Small g (10 page)

An eye-catching male figure approached and Rickie assessed it: about thirty, looking like a male model in a cream-colored raincoat with cuffs partly unbuttoned as if to prove that the buttonholes were real, porkpie hat, Tattersall shirt with yellow silk tie, and Gucci shoes. Rickie glanced behind him for a photographer and saw none. A few meters on, a couple of stoned hippies—or simply moneyless teenagers in worn-out jeans and scruffy, waist-length denim jackets—leaned against a building, attempting to share something with trembling fingers. A cigarette? A line of cocaine? No one paid them any mind, and no one had paid the swank menswear advertisement any mind either. That was Zurich.

Not far ahead, Rickie saw a man on a ladder, working with a screwdriver on a flagpole socket. Rickie hesitated only briefly—a ladder to walk under was always a temptation—and walked calmly on under the ladder, careful not to touch it.

A passerby noticed, and smiled. When Rickie turned to look back, the ladder was slowly sliding down the building front, as the man descended.

Whack!
The ladder fell flat on the pavement.

The impact jolted the man off his balance, and he rolled onto his back, looking stunned. Another man offered him a hand up, and still another righted the ladder.

Rickie hadn’t touched the ladder, he was sure. Suppose he had walked under at the time to get hit on the head, or his neck pinned between rungs?

Then the heavy door of the Kronenhalle, with its brass handle, a few steps up to restaurant level, then the full display of dark and heavy wood panels, partitions, tables covered in white linen, raftered ceilings of the same—not dark from old tobacco smoke or fireplace soot like Jakob’s, but deliberately stained dark. There was the glint of silverware, the sparkle of stemmed glasses, and a discreet hum of Sunday noon voices, a far cry from Saturday night at the Small g.

“Frau Keller,” Rickie said to a headwaiter in black who had approached him. “She has a table.”

“Ah, Frau Keller!” The restaurant knew Dorothea Keller, but not him. “This way, sir.”

Back and back, past the well-dressed patrons toward a cozy corner table. Dorothea had seen him first.

“’Ello,
Rickie
!”

“Dorothea! How goes it?” Rickie took the chair the headwaiter had pulled out for him. “Thank you.”

“I am well and you look
very
well,” Dorothea replied. She wore a pale blue cotton dress with white piqué trim—classic, fresh and pretty—and a heavy necklace of what looked like many twisted gold strings.

Costume jewelry, Rickie knew, but the effect was excellent. “And you,” Rickie said, “look not a bit depressed.”

His sister sighed. “It’s only Elise, and she always pulls through. Doesn’t she?” Dorothea went on, getting it off her chest before their lunch began. “She went off to Zermatt where a man friend of hers has a flat. Just for a change of scene, she says, and she took her work with her, that I know . . .”

No, it wasn’t a new affair, Elise was still in love with her steady boyfriend Jean-Paul, but young people always manufactured such drama. “And I can’t even call them young, if Elise’s twenty-five and Jean-Paul’s thirty and gets his
Doktorat
this year.”

“I don’t like his name, Jean-Paul, sounds like a pope.”

Dorothea laughed.

That’s why she liked to see him, Rickie supposed, he could make her laugh. Her family troubles were not so much: Elise delaying completion of her thesis by another few months? What was new about that?

“I have news,” Rickie said. “Last night—”

A waiter stuck a huge menu on stiff white paper in front of him, practically into his hands, and Dorothea got the same treatment.

“A drink first, Rickie,” she said.

“Very good. A Bloody Mary. Cheerful to look at—along with you.”

“
Zwei
Bloody Mary,
bitte
,” Dorothea said with a sweet smile to the waiter. “Then we shall order. You were saying, last night—”

She looked at Rickie with level dark eyes. Her hair was puffed out softly round her head. Dorothea looked younger than fifty.

Rickie took a breath, expecting criticism, something negative, but unable to suppress it. “I met the most handsome—boy. Well, I’m sure he’s twenty.”

“Oh Rickie—” deploringly, eager for more. “Just a little on the young side!”

“Lives with mum in town—and may not even be
schwul
.”

“Oh. Then—” Dorothea looked as if she had been expecting an orgy, and was therefore disappointed.

“He is so handsome, I’m sure comes from a rather good family, has his
Matura
,” Rickie continued, at the same time thinking that Teddie’s arriving in the company of a car thief didn’t sound too respectable.

“And what does he do?”

The old story, or problem; the boys were stumbling around, finding themselves. Rickie said it bluntly, “Stumbling around—finding himself.”

Dorothea shook her head. “Aren’t they all?”

“His mother apparently doesn’t mind. Teddie phoned her last night to say he was all right and would be home this morning. And—I should add, he has rather nice manners.” Rickie could see that this was a plus in Dorothea’s mind. He sipped more of the excellent Bloody Mary. “He stayed the night—
chez moi
.”

“Really. And you don’t know—” Dorothea’s mouth turned up at the corners in a provocative smile.

Rickie said that Teddie had slept in his bed, and he on the living room sofa. This did amaze his sister.

“You are watching out about—you know,” she said.

She meant the HIV-positive business. Before Rickie could answer, the waiter returned, and this time they made up their minds and ordered.

“Yes,” said Rickie, when the waiter had gone. For the past month and a bit more, Rickie reckoned.

“Taking your vitamin pills.”

“Oh yes,” He shrugged. “Vitamins. Safe sex. Oooh, la! Can’t do any more.” He was immensely grateful that his sister had stood by him, when he learned that he was HIV positive. It was like a death sentence, the only question mark being
when
? Neither of them had to say this.

“What kind of wine?” Dorothea was examining the list with the aid of a monocle on a black cord.

Rickie was unpleasantly reminded of Renate in Jakob’s, peering at the little bills before she paid them. After they had chosen the wine, Rickie told his sister about walking under the ladder that morning and the ladder falling immediately afterward—
wham
!

Dorothea was alarmed, until Rickie assured her that the man had not been hurt at all. “I saw him standing up—smiling!”

“Rickie—you’re always taking chances, and one day—”

When their lamb chops and tournedos arrived, they talked of family things, events in Dorothea’s country house on the lake of Zurich. Robbie had acquired more tropical fish, meaning another aquarium had been added to the living room. Rickie rather liked gazing at the tiny royal blue or quite transparent milky little fish in their bubbly, illuminated water.

“Because Robbie’s a radiologist,” Rickie said, “maybe he likes looking at their spinal cords without having to X-ray them.”

“You might be right! He talks about retiring—but that’s as far as it gets. Fifty-nine! He could afford to retire. But no, up at the crack of dawn, into the car and driving to the hospital. All he reads is medical journals. But—”

“But?”

“He’s an indulgent husband. Never says no to anything I want. That’s something.” She smiled.

It was during these minutes with his sister that Rickie felt convinced that he had fallen in love with Teddie. Yes. That important phrase. That feeling that didn’t come every year, that some people said they’d never had. That madness based not on how pretty or handsome someone was, that mysterious power—Rickie realized that he was under that influence, which was both pleasant and dangerous.

And to be practical, he hadn’t Teddie’s telephone number. Of course, it might be in the book, and Stevenson being not such a common name in Switzerland, he might find it.

A
T ABOUT THAT TIME
, Luisa Zimmermann and Renate Hagnauer were looking at a “German paintings and drawings” exhibition at the Kunsthaus, half a kilometer away from Rickie and his sister. Renate—besides enjoying the vast display of talent in the form of painting, sculpture, and photography that the Kunsthaus offered—felt it her duty to introduce Luisa to the cream of the art world, to educate her. Incredible, the gaps in Luisa’s knowledge, and not merely in regard to the visual arts. A person would think that she had come from one of the pocket villages of Switzerland, in the notch of some valley where people never read a book, seldom went anywhere, and in the past perhaps had intermarried with appalling results. Luisa’s childhood had not been that benighted, but neither of her parents had cared about art, good music, or books, that was plain. Luisa was even reluctant to talk about her family. Fortunately, the girl had a liking for good classical music, which was a blessing. The rest needed prodding.

“You see—this Kandinsky—this spiral so delicate and perfectly balanced. Probably not the first he made to achieve this. The kind of perfection a
machine
could not achieve! He achieved it, freehand, no pencil first, I feel sure.”

Luisa looked closely, appreciative, taking pleasure from the drawing, Renate could see. Renate had spoken softly, not wanting to annoy other people with what to them might sound like a lecture.

Renate made a quick and almost furtive sketch of a woman’s beige dress. Handmade Italian, Renate could see from across the room. She pointed out her find to Luisa, and waited patiently until the woman turned and she could see the front. Interesting collar, one button, two pockets. Renate sketched.

Several minutes later, they were having cappuccino and apple torte at one of the little tables in the café section on the ground floor. Renate’s treat for the young Luisa. The girl did seem in cheerful and relaxed mood today, interested in the show, and not in the least impatient when Renate had wanted to see the very last room of it. Not daydreaming either. Or was she really daydreaming about the boy she had met last night? The good-looking boy with the dark hair?

Renate fitted a cigarette into her holder, lit it. How would she bring it up again? Plunge ahead and repeat it, she decided. “You know, Luisa, if you are dreaming about that boy you danced with last night—”

“I wasn’t!” said Luisa, waking up. “I was thinking about something quite different.”

“I told you already—Willi saw him leaving Jakob’s with Rickie about one in the morning. Willi said they went into Rickie’s apartment house. No doubt for the night.” Renate sighed with an air of futility. “It would be the same story over again, if you—if you got to know this boy any better. Or if you were stupid enough to fall in
love
with him!” Renate became excited as she spoke, and forced a laugh. “A homo is a homo—forever.”

Luisa looked at Renate and said, “I was thinking—about—something else.”

Renate stirred in the plastic chair. “Why do you speak to me in
that
tone? I don’t care for it.”

11

M
onday morning. One of the first things Rickie did was telephone a locksmith in regard to his balcony door. Dorothea had asked him yesterday about it, and Rickie had had to admit that he hadn’t got round to the repair. Dorothea was appalled, she’d visited him six or eight
months
ago, she reminded him, and been surprised by its state, and he still had done nothing? Then a lecture on the dangers the drug addicts presented now, after the government and the police had cleared them out of the Platzspitz, where they had been able to obtain clean needles at least, and meet their dealers. Oh, Rickie knew. The park had become such a slum really, a dealer’s paradise, a public toilet too, that the police had been ordered to clear them all out, take the addicts by busloads back to their homes, often in small towns. But a great many of them had made their way back to Zurich for their drugs, and they were still hanging around, nearly three hundred of them daily drifting in Zurich’s streets, according to a recent news bulletin that Rickie remembered. Street holdups, mugging at knifepoint, had come back, Rickie knew. Not to mention that he could see a few almost any time of the day or night in the St. Jakob’s church area, sleeping in a nook somewhere, or sitting on the pavement propped against the building, too far gone to stand up to beg.

Anyway, by eight-thirty Rickie had telephoned the locksmith company and made an appointment for ten-thirty that morning. He had said it was urgent, because Rickie knew Dorothea would ring him this evening to ask if he’d done it. Then Rickie had his breakfast at Jakob’s, with newspaper and Appenzeller, and as happened most mornings, Renate and Luisa arrived before ten, got their usual table, and before Rickie departed, he was able to give Luisa the most discreet wave of his fingers, and she a big smile to him, as he exited by the main door with Lulu on her lead.

Star-Brite
. His ideas. Rickie put his three sketches on the table. They were little more than doodles, but sometimes these won the day. These had action.

Mathilde was opening the post.

“If the Star-Brite man telephones, Mathilde, make a date with him—anytime this afternoon.”

“Really? I thought Friday.”

Rickie was pleased she remembered. “Things got changed. If I’m not back by noon—I’ll phone you, OK? C’mon, Lulu.”

The locksmith was only five minutes late, a fortyish man in beige work clothes with a tool kit. Rickie let him in the front door and into the apartment, and explained the problem—instantly apparent, of course—something broken inside the lock; the key kept turning without moving the bolt. A new lock. So be it.

Rickie had absently looked the man over on first sight, as he usually did—was he gay? This time definitely not, he thought. Not a handsome type, at any rate. So many were gay, and when Rickie forgot to size a man up, something odd could happen, like the gay policeman coming back to his house that night and knocking. Rickie realized that if this one had been gay, even given him a positive sign, he would have declined, because he was dreaming about Teddie.

It would take at least half an hour, the workman said. Rickie stayed, made hot water for instant espresso. The workman didn’t want a coffee. Rickie stood sipping, looking out his bedroom window, and was shocked and annoyed to glimpse through the leaves Willi the Snoop directly across the street, staring up at the workman on the balcony. What else had he to do, of course, but patrol the neighborhood—for gossipy purposes, and at public expense, considering that national health insurance was certainly contributing to the dolt’s upkeep?

Rickie tried to repress his anger. Good, at least, that Renate would learn in a matter of hours the earthshaking news that Rickie Markwalder’s balcony door lock had been repaired—provided Willi wasn’t too dim to realize what the workman was doing! There was the workman’s little van below, saying “Schlosserei Kobler” in red letters on white, to give Willi a hint.

He yielded to an aggressive impulse, and raised the window, put his hands on the sill. “Hi, Willi!”

Willi heard and saw him, Rickie could sense. But no word, no movement from Willi. His heavy brown shoes hadn’t moved on the pavement.

Rickie kept staring at him, remembering that Willi had said a murderer had come in that broken door. Rather Renate had invented that story, and Willi had probably helped to spread it. He watched as Willi drifted off, giving one backward glance after a few steps, as if nothing but Rickie’s repair job interested him at the moment. Except reporting it now, of course. Rickie hoped Willi would spread it all over the neighborhood.

The workman did accept a small beer when the work was nearly finished. Finally, collection of tools, sweeping up of metal fragments with Rickie’s broom, and the man was gone. Great! Perfect. He
did
feel more secure, and he could make a good report to his sister.

“Let’s go, Lulu!”

Lulu leapt to her feet, ready for her lead.

Back to the studio, and Mathilde informed him that the Star-Brite man had telephoned, and she had made an appointment for 3
P.M.
That was fine.

“Anything else?”

“This bill—needs a check. And someone called Georg phoned around eleven-thirty. Said he would call back.”

“Just Georg?” Rickie asked casually, though his heart had jumped.

The telephone rang, and Rickie laid the invoice down.

“I’ll take this one,” said Rickie, not hurrying. “Hello?”

“Hello, Rickie. Teddie. I’m—um— How are you?”

“
Gu-t, danke
,” replied Rickie. “And where are you? Home?”

“I’m at Jakob’s.”

Rickie instantly saw the semi-sheltered stand-up booth—if a hood with shoulder-length sides could be called a booth—against a wall near the toilets. “So-o—well—um—I am still working, you know. For a few minutes. Could you—” He saw that Mathilde was doing something at her desk, paying him no heed. “You know my home address.”

“Just the telephone there.”

Rickie gave him the house number. “Say, one o’clock?”

“Sure, Rickie. Thank you.”

Rickie smiled, hanging up, feeling happy. A polite boy to say “Thank you.” He hoped Teddie hadn’t got into some kind of trouble, and at once thought it was possible that Teddie liked him a little.

He took a spare key from a drawer. “A key for you, Mathilde. I’ll be back by three for Star-Brite, but maybe not before. You have work for this afternoon. I think.”

She sipped her Dubonnet before she answered. “Yes, indeed, Rickie.
Guten Appetit!
” she added more cheerfully.

Rickie waved and departed.

He saw the boy from a distance, standing under a tree, in blue jeans and a tan jacket, sneakers. Then Teddie saw him, and raised an arm.

“Hi, Rickie!” A manly handshake from the boy.

Rickie almost trembled. “Want to come up? Have you had lunch?”

“No. Be nice to talk for a minute.” Teddie looked in a cheerful mood.

They went up the steps, into Rickie’s flat.

“Welcome—again!” Rickie said with a big smile.

Teddie nodded. “Thanks. I talked with my mum today. I feel better.”

Rickie felt a start of alarm. “Talked—about what?”

“About what I might do with my life. I’m thinking of journalism. I wrote a column this morning—just two pages but it’s something.”

“Very good,” said Rickie. “Would you like to sit down? Something to drink? A Coke?”

The boy might not have heard the questions. His alert eyes gazed into Rickie’s. “I just wanted to talk to you. I’m going to try to start a column—twice a week, maybe. ‘Georg’s Hiccup,’ something like that—sort of for young people, though I hate the term ‘young people.’ Just—things I’ve been doing.”

Rickie knew. Hiccup—well. “How about ‘Georg’s View’ or—‘Georg’s Adventures’?”

“‘Adventures’—that’s possible. I’ll think about it.”

“Did you bring your piece?”

“I sent it off just now.” Teddie smiled. “To the
Tages-Anzeiger
. Aiming high, eh?”

“Aha! My newspaper. But you have a copy of your piece.”

“It’s at home. It’s—about Saturday night, the joy ride, ha-ha—and ending up in a strange neighborhood and dropping into a friendly bar and restaurant like Jakob’s and meeting—”

“Did you write ‘Jakob’s’?” Somehow Jakob’s was private, like a club.

Teddie laughed. “I called it ‘Artur’s.’ And meeting—friendly people like you, and others—and a pretty girl and dancing with her. It’s a whole new world.”

It was only a whole new neighborhood, Rickie thought.

“And even if it doesn’t last,” Teddie went on. “A night’s adventure, as you said. Like an episode, you know?”

“Yes,” Rickie replied, puzzled. “Look, can I invite you to Jakob’s for a snack? Because I haven’t anything interesting here.”

Rickie felt more at ease going into Jakob’s at lunchtime, because the hostile eye of Renate Hagnauer was never here at midday, and seldom was the dunce Willi Biber, who had vague jobs at a tearoom a few streets away, Rickie had heard, and very likely he ate there. He and Teddie entered by the main street door, and walked on to the back terrace, he and Lulu being greeted by a few of the patrons as usual.

Bratwurst and sauerkraut for Teddie, sliced ham and potato salad for Rickie, and a Coke and a beer. Again a lovely day, with sunlight through the grapevines over their heads.

“Does Luisa come here for lunch sometimes?” Teddie asked.

Rickie chuckled, enjoying his meal and the beautiful image—the fact—of Teddie opposite. “I’m pretty sure Luisa has lunch with Renate at home there.”

“And the evening?”

Rickie quaffed some beer. “Never saw them for dinner here. Later, maybe—when the crowd gets interesting. Especially weekends.”

Teddie’s brows looked troubled. “They’re always together?”

“No. But Renate’s possessive. You’d think Luisa was her daughter.” He added, “I’ve heard she’s very jealous, Renate. So watch out—if you want to see Luisa again.” Nothing more obvious to Rickie than that Teddie did want to see Luisa again, and that that was why he was here.

“Well—um—why has this Renate got such a hold?”

Rickie didn’t answer at once. “Luisa—her family’s in Brig, I think. Renate gave her a job—continuing her apprenticeship, a place to sleep, about a year ago—less. Renate takes advantage, bosses Luisa around.” He added, as if it would explain the situation, “Everyone knows that.”

“Because—I wouldn’t mind seeing Luisa again,” Teddie said with a smile, laying his knife and fork diagonally across his empty plate. “That was good, Rickie. Great place!”

Rickie smiled a little, for some reason recalling the night he had barely made it home in his Merc, drunk and tailed by a police car. He had parked his car outside Jakob’s and staggered in, and Ursie had hidden him in the kitchen. Yes,
hidden
him, while the police had taken a look round the bar and the restaurant rooms, and had given up. Oddly, Rickie had not received a ticket in the post for that, because certainly the police had had his license number, if they’d cared to use it.

“This Renate—is she in the telephone book?”

Rickie reached for his nearly empty beer glass. “I think so. And if you try to telephone Luisa, she’ll likely pick up the telephone first.” He laughed.

Teddie wagged his head to indicate indifference. “I can try it. What’s there to lose?”

Rickie looked at his watch. “I’m checking because of an appointment at three,” he murmured, as if thinking of something else, which he was. He was trying to see into the future.

“My mother says I can have the car more or less when I want,” Teddie said, “since I have a good record. Haven’t got it today, though.”

And it would be nice to invite Luisa for a drive, Rickie was thinking, and to dinner at a restaurant in the countryside. Teddie’s handsome young face looked as restless as his left hand, whose fingers drummed on the old wood of the table. “I’m serious about the newspaper column idea. I’ll try it for a couple of months. Might improve with practice.”

Rickie lit a cigarette. “But of course—with practice. A column for—people your age. If the
Tages-Anzeiger
turns you down, try somewhere else.”

“I was writing articles and a couple of short stories in
Gymnasium
. I think I’m better at nonfiction. I don’t mean I’m very good yet—but I had some praise at school.”

Rickie felt that Teddie gazed at him hopefully for approval, as if he, Rickie, had become a father figure. He frowned down at the ashtray. “You know, it might be better if you wrote to Luisa instead of telephoning, because if Renate answers”—he had lowered his voice, as if the old witch was at the next table—“she’s not going to pass you on to Luisa. She’ll ask your name, your business.”

“Oh. That bad.”

“Yes, Teddie.”

Teddie stood up. “Excuse me. I’ll take a look. The telephone book—Hagnauer.”

“Yes,” Rickie said reluctantly, as softly as the boy had spoken. Then he picked up the four little bills, and reached for his wallet.

Teddie was soon back. “I took the address and so on.”

“So you’ll write a note.”

“OK. But it’s so much slower.”

Rickie had to smile. “Coffee?”

“Not for me, thanks. I had a lot this morning, working.”

Teddie reached for the bills, firmly. “I’ll pay. I think it’ll bring me luck.”

Ursula was in sight, and came at Rickie’s beck. She wore a limp, slightly soiled white apron over a dark blue dress, and carried her pad and pencil at the ready.

“So-o, my dear,” Rickie said in jocular tone. “We pay. Rather my friend does.”

“Ah-h—our friend from Saturday night!” said Ursula pleasantly, on recognizing Teddie. “Welcome!”

“Thank you,” said Teddie.

Ursie’s pale blue eyes focused on her reckoning, and she announced the sum.

“Thank you very much, Teddie,” said Rickie.

They went out via the garden path with the gate at the pavement edge.

“By the way, Teddie, are
you
in the telephone book? Your mother?”

“Yes. Under K. J. Stevenson. Here.” He pulled his wallet again from the inside pocket of his jacket, and took a small business card from it. “One of my dad’s old cards, but it’s correct.”