Authors: Patricia Highsmith
“
Ja-a
—who told him about a party?”
“Doesn’t even take his hat off in somebody’s house!”
“What’s he, stoned? Mute?”
“Who the hell is he?” asked a young voice.
A frowning young man stood in the doorway to the living room.
“What happened?” Rickie asked him.
The young man shrugged. “Doorbell rang—and this guy—” He gestured.
Willi Biber, Rickie now saw to his astonishment, stood smack in the middle of the living room in his usual garb, dark trousers, old work jacket, and broad-brimmed gray hat.
Rickie called out, “Willi!”
Willi in his doltish way replied with a “Hee-aay!” and raised a finger, pointing at Rickie, but whether the gesture was an accusation or a greeting was dubious.
“You know him, Rick?” a voice asked.
“I have
seen
him—in my neighborhood,” Rickie said in the careful manner that often came over him when he was feeling his drink.
“But did you invite him?”
“Certainly
not
!” Rickie replied, loud and positive. “Word of honor.”
“Come on, fellows, let’s cool it.” This was from Philip. “Carry on and have fun.”
“He’s a troublemaker, this guy!” a new voice said. “I’ve seen him at Jakob’s. He’s a basher!” The voice meant gay-basher.
Philip approached the unwanted figure. “Look, Willi—we’d all be just as happy if you left. OK? Would you like a taxi?”
“
Ja-a!
” yelled someone. “A taxi!”
“I just answered the bell, opened the door,” said another voice on a defensive note. “Am I supposed to vet everyone who—”
Willi Biber turned slowly, as if trying to make all the faces sink into his memory, or he could have been looking for a face he knew among the dozen men in the room. His gray eyes were dull, and he wore a dazed expression. Suddenly he opened his arms, raised them stiffly sideways, and said, “
Faggots!
”
Raucous laughter, mild applause. “We love you too!”
“OK, I know this guy and it’s
out
with him!” said a short, dark-haired man, getting to his feet. He came forward like a wrestler, took Willi by the elbows and thrust him toward the door.
A cheer went up! “Good for you, Ernst!”
Ernst had helpers. Willi was lifted off his feet. Someone held the door open.
“Yee-hoo!”
Wine bottles circulated, people sat down and relaxed and smiled. Philip started the water for wieners and spaghetti.
When Ernst and his helpers came back, they got a roar of congratulation.
“A taxi?”
“No, we let him walk!”
“If that bell rings again—don’t answer!”
R
ICKIE STOOD IN AN APRON
, helping Philip in the narrow kitchen. It was as if Rickie had suddenly come awake, after perhaps twenty minutes of blackout, though he had been on his feet all the time. By now there was no one in the apartment but himself and Philip and a man whose name Rickie didn’t know. Philip was carefully putting back knives, forks, spoons in their compartments in a kitchen drawer.
“So—I’ll be taking off!” said the tall blond young man, swinging a long scarf round his neck.
“OK, Paul, and thanks again for all your help,” Philip said.
“
Bitte!
” Paul and Philip kissed each other quickly on the cheeks. “See you soon.”
He was gone.
Philip smiled at Rickie, looking different, younger.
“C’mon on, we’re finished here.”
“True,” said Rickie, undoing his apron. They had even collected the ashtrays and washed them.
Philip gave a shy squirm. “I—would you like to stay the night, Rick?”
Rickie’s lips parted in surprise. “Me?” He smiled. “Do I look that pissed?”
“You don’t look pissed at all.”
Neither did Philip, looking straight at Rickie. Somewhere, deep in the core of him, Rickie was flattered. Philip—twenty-three at most, maybe not handsome but not bad-looking either, and above all young. Youth was the valuable thing, lasting such a short time! “Very kind of you,” said Rickie. “You know, I—”
Philip spoke on Rickie’s hesitation. “I know. I know you’re thinking of Petey still. Everybody knows that. Perfectly normal. An unusually nice boy, he was.”
“Yes,” replied Rickie, beginning to consider Philip’s invitation. But no: Rickie thought of his age again, and of his unattractive abdomen, bulging not just because of the surgical job, but because of a little embonpoint, softness, self-indulgence too. Then there was the other thing.
“We’re both—you know—trying to forget someone, as Cole Porter says in—in—”
“‘It’s All Right with Me,’” Rickie supplied in English and at once laughed, chuckled. “Funny. I mean the song.”
“Rickie—” Philip shook his head. “You don’t realize that people like you. A lot, you know? Well—I can see you don’t know.” Philip looked at the floor.
Sure, people liked him because he was a nice old uncle to them, ready to lend a hundred francs and forget about it. To listen to someone’s troubles, pour another drink, offer a bed in a crisis, and Rickie had a bed even in the studio where he worked. That didn’t mean he was an Adonis! Rickie stood taller, tightened his tie. “Um, well,” he said vaguely, not looking at Philip. “I must go. Maybe you can phone for a taxi, dear Philip.”
“Nonsense, I’ll drive you!”
Philip insisted, there was no dissuading him, his car was just downstairs in the garage, and so Rickie and Lulu went down with Philip in the lift. Philip opened the garage and backed the car up the steep slope to pavement level. The garage door closed automatically.
Rickie had to direct Philip, who had been to his apartment before, but couldn’t quite recall how to get there. Philip parked at the curb, and turned off his lights.
“Can I invite myself for a nightcap?”
Rickie knew what that meant, but he could hardly say no, since tomorrow was Saturday. “Of course!”
A walk up the front steps. Keys.
Rickie poured two whiskeys, small and neat, which was what Philip had asked for—Chivas Regal. “
Prost
,” Rickie said.
“
Prost
,” Philip echoed. He and Rickie sat on a large white sofa, elegantly sagging and comfortable, its cotton covers clean.
“Yes, very handsome—your friend,” Philip remarked, looking at the photographs on the walls. “What—what work did he do? Or was he still in school?”
Rickie sighed. “Petey was studying photography—but not as an apprentice. And other subjects too—literature, English, European history. Oh, Petey was interested in so many things!” Rickie had suddenly spoken loudly, so he reined himself in. “I feel sure he would’ve—decided about his life within a year. Maybe photography. He was only twenty.”
“How long ago was it—that he died?”
“That he was stabbed. Six or seven months now.” Rickie drank. “January the twelfth.”
“Not so long.”
“No.”
Philip glanced toward Rickie’s fireplace, and back at him. “Rickie, do you remember about four years ago—when we all got so drunk at a party here and took off our clothes and danced and—somebody dared us to run up and down the
street
!” Philip’s voice cracked as he laughed. “And some of us—were dropping our clothes in the street. Remember?”
Rickie did remember, as if it were an old fuzzy photograph, that he himself had gone out and collected all the garments he could see in the street and brought them back here, and left them in a heap, shoes, trousers, shirts. He must have gone out at least twice to collect it all, while some fellows slept or wandered about singing, he recalled. “Such lovely days—and not so long ago.”
“
No!
” Philip agreed. “May I?” He meant the whiskey.
“Of course, Philip! No, not for me. Well—just the least bit.” Rickie held his glass.
Philip poured himself a small one. “I wish I—could make you realize that you’re popular. Everyone likes you. It’s always been so—ever since I’ve known you.”
Rickie laughed. “All of six years, maybe?”
“Longer. Oh, I’ve seen—oh, never mind.”
Seen old photos of him, maybe, Rickie thought. Yes, sure, he had been tall, slim, and handsome at thirty, thirty-five. He had known some of the fellows at the party tonight when they had been hardly seventeen.
“What is it? Afraid of AIDS? I haven’t—”
“I thought—” Rickie stopped in confusion. “In case you haven’t heard—via the grapevine—I’m HIV positive. I heard—”
“
What?
Oh Rickie!”
“Yes. My doctor— Well, I had the bad news from him a few weeks ago.” Rickie sipped, swallowed with difficulty. “Not something I like to tell everybody, only somebody I might go to bed with, and anyway since Petey—there’s been no one.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.” Philip was still frowning his sympathy. “But you know—well, you can live
years
—decades.”
With a sword over your head, an ax at your throat. “Sure, I take B-12 and my doctor says I’ve a good supply of—the white corpuscles to—to fight infections.”
“These days everyone’s doing safe sex, anyway, HIV or not,” Philip said more cheerfully. “You know, Rickie, you’re the first fellow I ever went to bed with?”
“Re-eally?” Rickie, half incredulous, sought rather drunkenly for something to say. He couldn’t recall the first time he’d gone to bed with Philip. There had been, Rickie knew, several times, but he was vague about those too. “Well-l,” Rickie said, thoughtful.
“I brought some—condoms,” Philip said, showing reluctance to utter the word.
“No. It’s for your own good.” Now Rickie was the elderly schoolmaster. He meant it, deep down. Philip was healthy, and he should not take chances. Rickie got up unsteadily. “Now I have to go to bed, Philip. God knows what time it is.”
Philip stood up, polite. “Twenty past two,” he said after a glance at his wristwatch. “G’night, Rickie. Something I can do, though—to help you now?”
“No—thank you, Philip. And good night, m’boy.” Rickie moved toward the door, but by the time he got there, Philip was gone.
Then Rickie set about undressing, washing, turning the bed down in his bedroom, as he had done scores of times before when so drunk he knew everything was taking twice the time to do that it should have taken. At some point in this ritual, he gave up and fell face down on his bed and fast asleep.
4
T
he following Wednesday would have been Peter Ritter’s twenty-first birthday. Rickie had thought of a long weekend in Paris, or Venice, and he remembered he had been going to ask Petey his preference, when the night of the stabbing came. Rickie thought of telephoning Petey’s parents to say a friendly word. After all, he had met them, and they had been quite cordial to him. They had long before become reconciled to the fact that their son preferred his own sex. But on second thoughts, Rickie gave up the idea of telephoning Herr and Frau Christian Ritter, because it might make them sadder.
Then he thought of Luisa—Zimmermann, wasn’t it? He might think of something to give
her
on Petey’s birthday. Not that she knew when Petey’s birthday was, probably, but she looked so wistful often, when Rickie saw her, which was always when she was with Renate at Jakob’s. But what to give her? A nice card would be easy, and he could make it. But a gift? Petey had left two scarves here, a couple of sweaters. A pity there wasn’t a ring, though Rickie admitted he would have kept a ring for himself. A scarf. One was dark maroon, the other narrowly striped in red and blue, and made of finely pleated cotton. Rickie had given Petey that. OK, that was it. He washed the scarf in tepid water, then twisted it to make the pleats return.
By Tuesday morning at his late breakfast at Jakob’s, Rickie had still not seen Luisa, and Renate only once, on Monday. He wasn’t going to give a message for Luisa via Renate!
Then Rickie saw Luisa crossing the street toward Jakob’s, as he was nearing its back terrace gate. He hailed her.
She stopped on the pavement, looking surprised.
“Hello—Luisa,” he repeated, looking for Renate whom he did not see. “Rickie, remember?”
Her young face smiled, and she brushed a long straight tress of dark hair back. “Of course I remember.”
Rickie recalled that when she had come to work for Renate, her hair had been short and unruly. “I have something for you—something I’d like to give you. Nothing important. But it’s back at my studio.”
“Give me? Why?” She shifted, as if ready to fly off.
“My idea. Petey’s birthday is tomorrow. Would have been. I can make a coffee for you at my studio, but maybe you have a date.” He was thinking of Renate, probably due any minute at Jakob’s, maybe already there.
“No, I’ll manage.” She glanced behind her, in the direction of Renate’s house.
They walked quickly, Rickie making an effort to keep up.
“I’ve forgotten your dog’s name.”
“Lulu,” said Rickie. “You still work for Renate, don’t you?”
“Yes, along with three other girls.” Her brown eyes glanced up at him, shining and alert.
She was so pretty, Rickie thought, with her glossy brown hair, clear complexion, and rather narrow lips, ready to smile. She carried her straight nose high. Today she wore brown slacks, a white shirt, a short black jacket full of pockets and metal snap buttons.
“Here we are,” said Rickie, though Lulu was leading the way down the cement steps.
“Oh! I remember this!” Luisa had espied the two plaster-of-Paris females on the bench. “I was here once, you know?”
Rickie had forgotten. “I hope so,” he said affably. “Now would you like some coffee?”
She wouldn’t, thanks, and she glanced at her watch. Rickie supposed she was expected by the old witch Renate at Jakob’s, and right away.
“Just this. A small thing,” Rickie said, presenting a flat, gold-paper-wrapped package. “Something Petey once owned. N-not exactly valuable,” he added with a smile.
Her mouth opened a little with surprise. “Thank you, Rickie. . . . I think I’ll open it at home, if you don’t mind.”
Rickie laughed. “Of course I don’t mind! And where is home?”
“I have a room at Frau Hagnauer’s place. It’s a big—”
“Really? You sleep there?” Rickie had recognized the name.
“Yes,” said Luisa, looking straight at him. “It’s much cheaper, of course, than an apartment—which I couldn’t afford anyway.” She gave a laugh.
“I’ve heard she’s so strict when it comes to working hours.” Here Rickie laughed. “Doesn’t she try to tell you when to be home at night, not to mention when to get up?”
“Oh yes. Home by ten—unless it’s a special film I’m going to with friends. Then up—” The corners of her mouth rose on the word, and she looked at the floor. “Well, before seven, I’ll say that, but then I sometimes have to go and buy the rolls and the sweet stuff for morning break for the girls, and make the coffee for Frau Hagnauer and me. We sign on for three years, you know. But the others don’t sleep there.”
To Rickie it sounded like a voluntary prison sentence, or a three-year voyage on a whaler, in the old days. “A big apartment,” he mused.
“Yes. If I counted the rooms—at least five. And the main workroom with all the sewing machines and the tables, that’s made from two rooms with the wall knocked out. Fluorescent lighting—”
Rickie could imagine. He knew the old apartment house without a lift, and even with fluorescent lighting, the picture of four diligent girls bent over machines or needles, doing buttonholes, cutting material, while Renate cracked the whip in her high-pitched monotone—Rickie had heard it—all this made him shiver. Better sloppy Mathilde, a bit tiddly by noon, at least she was human. “The girls—” Rickie couldn’t go on. “Luisa, one more thing. You know that tall fellow, always in an old hat—at Jakob’s. Willi—”
Her eyes showed recognition. “Willi, sure.”
“I’m wondering how he knew about a party last Friday night given by a friend of mine in town. Did Renate say anything to you about it?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason. Just that Renate sometimes talks to Willi. And Renate’s very observant.”
“True. She picks up everything—about everybody. I don’t know how she does it.” Luisa looked desperate to fly off. “You know—I’d better leave this. She’ll ask me where I got it. I do have a date with her.”
“Really,” said Rickie, not at all surprised. He took the gold-wrapped package back into his hands. “But you will pick it up some time? I can’t deliver it to your house!” Rickie grinned; his eyes grew moist with mirth at the idea.
“Oh, she wouldn’t have it in the house!” said Luisa, smiling. “’Bye, Rickie!” At his studio door she looked back. “I won’t be able to say hello or nod to you, you know—in Jakob’s.”
“I know.” He watched the girl race up his stone steps, glimpsed her running sneakers as she dashed off to his right.
Rickie realized that he wanted to see her again. She was somehow a link to Petey. Why hadn’t he tried to make a date with her in regard to her picking up the scarf? Well, his two numbers and addresses were in the telephone book, and he felt sure Luisa would telephone or turn up soon unannounced. That was nice to expect.
He went out with Lulu. Today he would make a quick ritual of breakfast, and not keep Mathilde waiting on the doorstep. One of these days soon, he’d give her the key.
Today Tobi, nicknamed Baconhead, was on duty instead of Andreas. Tobi was tall and blond, just over twenty, and as acquainted with Rickie’s menu as was Andreas.
“Good morning, Rickie and Lulu!” said Tobi with a slight bow. “The usual, sir?”
“Yes, and the Appenzeller soon,” said Rickie, opening the
Tages-Anzeiger
.
A few meters distant and opposite Rickie, Luisa sat in her dark jacket, and Renate in something blue today, at least on top. He did not glance directly at them, and was sure Luisa was acting her part too, not even absently letting her eyes rest on him for two seconds, as she might have done any other morning. He felt that he shared a secret with Luisa, and he liked the feeling.
Rickie had to devote much of that morning to improving a design—a running female figure in short Grecian gown. He had done a better design for this company, but it was unpleasant to argue, and a couple of times he had lost clients because he did argue. By just after twelve, Rickie was tired of drawing in pencil, erasing a bit, taking another piece of paper to do nearly the same thing. The client was coming at 4
P.M.
, one Beat Scherz, an amusing name to Rickie, as
Scherz
meant joke. Having bollocksed one sketch beyond repair, Rickie amused himself by adding an enlarged penis to the long-haired, long-limbed figure.
This made him laugh with a single “Hah!” which caused Mathilde in the corner to look round at him.
“Spoilt something. Excuse me,” he said, ripping up the small page.
“I’m glad when you laugh!” replied Mathilde.
Rickie smiled back at her. The pregnancy scare had eased two days ago, when something had happened: had Mathilde said she’d actually
had
a urine test? Because Rickie disliked thinking about personal, feminine things, he had forgotten exactly what she said. No matter, the great news was that she was
not
pregnant.
In mid-afternoon, Mathilde informed him that a woman was on the telephone, and had said her name was Luisa.
“Hello,” Rickie said.
“Hello. I am out to buy a newspaper with a certain blouse advertisement,” Luisa said, laughing a little. “
True
. But—”
“Would you like to come to my studio now?”
“No, I can’t. I was thinking—quarter to six at your apartment?”
“But of course! I’ll be there, Luisa.” Rickie noticed that Mathilde went on pecking at the keys. She wasn’t interested in his female acquaintances.
Mr. Scherz by nearly five had chosen three sketches to take back to his office, with a preference for the one Rickie thought was best, which was a bit unusual. And Mathilde did a good job of her letter-writing, and invoices, and Rickie told her so.
“Thank you, Rickie. You’re a nice man to work for.”
“Am I now? Not a dirty old man?”
“Oh no-o!” She gave a long, lazy shriek. “You? Never! Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Maybe that was a compliment. For an instant, though, it had made Rickie feel as if he were a castrato.
H
OW MUCH TIME
would Luisa have? Rickie fussed with a bottle of Dubonnet and glasses on his shining table. Of course, he had Coca-Cola too. Or orange juice. He stepped out on his little balcony to get some air and to see, maybe, Luisa walking toward his building.
At last she came, from his right, under the tree leaves that overhung the pavement, head up and with quick steps. She looked for his house number, then noticed him on the balcony and raised an arm. He did the same. She came in the iron gate, looked up again, and at the steps up to the balcony.
“This way?” she asked.
“Well—you could,” said Rickie, smiling.
She climbed the cement steps that were partially covered with ivy. “Funny way to enter an apartment!”
“Welcome!” Rickie opened his french windows, and let her precede him. She had not been here, Rickie was sure. “Yes, and this doesn’t even close. Well, it closes but it doesn’t lock.” He pushed the two sections together, without the bar across, and they parted slightly.
Luisa was staring at a nearly life-size photo of Petey from waist up, suntanned, in a white shirt, blue-sky background, his eyes nearly closed as he gazed at the photographer—Rickie.
“Of course I have quite a lot of Petey,” Rickie said on an apologetic note. “It’s only natural.”
“Yes—of course.”
“And your famous little present! But first, can I offer you something? A Dubonnet, Coca-Cola, fruit juice—tea?”
“I can’t stay long.”
Dismal words. “Now, who says so? Half an hour? Have you a date?”
“Oh no.” She had opened her jacket. “I said to Renate I was going out just to walk for a few minutes. I’ve been sitting.”
“But—sit again, and I’ll bring you—well—” Rickie fetched the yellow package. “Only if you sit.”
Smiling, she sat on a straight chair near the table.
“Open it. It’s so simple—for all this fuss.”
Luisa opened the package, took out the long scarf and held it up. “Petey’s.”
“Yes, he left it here. I thought you might like it.”
“Of course I like it.” She pressed it to her nose, then looked at Rickie. “Thank you. Thanks for thinking of me.”
Rickie looked at the floor. “Now I’m going to have a cool beer—and if you change your mind—” He got a small Pilsner Urquell from his fridge. A beer, anything in his hand, would make him appear more relaxed, he thought. “Why is it,” he began, addressing the girl who was in a corner of the room, looking at a smaller photo of Petey and him in Ascona.
“Why is what?”
Were the girl’s eyes moist? Rickie hoped not. “Why is it this Renate keeps such a tight rein on you? Is she jealous of your boyfriends?”
“Ha! I haven’t any boyfriends—just now.”
“But she makes you come home at a certain hour? Eat with her too?”
“Supper? Yes—usually.” Luisa looked embarrassed by his questions. “She’s a good cook—and by then it’s just the two of us.”
Rickie sipped his beer. “But for instance, if I asked you to have dinner with me this evening. Out somewhere. You’d telephone her—”
“Oh sure, telephone her. But I wouldn’t tell her I was with you.” Luisa smiled, amused.
“No.” Rickie understood that, of course. “She bosses all the girls around like that?” He was sure Renate didn’t.
“No. But the others don’t sleep there, you know. They live with their family.”
Rickie hesitated. “I remembered Petey told me you’d run away from home.”
“Yes, my family, well. I don’t want to talk about that.”
Rickie watched her brown eyes move from one object to the next, not evasively, but as if she sought something to help her collect her thoughts. “My parents quarreled. My real parents. Then there was a divorce. Then my stepfather—I was about twelve. Then—I suppose not so many quarrels but my stepfather would hit my mother and sometimes me.” Here came an attempt at a shrug and a smile. “So finally I ran off. Took a train to Zurich—last October. I even washed dishes for a while. Don’t ask me where I slept!”
“I won’t!” Rickie managed a smile.
“
Not
the railway station.” Now she smiled. “I met a girl where I was washing dishes. She was a waitress living with her mother. They let me sleep in the living room. Maybe I will have a Coke.”