Small G: A Summer Idyll

by Patricia Highsmith

  Luisa reminded herself that she had to stand on her own. To open that door and enter seemed as depressing as entering a tomb, but who else but herself should do it? “My job,” said Luisa.

  “All right. If you’d rather.”

  “No.” Luisa smiled nervously. “I hadn’t rather. It’s—I’d be glad if you helped me.”

  So the girls at lunch were informed that they were free for the rest of the day. Vera made the announcement, “Frau Hagnauer’s ceremony is at two-thirty this afternoon—followed by a cremation—”

  Someone gasped.

  “You are of course welcome to come, but it is not obligatory. I shall be going with Luisa.”

  Murmurs. No one accepted the invitation.

  Stefanie and Elsie drifted off after one o’clock, both making an effort to say the right thing to Luisa. The only words that came clearly were, “See you tomorrow.”

  Luisa changed her white slacks for a dark skirt from her room. Then before she and Vera departed, Luisa opened the door of Renate’s room. Again Luisa was aware of holding herself straight, shoulders back, lest she shrink from this.

  “I think the two cupboards are pretty full,” she said to Vera. “There are some of those white bags in the kitchen, I know.”

  The white bags were for clothing to be given away to the poor, and there were several collections a year on the streets in Zurich.

  Vera gave the cupboards a serious glance and said, “We’ll manage. We’ll make a good start today, anyway.”

  Then Luisa closed Renate’s door once more. “Let’s take a taxi. Let’s do it right.” She went to the telephone.

  The crematorium was in a stone edifice that might have been an office building or a bank, except for a smallish sign in brass beside the wide doors. Renate Hagnauer’s name was the open sesame, bringing first a male attendant, who showed them into a room he called “the chapel.” This softly lit and dark-curtained room was lined with chairs, had chairs also in its center, enough to seat at least forty, Luisa thought. Now only Therese Wenger of L’Eclair was present. Luisa had telephoned Ursie just before noon, but Ursie had begged off: she couldn’t leave her duties, really. Francesca, who had inquired the time of the event this morning, came in just after Luisa and Vera. They all gave silent nods to one another. The stocky coffin sat already on a dais more than a meter high, its end aimed at dark brown curtains which covered a wide area and overlapped at the center.

  A man in a dark robe, of no particular religious order (Luisa thought), came out, greeted them softly, and read from a book which he held in one hand. Death calls us all. Renate was a part of all of us (really?), a woman acquainted with work, skilled in her profession, respected by friends and neighbors, instructrice to generations of young women who had followed in her footsteps . . . Then Luisa noticed a small-looking man seated in the corner, dark mustache, solemn. A friend of Renate’s?

  Amen. It was over, and the speaker turned away, a mechanism began grinding audibly. The casket glided away from them, through the brown curtains, and the curtains swung and closed again. The lights grew brighter.

  Therese Wenger said softly, as they were walking out of the room, “Willi didn’t want to come. I asked him, of course. I think he’s too sad. A strange one is our Willi.”

  The small man slipped out and on to the pavement.

  “Do you know who he is?” Luisa whispered.

  Vera pondered, recognition coming. “Yes—Edouard something. French. Renate used to play chess with him, I think. Haven’t seen him in a year or more!”

  Frau Wenger said her good-bye. She was going to take a tram home.

  Vera had a thought: they could go now to the Frauenfachschule at Kreuzplatz to speak with someone about finding a dressmaker. “The sooner the better. We’ll find out what we have to do.”

  They also sought a tram. Luisa found herself feeling optimistic for no reason at all, happy, or happier. It was the wrong kind of feeling for today, but she couldn’t stop it. The world looked different as she gazed out of the tram window. The dark-haired and pale-skinned Vera Riedli looked different, though she had known Vera exactly as long as she had known Renate. Vera glanced at her and smiled shyly.

  “I was thinking,” Vera said, “I don’t think I’d like to be cremated. I know it saves space and all that. But I think I’d rather be just buried.”

  “After you’re dead, of course.”

  Then they both laughed, giggled, and had to force themselves back to sobriety.

  At the Women’s Technical School, they spoke to a woman who took down the address of the apartment of the late Frau Hagnauer. A new dressmaker could live there, if she wished, and Vera (with Luisa’s accord) said that such an arrangement would be preferable, the dressmaker after all being the manager.

  “That may be possible—to find someone and soon. But one never knows,” the woman at the desk added with professional caution. “I shall consult my records and let you know.”

  That had been a little misleading, Luisa thought, as they made their way back to the tram stop. They had explained that Luisa and Frau Hagnauer’s sister inherited the flat, which would make Renate’s room occupied, if the sister chose to live there. But still, a new dressmaker could keep her present dwelling and inherit a fine clientele, which might be a step up for her.

  Then they were opening the apartment, and the ringing telephone stopped before they could reach it.

  “A rubbish bag first, don’t you think, Luisa?” Frowning, with an air of taking charge, Vera stood sideways on the threshold of Renate’s room.

  Luisa fetched a couple from the kitchen.

  “I thought—these little things that no one will ever use—” Vera meant the nail-polish bottles, the lipsticks, on Renate’s dressing table. “I’ll let you do it while I phone my mother and tell her I’ll be late.”

  Luisa got to work, slowly at first, then more rapidly, making decisions. Nearly all had to go, drawers full of stockings, underwear. Handkerchieves were another matter, some quite pretty. Would Francesca, for example, like a few?

  Vera was now tossing skirts and dresses onto the floor. “I can’t see—well, anyone wanting these. Long skirts—should we have any cleaned for the white bags?”

  Luisa agreed: a few could be cleaned, if they looked as if they needed it, of course. Renate had always had her clothes cleaned frequently.

  The telephone again. Luisa went to it.

  “How was it? How are you?” asked Dorrie’s voice.

  “Vera’s here now. She’s helping with—with Renate’s room. The clothes, you know.”

  “I’ll come over. I’m free now. I’ll give you a hand.”

  “It’s boring.”

  Dorrie had hung up.

  Luisa went back to her work. They were filling the third thirty-five-liter gray bag for the rubbish. The shoes. Luisa forced herself to handle them. Out, all of them.

  Dorrie arrived in no time, it seemed.

  “This is Dorrie Wyss,” Luisa said. “Vera Riedli.”

  “Oh Dorrie—yes,” Vera said. “You’re the one who was leaving that night.” Vera’s fingers tightened on the three belts she was holding. “You saw her fall.”

  “Well, no—”

  “I saw her fall,” said Luisa. “Dorrie was walking in the hall below—and she looked back.” Luisa continued. “Renate went down two or three steps before she tripped.” She intended to say no more to Vera.

  They put the last shoes into yet another rubbish bag.

  The desk. Luisa looked at the open secrétaire with its six busy pigeonholes, at the letters in opened envelopes in a surprisingly disorderly heap to the left, a flat transparent box of paper clips, drawing pins, and pencils on the right.

  “I can’t face that today,” Luisa said, feeling suddenly not tired but bored with the task.
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  “OK, dear Luisa,” Vera said. “We’ve done quite a lot today. Look!” She indicated the nearly empty cupboards.

  “The bathroom. Let’s make a start, at least,” Luisa said. “We’ll need another sack. But you don’t have to stay, Vera.”

  Vera wanted to stay a few minutes more.

  Toothbrushes, old pill boxes and bottles from the medicine cabinet shelves, aspirin—Luisa didn’t want even Renate’s aspirin, nor the round mirror which on one side enlarged, but Vera said she could use that, with Luisa’s permission. Toothpaste out.

  “Laundry bag?” asked Dorrie, holding a couple of towels. “The other’s full.”

  Another was found.

  “The cleaning women can wash that,” Luisa said, meaning the medicine cabinet.

  Then Vera said good-bye to Luisa and Dorrie. “Don’t work anymore, Luisa. There’s tomorrow.” Smiling, Vera waved and departed, carrying one of the gray rubbish bags for tomorrow Tuesday’s collection.

  “I’m going to wash my hands in my own, small bathroom,” Luisa said, heading down the hall.

  “I too, may I?”

  They both washed with soap and warm water, and watched the gray dirt swirl away down the drain.

  “I want to get out of this skirt.” Luisa went to her room, and took a pair of white cotton slacks from a hanger. In a few seconds, the slacks were on.

  “Knock-knock,” said Dorrie.

  Suddenly they both laughed. Luisa’s room seemed big and friendly, familiar. Dorrie took her hands, and suddenly they were kissing. Dorrie put her arms round Luisa and held her tight. And they kissed again. Dorrie, like Vera, was among the trusted.

  The telephone rang in the hall.

  “Hell and damnation,” said Dorrie.

  “Can you answer?”

  “Me?” said Dorrie, but she turned and went into the hall.

  “Rickie,” Dorrie said, coming back. “Wants to talk with you. He sounds very happy.”

  “Hello, Liebes,” said Rickie. “How are you doing? I’m glad it’s over . . . My dear Luisa, I have news. I got the Custom account. I can’t say it in a few words but—it’s big and important for me. That’s it.”

  “The men’s gloves.”

  Rickie laughed. “That was my first ad you saw. I’ve got the rest of the account. It’s an advertising campaign, you know? With logo . . . So meet me later, please, you and Dorrie. We’ll have a bite at Jakob’s, all right?”

  It was hard to say no to Rickie, and Luisa didn’t want to say no. Luisa informed Dorrie. Jakob’s at eight. It was after seven now.

  Where was Luisa sleeping tonight, Dorrie asked. In Rickie’s studio. They tidied, drifted, talked about nothing. Dorrie closed Renate’s room door once more, and set a rubbish bag at the apartment door, so they wouldn’t forget it. Luisa swept the workroom hastily, amassing as ever bits of thread, snippets of material, pins.

  They were early at Jakob’s, and Dorrie ordered two Kirs, after making sure Andreas knew how a Kir was made.

  “We don’t start with beer on a day like today,” said Dorrie.

  Standing at the bar, they raised the pink drinks and sipped.

  “Something to show you.” Luisa reached into a back pocket and pulled out a bent and creased snapshot. She handed it to Dorrie.

  It was of Luisa aged fifteen or sixteen, taken in the neighborhood of her mother and stepfather’s home. Luisa’s dark brows scowled at the photographer, the wind made her short, tousled hair look wild. She wore a dark green shirt with rumpled collar, and the picture stopped at the waist. There was a pole of some kind and a hedge in the background. “It’s me.”

  “That’s you?” said Dorrie, unbelieving.

  “Just before I met Renate. I was pulling out a drawer in her room today, and it fell out on the floor. I had no idea she had it. Isn’t it incredible?”

  “Can’t believe it—but I’ve got to. Were you trying to be a gangster?”

  “Yes. Exactly. This was in Brig. I was going to apprentice school but—hanging around boys all the time. Motorcycles, you know. I never owned one, but the boys let me drive theirs—without a license.”

  “Wow,” said Dorrie, impressed.

  “I wanted to look as ugly as possible. Really!”

  “Why?”

  Luisa thought of her stepfather, and bit her underlip. She took the picture back and calmly tore it in half, then tore it once more.

  Dorrie’s blue eyes stared, as if she had destroyed something important.

  “It’s not worth keeping. I don’t want to think about those days.”

  “Les girls!” said Rickie, entering with Lulu on the lead.

  They took a corner table, far across from the bar. A beer for Rickie, and with consent all around potato salad and cold cuts, and two small beers.

  “Now first—” Rickie began with an effort at seriousness. “How was the cremation?” He addressed both.

  “I wasn’t there,” Dorrie said.

  “Yes—first,” Luisa began, “you don’t see anything except the coffin—closed. It’s on a sort of stage. In a round room like a chapel. Vera Riedli went with me. She was a wonderful help today!” Today already seemed like yesterday.

  Luisa went on. The words by the minister, and then—the coffin moving away, through the curtains and out of sight. She felt as if she were narrating a miracle, and Rickie listened, fascinated. “Francesca was there—but so few others.” Luisa saw Rickie press his lips together, and knew he was thinking: Because so few people liked Renate.

  “Well, I won’t ask any more questions about that tonight,” Rickie said, putting his hand over his eyes for a moment.

  The beers arrived.

  Rickie asked about Vera’s “taking over.” She couldn’t assume total authority, Luisa explained, because she was not yet a “master cutter.” They had to find a Damenschneiderin, and they had made a start today at the Women’s Technical School.

  “And then, dear Luisa, we must get that big apartment repainted. That slightly dirty cream—is just not cheerful.”

  “I talked with Bert about that,” Dorrie said. “Bert has a friend who’s a professional housepainter.”

  “When am I going to meet Bert?” asked Rickie.

  Dorrie and Luisa laughed.

  They walked from Jakob’s to Rickie’s studio. He wanted them to see his Custom efforts.

  Rickie had made twenty or more sketches, most in soft pencil, some with color added: an Edwardian top hat with lining showing, a vertical design suggesting a tiepin, a belt buckle that was a C. They lay in disorder on the longest table in his studio.

  “Now the finale,” he said, pulling a tissue covering back from a more finished creation “Simply a peacock feather. But they like this best. In fact, so do I.”

  The feather was vertical, broad at the top, blue and green, with a circle of red not quite in the center.

  “We can have lots of color variations. This’ll be on everything they make, ties, shirts—just one feather somewhere, not too obvious.” Rickie deliberately ended his speech. “So good night, girls, sleep well. I shall return—to this factory—all too soon!” He made an unsteady bow, and departed.

  Dorrie looked at the nook of a room where the single bed stood against the wall. “Really very snug here. Can I stay with you?”

  “Tonight?” Luisa without thinking had started to unbutton her shirt. She was suddenly tired enough to drop.

  “Yes. Just five minutes—maybe.” She pulled her cotton blouse over her head.

  Luisa hardly glanced at Dorrie’s bare breasts. She continued undressing.

  Dorrie pulled the counterpane back, and the sheet, and beckoned. Five minutes, Luisa thought, like an echo. She and Dorrie were in bed, embracing, unwashed, Luisa realized, and heavy with fatigue. Then Do
rrie was almost on top of her, kissing her lips. The light here was dim, coming from the studio. Both of them sighed, like one person. They were still, until Dorrie squeezed her closer, and Luisa did the same. Luisa moved her hand from Dorrie’s waist up her smooth side with its hint of ribs. Let her hand move down Dorrie’s spine, tense and muscular. Luisa was thinking, she had not been in bed, horizontal, with anyone since she had been with her stepfather, at least a year ago—the one awful time when he had persisted, threatened her with a wallop, unless she “tried it in bed” with him. In bed instead of on the bed, dressed. Luisa’s room door did not lock. Penetration, they called it in the books, but nothing else had happened—which sounded like a joke. What else was supposed to happen? A climax, of course. That hadn’t happened.

  “Agh-h!” Luisa said, like a very loud gasp.

  “What’s up?”

  Luisa took a breath. “I was thinking of something—not important. Maybe I was half asleep.”

  “It must be important!” Dorrie was propped on an elbow.

  Luisa couldn’t say it now, in bed with Dorrie. She squirmed and jumped out of bed, hardly aware of the fact she was naked. “It’s my stepfather—I was thinking of. I didn’t want to say it now—really.”

  “Oh. The child-molester,” Dorrie said flatly.

  “I just couldn’t say it—in bed with you.”

  Dorrie looked at her. “And how long—did you say this went on? It began—”

  “Oh—little things. But awful. Maybe I was ten—eleven. Went on really till I ran away. He’d say he’d swat me if I said anything to my mother. And once or twice he swatted me for nothing. But essentially nobody made a move. You understand?”

  Dorrie was silent.

  “All my friends were boys and he’d say he’d tell my mother I was screwing them if I said anything about him. It was a fine mess, believe me!” Luisa tried to laugh and could not.

  “Didn’t your mother know?”

  Luisa shrugged. “Must have. Sure. She didn’t like me because I didn’t like her.” She let out a sigh, and reached for her robe behind the bathroom door, struggled into it. “I feel finished with that—from today on. Somehow. All that just doesn’t matter anymore.”