had a vision of her slim figure, black trousers, white shirt, bobbing and spinning on Jakob’s dance floor.
SHE AWAKENED TO THE MURMUR of a voice: Renate was on the hall telephone with the doctor, Luisa supposed. Eight-ten by her watch, early enough for a Sunday morning, when Renate usually allowed herself to sleep till nine. Luisa got dressed, instead of putting on a dressing gown, as she usually did for her first cup of coffee.
The kettle was on, the drip pot prepared.
“’Morning,” Luisa said. “How’re you feeling?”
“Terrible.”
“Can I get you anything, Renate?”
“Just bring me some coffee—when it’s ready.” Renate went back to her room.
Luisa prepared a tray with bread, butter, and orange marmalade. Renate sat up in bed with a damp hand towel over her right eye. At least she had dialed the doctor’s number just now, Luisa thought.
“Thank you,” Renate said coldly.
Dr. Luethi arrived at half-past nine, carrying a brown leather bag. He had a lean figure, a lean face, and a smile that pulled the corners of his mouth, while his worried gray eyes stayed the same. Luisa had let him in, and she lingered in Renate’s room near the door, ready to be of service or to be shooed out by Renate.
The doctor focused the reading light, plus his own head lamp.
“Happened last night,” Renate said. “I had such a sh
ock—”
“Look straight at me. Now up to your left—keep still—now up to your right.” After a moment he said, “There’re no inflamed blood vessels visible, and that’s a good sign. Now these lights—”
“Red and white. You told me to take them seriously if they came again.”
“Your ophthalmologist told you that. Of course I’d like you to see him.”
“But of course. I started to telephone him this morning.”
“He would tell you to lie still, not to try to lift anything. You mentioned a shock?”
“Yes! A stranger in Luisa’s room. It was after midnight. I’d just—”
“An intruder, you mean?” asked Dr. Luethi in a surprised tone.
“No, but a stranger.”
“A friend of mine wanted to see my room,” Luisa put in. “She’d been there just a few seconds, not even sat down—”
“Dr. Luethi is talking to me, Luisa.”
Luisa had expected that.
Renate focused on the doctor, recounting her surge of fear last night, a sense of something bursting behind her eyes.
“Well, I gather it didn’t warrant that much alarm,” said the doctor, smiling. “Now you take it easy today, Frau Hagnauer, and I’ll make the appointment with Dr. Widmer tomorrow for you, if you like, and let you know.”
That suited Renate. “I was warned about my retina.”
“Didn’t I also warn you to try to relax more? Remember when you had those fast heartbeats and you were told it was due to stress?” He turned, smiling, to Luisa. “Good-bye, dear Luisa, and take care of our patient.”
“Of course,” said Luisa.
Renate decided to remain in bed, and she wanted the Sunday papers, extra coffee, her cigarettes within reach. Possibly an omelette for lunch with a small salad. And could Luisa wheel the TV set in? “Come back at once after you fetch the Sonntags Blick. I’ll need you near all day in case of an emergency, you know.”
“Yes,” said Luisa, not looking at Renate. There went her Sunday, her day off by right. There went any chance of seeing Rickie or Dorrie. And Teddie seemed suddenly very far away.
The kiosk where she bought the Blick was two streets beyond Jakob’s, and on her return, she looked into the tavern. No Rickie. It was around ten-thirty.
Ursie was behind the bar at the espresso machine. “Rickie hasn’t shown up yet, Luisa. Sunday morning, y’know.”
“Tell him hello.”
“You coming back?” asked Ursie.
“Not sure. Probably not.” Luisa went out, and looking left on the pavement was delighted to see Rickie with Lulu on the lead, one street away. “Hi, Rickie!”
“Good—morning, dear Luisa. And how did your evening finish?”
Luisa laughed nervously. “Got to hurry home with this.”
She indicated the newspaper under her arm. “Well—Dorrie was in my room a few seconds last night, just taking a look at it, and Renate barged in. You’d have thought Dorrie was a robber! Renate made a big scene and after Dorrie left, Renate pretended— Anyway, she thinks there’s something the matter with her eye now. A torn retina. I don’t think anything’s the matter with it.”
Rickie gave a laugh. “I can imagine that scene. Dorrie in your room!”
“Rickie, I’ve got to go. I’m the nurse today, meals in bed. She’s going to the eye doctor tomorrow.”
“Schönen Sonntag!”
Luisa walked toward home, toward the new chill that was settling into the apartment. She sensed something worse to come, something heavy, indescribable, and more important than even Dorrie.
24
Renate’s appointment the next day was at 10 A.M. Luisa had ordered a taxi. She was to accompany Renate, of course, and had already spoken to the girls in the workroom, told them of the delicate condition of Renate’s eye, and made sure they had their work laid out for the morning. At that time, a little after eight, Renate was resting.
The girls were rather surprised.
“Did she have a fall?” Vera asked.
“No, it just came on suddenly—Saturday night,” Luisa answered.
Renate had created a patch for her eye out of folded dark cloth and an elastic cord. Luisa sat in a corner of the examining room which had charts on the wall and various lamps as well as a chair like a dentist’s.
“Flashing lights,” Renate said, “white and some pinkish. Naturally, this causes some blurred vision.” Her tone was sharp, as if to order the doctor to see it her way.
In silence, Dr. Widmer examined the eye from all angles. Finally, he said, “I don’t see any sign of retinal damage. No damaged blood vessels. Do you see anything like a veil obstructing your—”
“Yes! It’s grayish. I had a shock, you see—a stranger standing in a room of my apartment. I felt that something burst behind my eye.”
“Somebody broke in?” asked the doctor, attentive.
“A friend of one of my apprentice girls. But it was after midnight—when I opened the door and—”
“But a friend,” said the doctor.
“Yes, but I’m talking about the shock.”
Dr. Widmer advised resting the eye, thought the covering a good idea, and gave her something easier to wear. Drops now, when Renate’s chair was reclined to horizontal. She was to take the little bottle with her. Two drops twice a day; he would see her in two days’ time, or if there was improvement, there might be no need for her to come again.
Luisa sensed that Renate was disappointed at this. She had murmured something at home about “hospital rest.”
At home, instead of resting, Renate at once went to check on the workroom, wearing her new black patch which looked like an item from a pirate’s costume. Renate made light of her trouble now, and cut an imposing figure as she inspected work-in-progress, and checked an autumn coat in Vera’s charge, which had to be finished by Wednesday morning: the client was coming. This was Frau Loser of Kuesnacht, for whom Renate always had to make out two bills, one the real bill, the second for Frau Loser to show her husband.
Renate even examined the kitchen floor—the girls had had their midmorning coffee and cake—and asked Luisa in a brusque way to give it another sweeping.
The worst was dinner that evening. They were to have lamb chops, two smallish ones each, baked potato, and salad. Often they cooked together, but now all was for Luisa to do, including the table-setting (the bridge table in the TV sitting room, more elegant than the kitchen), while Renate watched the TV, now back in the sitting room, or did some one-eyed reading of the newspapers.
Renate waited until they were seated, glasses of wine poured, the first silent bites consumed, then said, “Luisa, you may consider yourself no longer obliged to take your meals with me. I admit—I confess—I can’t bring myself to treat as normal what I saw Saturday night—or what that will lead to.” Despite the vagueness of her words, Renate spoke as if she had a hardened conviction of what she was saying, and would never be budged on it.
“I—” At a loss, Luisa shrugged. “Dorrie asked if she could see my room. What’s wrong with that?”
“You know the people she associates with—homos, lesbians—because she’s one herself.” Renate forked a lamb morsel into her mouth. “You think I want girls in my establishment friendly with such people? I do not!”
Luisa chose her words. “It seems to me people can have all kinds of friends. Rickie has become a friend. And you’re mistaken about Teddie, who’s not a homo.”
Renate twitched. “Worse—the two-faced kind. Bisexual—dangerous and dishonest.” Her uncovered eye bored into Luisa’s face.
Luisa gathered herself, making sure her knife and fork were secure on her plate, then rose with her plate and wine glass. “Since I am not obliged to share the same table—” Luisa carried these items to the kitchen. She dre
w up a chair, no longer hungry, but she was able to eat the rest and intended to.
Tonight she’d try to get out—for half an hour anyway.
Renate clumped up the hall, clump, scrape, clump, scrape, and appeared in the doorway, looking angry enough to give her other eye a rupture. “If you are thinking of going out tonight to see your sordid friends—go ahead. But you will not get back in.”
Luisa did not answer, only stared back at Renate.
“Good night. And wash the dishes before you go to bed.”
Luisa’s mind spun. The nearest telephone was L’Eclair. Was her post going to be safe? Well, yes, Luisa could get there first (downstairs), unless Renate went down earlier and waited for the postman at eight-thirty or nine.
She tidied the kitchen, while Renate watched a program that they usually looked at together. As she was pulling the rubbish bag up to tie it for removal, a thought struck her: if she tried to quit Renate’s employ, Renate could give her bad references.
But as yet the idea of leaving Renate was shocking. Nearly a year she’d been with Renate, who had befriended her, given her room and board (provided them for a modest sum, anyway), who had instructed her and encouraged her almost as if she were Renate’s own daughter. It was impossible to imagine that all that could be swept away, overnight. It simply didn’t make sense.
She took a second shower before she went to bed. She had found herself stinking from anxiety and fear, something she hadn’t known since running away from her family, when she had ended up in the Zurich railway station, full of strangers who looked at her directly, some hostilely, men and women too, and she had been scared, sensing odd and dangerous thoughts running through their heads.
She was in bed before eleven, reading a biography of Chopin, an old hardback from Renate’s bedroom shelves. Yesterday it had been interesting; tonight Chopin seemed unimportant. She got up and went to her table, and tore off a sheet of notepaper.
She wrote:
Dear Rickie,
Please tell Dorrie, also Teddie, that Renate is on the warpath and it is maybe impossible to phone and just as bad if they phone me. Maybe I said some of this, but things are worse. I’ll try to get this to you in Jakob’s tomorrow morning—else drop it in your postbox.
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