Small g (20 page)

“Yes, Madame,” replied Officer Schimmelmann.

Detective Senn said, “There are some coincidences. Peter Ritter was a friend of Herr Markwalder. So is Teddie Stevenson. Herr Markwalder has reason to know that Willi Biber—frankly, knew both by sight, anyway. Willi Biber was at Jakob’s bar last Saturday night and departed at a time when he could—
could
have followed Teddie—”

“Stevenson,” Officer Schimmelmann put in. He had set one end of the metal piece on the pavement and kept his hand on the other end.

“I’ll show the way it could have happened.” Senn reached for the metal piece, and the police officer presented it horizontally. Senn had stuck his notepad into a pocket. He took a couple of paces into the front path, turned, and held the metal in a position to use as a ram or to throw a short distance. He took a quick step toward the curb with it.

Renate flinched.

Willi’s expression did not change.

Senn said, “Like that.” His voice was calm and neutral, and he was watching Willi Biber without staring at him. “But of course we’re not sure this was the weapon—” He went into the path again and stamped on a part of it. “Just because it was found here. Do you remember anything about this, Herr Biber?” Senn asked casually.

Renate looked at Willi, but he was not looking at her.

“No,” said Willi.

“Have you ever seen this yellow—tripod piece before?”

“No,” said Willi, shaking his head now.

Renate sighed, as if with impatience. “This neighborhood has its share of drifters—troublemakers—on a Saturday night.” She addressed Senn.

A window rattled above them. A man on the second floor of the next house looked out, curious. Senn paid him no mind.

“What’s the trouble?” the man asked.

After a few seconds, Senn said, “Nothing.”

The man continued to watch.

“Willi, did you know Teddie’s car was here?” Officer Schimmelmann asked, pointing toward the
X
on the pavement.

“Yes,” said Willi.

“He—then you know Teddie, Herr Biber? By sight, I mean. You know Teddie when you
see
him?”

Willi looked to Renate, who was frowning and taking a deep breath.

“Again,” said Renate, “you’re trying to tell him what he knows or doesn’t know! Dr. Faas—”

“No, it’s a fair question,” said Dr. Faas. “Herr Biber, do you know Teddie when you
see
him?”

Willi looked at a loss, as if he were thinking: Yes or no, and why? “Yes,” he said finally, positively.

“Good,” said Detective Senn, visibly relaxing. “At least it’s something!” he added with a smile to Renate and to the police officer. “Herr Biber, do you remember seeing Teddie at Jakob’s Biergarten—last Saturday night? The fireworks night?”

“Yes,” said Willi, with a nod.

“Do you remember when he left? Went out of Jakob’s?”

Willi thought. “No.”

“When
you
left?”

“When?” asked Willi.

“What time was it—about—when you left Jakob’s?”

“No,” said Willi. His tone was flat.

“He’s quite vague about time,” Renate murmured. “That question is useless.”

Senn wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and made a note.

“When you left Jakob’s—Saturday night—what did you do?”

Renate gave a short, positive nod, which she doubted if Willi saw. She had rehearsed this one with Willi.

“I went home.”

Renate felt relief. Willi was not going to be shaken here, she was sure.

On that note, the questioning seemed to be over. Senn looked at the doctor, who gave no sign, but merely closed his notebook.

They began to walk in the direction of L’Eclair and Renate’s street. Willi, practical in his way, had lowered the sleeves of his yellow shirt to let them dry during the questioning, and now he rolled them up again in preparation for dishwashing.

Good-byes and thank-yous and forced smiles all round, except for Willi, who didn’t bother with either.

The police car was parked near L’Eclair with a
POLIZEI
card behind its windscreen. Renate lingered, looked back long enough to see that Officer Schimmelmann got into the car along with the doctor and Senn, who was driving. The car was not going in Markwalder’s direction.

F
REDDIE
S
CHIMMELMANN TELEPHONED
just after six, when Rickie had been home hardly ten minutes.

“Not great news,” Freddie said. “I was there, so was Renate. I thought it was better if I didn’t go over to see you afterward, Rickie, with the doctor and Senn there. I don’t want them to think we’re that chummy, y’know?”

“And what happened?”

“Not much. Willi denies he even saw that piece of metal, which we had with us today. He does admit knowing Teddie’s car was parked in that spot—admits that he knows Teddie on sight. But the rest—Renate was there, trying to steer him. Rickie, my hunch is it may be best to forget it. After all, Teddie’s not badly hurt. It’s a . . .”

Rickie’s attention drifted. Yes, Teddie would mend, with an ugly but not big scar there.

“Happens often that we can’t find the person who struck the blow, or stole the car—or we can’t prove anything if we do. So we have to let it go. But the incident is on record, of course.”

“I know. I understand.”

Rickie hung up, feeling that Renate had scored another little victory. Not so little with Willi unscathed, and maybe the police would not question him again. He should’ve asked Freddie about that. And Teddie scared off the premises, forbidden the neighborhood by his mother. Not bad, Frau Hagnauer.

Frowning, he stood taller, and drew in his abdomen as much as he could. He felt rotten.

Again his telephone rang.

“Hello, Rickie, Luisa. Have you got any news?”

“Willi says he never saw that piece of metal—that he went home from Jakob’s that night. But you know, Renate is just too interested. Why is she so interested, if he’s innocent?”

“
Yes
.”

“Want to come here for a nice cold Coke?”

“Yes, but I can’t. I’m out buying buns at L’Eclair and I’m a little shy about phoning from here.”

Rickie understood. “You know, my sweet, pop into my studio or apartment whenever you have a spare ten minutes. You don’t have to telephone first.”

22

“T
he news is good,” said Dr. Oberdorfer in anything but a cheerful tone.

Rickie squeezed the telephone. The doctor had rung him.

He was standing in his atelier, looking at Mathilde, who was paying him no mind, pecking out something on her computer, a pink Dubonnet at hand. “Then—why do you want to see me? Can’t you tell me now?”

“I’d like to tell you face to face,” said the doctor. “Unless you have something very important to do just now, could you come to my office within the next hour?”

Rickie of course said he could, even though he had an appointment at four that he might not be able to get back for. A new client. Wristwatches. Rickie asked Mathilde please to ring that company’s number, and beg off for him. “Something more important has turned up,” Rickie said. He felt that he was pale in the face.

Before Mathilde telephoned, Rickie dialed for a radio taxi. “Soon as you can, please.” He’d get there with minimum effort. Then Rickie told Mathilde he thought he would be back within an hour—if not, he’d telephone. He went up to stand on the pavement till the taxi came. Had Dr. Oberdorfer heard of some mitigating drug in regard to HIV? Something that definitely prolonged the “incubation” stage in the lymph cells, before hell broke out somewhere?

So what? Rickie asked himself, trying the philosophical tack. It was only a question of time, wasn’t it? Death, for anybody, was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?
When
was the very personal question, unfair to ask, except that with HIV it was sooner, or soon. That much was certain. Rickie had succeeded in squelching his anxiety about every little lump, real or imagined, on his neck, for instance. He had gone at least twice to Dr. Oberdorfer with pounding heart and unnecessarily. He no longer looked daily for a purple spot on his legs, Kaposi’s syndrome, just maybe twice a week. Now Dr. Oberdorfer had brought the time factor back: he had “good news,” meaning (what else?) some means, some new drug that was going to prolong his life, maybe by three years, maybe by a few months. Nice, of course, when you’re at the end. Maybe not to be sneered at.

Rickie rang the bell at Dr. Oberdorfer’s office door, and was admitted by the fiftyish female nurse whose face Rickie knew well. It was a lean, neutral face with an expression that Rickie felt was professionally acquired: though very slightly “pleasant,” it gave away no hint of life or death in the news to come.

“Oh yes, I think he’s ready now, Herr Markwalder.”

Rickie went into Dr. Oberdorfer’s private office, which had a desk and chair and two other chairs, and whose walls bore no pictures, only framed diplomas.

“Sit down,” said the doctor, words Rickie had dreaded.

Rickie thought people were asked to sit when the news was going to floor them. He sat with head high, attentive.

Now the doctor smiled. “And what do you hear from your young friend—Stevenson?”

“Oh—better every day, I think. Doing well.”

Dr. Oberdorfer cleared his throat. “Herr Markwalder, I have good news for you. You are clear of the HIV problem.”

Rickie didn’t understand. “What?”

“Yes. You’ve been using condoms? Lately?”

Rickie’s mind spun back to Freddie, Rickie’s latest, that night with him. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

“Not so difficult, is it?”

“N-no.”

“I was testing you. I’ll confess that. A two-month test, you might say. Do you understand?”

“Not entirely.”

“I confess I wanted to give you a real shock.” The doctor’s voice had become soft and Rickie had to strain to hear. “For your own good. I wanted you to find out you can live with ‘safe sex,’ if you understand me.”

Rickie was beginning to. He was beginning to relax, and he had a long way to go.

“It’s—no doubt out of order, what I did. You could sue me. I mean what I say. Go ahead and sue me, if you want to.”

At that moment, Rickie felt like embracing Dr. Oberdorfer, shaking his hand, pressing it till the doctor cried for mercy.

“I’ve never done such a thing before,” said Dr. Oberdorfer, still speaking in a clear, low voice. “Maybe I won’t ever again. It would’ve been quite awkward for me, if you’d committed suicide, and left a note.”

Rickie gave a short, loud laugh, which sounded odd, like a dog’s bark, not like his laughter. In fact, he didn’t feel like himself. He felt simply odd.

“I like you, Herr Markwalder, but you lead a careless life. You take chances.”

Now Rickie understood, completely. “I don’t feel like suing you.”

Dr. Oberdorfer gave a small, rare smile. “Good. Well, that’s all. Except I shall say I hope you keep on—you know—taking life the safe way. All right?”

Rickie stood up. Their handshake was firm. Rickie had extended his hand first.

The inscrutable nurse again, then the second door closed.

Must tell his sister Dorothea. Rickie walked. What would she say about Dr. Oberdorfer’s behavior? Rickie realized he was walking in the wrong direction for home or even a bus. He turned, and after a few brisk steps went back to his thoughtful pace. He was not going to die
soon
, that was the happy news. And he didn’t hate his doctor. “They’re very young kids,” Rickie remembered himself saying to Dr. Oberdorfer, months ago, remembered with shame now: sixteen- or seventeen-year-olds he’d picked up, anywhere. The kind who would manage to clean out his wallet, if he took them home, which he did, often. “You think the young ones can’t carry diseases just the same as the older ones?” Dr. Oberdorfer had asked. And he’d been looking for more of the same the night he had found Freddie Schimmelmann.

For the umpteenth time in his life, Rickie told himself he was lucky.

A quarter of an hour later, Rickie was pacing thoughtfully in the lobby of Dorothea’s apartment building. Dorothea was out. Shopping, probably, but it was nearer five than four now, and he had a feeling he wouldn’t have to wait long.

“Rickie!” Here was Dorothea with two big plastic shopping bags. “How nice to see you! Something the matter?”

“No. Got some news,” Rickie said. “Tell you upstairs. May I?”

“But of course!”

The lift. Silence. Dorothea had a worried look.

“
Good
news,” Rickie said.

“Oh.” Her brows relaxed. She unlocked her door. “Now what is it?” she asked, and let the plastic bags slide to the floor. The worried look was back.

“Sit down,” Rickie said pleasantly. “I’ll sit too.” The tables were turned! “Sit down” meant good news!

Dorothea took the sofa, Rickie a straight chair.

“I saw my doctor—Dr. Oberdorfer. I’m not HIV positive. I’m all right! He—”

“What? Was that an
error
?” The frown again, the outraged sister.

“My dear Dorothea—he told me he was trying to teach me a lesson. And he did. A very tough one, OK.”

“Rickie, talk
sense
!”

Rickie took a breath. “In a word—he was determined that I should practice—safe sex. You know.”

Dorothea did.

“So I did,” Rickie went on, “since he told me that.”

Dorothea seemed to struggle. “But Rickie, that’s horrible—what he said.”

Rickie shrugged. “He said I could sue him and to go ahead.” Now he laughed. “I understand. I said, ‘I don’t want to sue you.’” Rickie looked down at the carpet. “It’s tough—a tough lesson. OK. I’m not angry.” He said the last words feeling humble, like a child punished, knowing the punishment was justified.

“You’re going to
live
, Rickie.” Dorothea had a wide smile now.

“Live a little longer.”

“You used to say it was a sword of Damocles.”

“Well, that sword is gone—for me.” He stood up. The correct thing was to go, he thought. No more emotion. “I’ll take off, dear sister.”

“A quick drink? A good brandy.”

“No, thanks. Maybe I don’t need it.”

“Nor I—I couldn’t be happier!”

“You can tell Mother.” Mother was the respectful term, for rare occasions.

“Does she know? I never told her.”

“No? I somehow thought you had. I never did,” he said.

Dorothea gave a big laugh. “Just as well, isn’t it?”

Then Rickie was descending in the lift, feeling odd and awkward, as if in another world. He wasn’t going to go around announcing the news, he told himself, just if the subject came up. How many friends had he told, after all? Philip Egli. Freddie Schimmelmann, poor fellow. Take it easy, Rickie told himself. No celebrations.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Rickie found a lumpy envelope in his post with Dorrie Wyss’s return address. The bulk was in a second envelope addressed to Luisa. A small sheet of paper bore a note to him:

Hello, Rickie,

I know Luisa’s address but—

I trust you can get this envelope to her by hand, please. Important.

Love to you,
D.

A pity, Rickie thought; he’d just seen Luisa and Renate drinking coffee at Jakob’s. The envelope had something rectangular and flexible in it, and it rattled when he shook it. A keycase. Dorrie’s housekeys. What a good idea! And he could do the same.

“Oh Rickie,” said Mathilde, swiveling. “You asked me to remind you, Unimat comes today.”

“Yes. OK. Thank you, Mathilde.” What was it? House paint? Make-up? No,
toothbrushes
. Rickie had finished his colored rough days ago, a neat drawing of brushes in bristling center and brush handles radiating, multicolored of course, like the petals of a flower, from white to dark purple. “What time?”

“Three,” said Mathilde.

Rickie pushed his hands into his pockets and began to walk slowly round his studio, eyes on the floor, the walls, unseeing. His strolls didn’t bother Mathilde. “I’m thinking. Pay no attention,” he might say. He made himself stop pressing the envelope in his right-hand pocket.

His vision of Freddie Schimmelmann with police cap and thin-lipped, slightly twisted smile yielded to a stronger image of Teddie, the dark-haired boy with the quick, handsome eyes, saying, as he had on the phone two days ago, “Oh, I’m writing another article . . . Yes, aiming for the
Tages-Anzeiger
.” Teddie wanted to keep trying with this paper, trying to get a toehold. He had been in to see the editor. And of course Teddie had asked Rickie about Luisa, how was she, how did she look, though the iced tea and cake party had been hardly a week ago. “I’d love her to come to my place . . . We could spend a whole day together, if she ever has a day.” No comment from Rickie here. A day that Luisa didn’t have to account for to Renate Hagnauer? Yet how could Renate deny Luisa a lunch date of an hour or so? Well, Renate could and did, that was the answer to that one. Just as drifting nobodies in Zurich could stab and rob someone—anyone—and slope off unpunished, victorious. The world wasn’t dedicated to seeing justice done. Things were often the opposite of what seemed natural and right, which reminded Rickie of his early adolescence, childhood even, when without consulting a book or an adult, God forbid, he had known to keep his juvenile loves quiet, hidden, denied.

Rickie bumped into the corner of a drawing table, and paused. Teddie was wrapped up in his journalism and in Luisa. He lit a cigarette. Wrapped up in anything but him. Rickie was only a go-between. Teddie hadn’t even expressed regret at not being able to come to the Small g any more: after all, Luisa could come to him.

And Luisa? He sensed a cooling toward Teddie, not that Luisa had ever been intense, Rickie thought, nothing like the way she’d been about Petey.

Mathilde, he noticed, was having a Dubonnet with ice. Rickie went to the fridge and took a Heineken. He decided to clean out a certain portfolio in what was left of the morning, chuck sketches that he would never need again. Rickie dragged over his largest metal wastebasket. The telephone rang.

“Markwalder Studio,” Mathilde said. “Rickie—a girl. I think Luisa.”

“Good!” Rickie said at once. “Hello?”

“Hello, Rickie. I’d like to see you—now. Unless you’re tied up, of course.”

Rickie said he was not busy till three, and to come over. She was at Jakob’s. Rickie went on with his discarding, folding old sketches, sticking them in the basket already lined with plastic for paper conservation.

Luisa came on the trot, leapt down the stairs and knocked.

Rickie opened. “Unexpected pleasure!” He wondered if they could talk with Mathilde present. “Something happen?”

“Hello—Mathilde,” said Luisa. She lingered near the door.

“Hel-lo,” said Mathilde. “How’re you?” She returned to her work on the computer.

Luisa whispered: Teddie had rung, and she had managed to answer, when Renate rushed up and snatched the phone from her hand. “‘These are working hours.’ Renate said and she hangs up. It was so shocking—I just ran out. I had to talk to someone—
you
. The girls heard it all, of course.”

Rickie gave Luisa a slow wink. “It won’t last forever. Now if you’ve got a minute—” He pulled the wrinkled envelope from his pocket. “From Dorrie this morning.”

“Dorrie?” Luisa tore off a corner of the envelope. She saw a key case plus a note, an ostrich-leather case with two keys in it.

“I guessed it,” said Rickie. “And I can do the same—with my keys. You have hideouts—safehouses, Luisa.”

Luisa blinked, reading the note. “How nice! That’s really friendly. I have to go now, Rickie. I feel so much better! I always do when I see you.” But she was tense again. “’Bye, Mathilde!”

Rickie watched her vanish up the cement steps. The day was starting in a positive way.

L
UISA HAD HER KEYS
, and with the girls still at work, Renate had not played any trick with the inside bolt. Renate might suppose she had gone out to ring Teddie from a phone booth. Luisa felt she had done something bolder, made contact with both Rickie and Dorrie. In her room, Luisa pulled the key case from one pocket and Dorrie’s note from another.

Dearest Luisa,

You have a roof and a camp-bed any time in Zurich. Not to mention shower, fridge, and TV.

See you Saturday? I expect to come to the Small g.

Love,
D.

Saturday was two days off. Luisa rubbed her thumb across the light brown leather of the key case. Elegant! She dropped the case with deliberate casualness into a shallow tray on her dressing table, and left her room to go back to work.