Small G: A Summer Idyll

by Patricia Highsmith

  Dorrie stirred as if to get up, and didn’t. “You told Renate all this?”

  “No. She probably guessed. She knew a lot just by guessing—she was so often right.”

  Dorrie was still propped on her elbow. “You were how old when your mother married your stepfather? Maybe you told me but I forgot.”

  Luisa forgot too, unless she thought hard about it, which she did not want to do. “Maybe nine when he moved in. But they couldn’t marry before the divorce was legal. Takes five years, you know. My father had left my mother. Had another girlfriend. Can’t blame him.”

  “You liked him?”

  “Better than I did my mother, sure. That’s not saying much.” Her father had written at least once to her, had telephoned once, but Luisa’s mother had screamed at him over the phone, Luisa recalled. Luisa told Dorrie this, then said she did not want to talk anymore about it.

  “It’s grim—all that,” Dorrie said, “but it happens often, you know? Lots of people—I know there’s no consolation in thinking of other people who—”

  “Oh, but there is! I used to read magazine articles—all of them that I came across! It does help. If I saw a magazine on a newsstand, you know—child abuse—I’d buy it.”

  Dorrie slowly got out of bed, then it seemed in seconds she had her dark trousers on and was pulling her blouse down.

  “It’s so different—since today,” Luisa said. “The whole world is different, I swear it.”

  “It’s going to be easier now. Everything. You’ll see. What’s there to worry about?” Dorrie opened her arms quickly and smiled. “I’ll take off.”

  “You don’t have to take off so soon.”

  “I was intending to. Honestly.”

  “You’ve got your car?”

  “Other side of Jakob’s. ’Bye, my dear.”

  Luisa had walked part of the way across the studio when Dorrie turned at the door. “I’m locked in. Got your key?”

  Rickie had locked automatically, Luisa knew. She got her set of keys and opened the door.

  “Talk to you tomorrow,” Dorrie said. “Or if I don’t, don’t worry. I’m all over town tomorrow.” A blown kiss, and Dorrie was out the door like a wraith.

  Luisa put out the ceiling light, and walked to her bed. Tonight she wouldn’t take a shower, just to be different. A sharp pain made her lift her foot. She’d almost stepped hard on a drawing pin! Smiling, Luisa pulled it from the ball of her foot. Off with her robe then, and into bed. Dorrie had just lain here. Wasn’t it still a little warm from her? Luisa spread her left hand, palm down, pretending that the warmth was still there.

  33

  Teddie Stevenson’s article came out two days later in the Tages-Anzeiger under the name Georg Stefan. Here were the events of the National Holiday, August the first, the gaiety of Jakob’s on that night, a walk to his mother’s car, a hard swat from behind, and he had been flat on the ground with a tree trunk against his face. The helpful strangers, the walk to Jakob’s, and the attention that couldn’t have been warmer from his own family.

  To Luisa and to Rickie, Teddie had quietly delivered two copies of the paper, in case either missed it. In a telephone call to each, Teddie said that he had another article due out about his efforts to gain entry to journalism school, and that he was hopeful about another piece on young people’s holidays. Teddie was starting journalism school in early October.

  Emboldened by his success, and cheered by Luisa’s availability, Teddie vowed to her by letter and over the telephone that he would sit on her doorstep “maybe not all the time but now and then, just because I haven’t been able to.” He and Luisa had an evening at a Greek restaurant, and another in a disco.

  But Luisa’s mind was on managing the atelier. The first candidate for “dressmaker” had not worked out: a woman in her forties, rather nervous and unsmiling, Luisa and the girls had thought, married and not enthusiastic about living in the apartment even Monday to Friday.

  Dorrie’s friend Bert brought his friend Gerhard (the professional housepainter), plus a friend of Gerhard’s. The work would require an electrician too, to be expected, considering the age of the wires and fixtures. A two-week job was agreed upon, with two painters at work. Luisa had seen Mr. Gamper at the bank again, and had been assured of enough money from Renate’s account to cover present expenses.

  It was simple, after all. The bank gave Luisa a current account out of which she paid the girls’ wages, while the telephone and electricity were deducted automatically, as ever, from Renate’s account now in Luisa’s name. This account Luisa could add to when necessary from a deposit account, which Mr. Gamper called “comfortably high” now. Luisa had inquired about Renate’s sister, and Mr. Gamper had said there had been no reply as yet from Zagreb.

  At least two dozen letters of condolence trickled in from Renate’s clients, including one from the woman who had always wanted a second, lower bill to show her husband. “We must answer these,” Luisa said. Vera agreed, and volunteered to share the duty with Luisa.

  The girls were given three weeks off with pay during the painting of the apartment. Luisa had been sleeping at the workshop, as she called the apartment now. With all the preparation for the painters, the expectation of their early arrival, Luisa had found it not at all difficult to spend the nights alone there.

  It was Vera’s idea that Luisa go for a week in the country during the worst of the painting. “Paint fumes can give you a headache, you know.” Of course, Luisa had heard that. Dorrie knew of a nice country inn. So did Rickie. Inquiries. Dorrie’s was closer, the price about the same. So Dorrie drove Luisa there one morning with a suitcase and a bag of books and sketching material. Besides a greensward where a few cows grazed, there was a brook. Best of all was the room itself with an irregular corner, and old-fashioned wallpaper of a tiny pink floral design. Dorrie drove out twice and spent two afternoons with Luisa. They made excursions and had dinner once at a different hostelry. Luisa felt changed completely, as if she had spent these days in another country. Teddie telephoned and arrived in the brown Audi, and Luisa was able to invite him for lunch. Rickie did not visit, but phoned to acquaint her with the painters’ progress.

  In Aussersihl, Luisa’s room was now painted white, the bed in a different place, her pin-up board on another wall. Teddie’s latest article was pinned up, and the paper showed signs of yellowing after only a month.

  Dorrie Wyss came to the Small g every Saturday night. Bert turned up on a Saturday night with one of the two painters who had worked in the apartment. By now Rickie had met both. Bert was a skinhead unless he wore a wig. He put on lipstick and eyeliner at weekends, and wore untidy blue work clothes nearly all the time. A medium-sized, real (Bert said) gold earring set the picture off. “If anybody grabs this earring, my ear comes with it,” Bert said, “and I don’t think anybody wants that.”

  Now when Luisa entered the big, newly painted workroom, she felt herself the manager of the house, payer of the rent, the salaries, the utilities—answerable for everything. When she remembered being sent to the kitchen to eat her meals, with telephone calls and evenings out forbidden, she wondered what had been the matter with herself to have put up with it for weeks? And what a very odd person Renate Hagnauer had been to treat her so, and then to reward her with half her estate!

  Teddie was going to journalism school, which meant not only more writing for him but study of “early and contemporary journalists and reporters.” He was proud of his work, Luisa felt, and she knew he had to apply himself to make a favorable impression on his mother who, Teddie told her, sometimes said he was “drifting, like so many young people.” Teddie could usually come to the Small g on Saturday nights, but often he worked on weekday evenings. Therefore, Luisa made the same excuse, if Teddie wanted to see her several times in the week: she would say that her “final” was coming up before too long, which was true.
She had to pass and pass it well. She was conscious that she had more to prove than Teddie. He would be able to keep up a rather high standard of living, whether he succeeded in journalism or not.

  It was more than two months after Renate’s death that the third applicant for “dressmaker” came to the workshop, sent by the Frauenfachschule. This was a lively, rather short woman with reddish blonde hair and a Schaffhausen accent, which Luisa had always found a little comical. Her name was Helen Suhner, she was unmarried, forty-five years old, and willing to live in. Indeed, she seemed happy with the idea of living in the high-ceilinged, newly decorated apartment. Renate’s room stood ready with the double bed, the dressing table, the secrétaire, all placed differently now from the Renate days. Luisa on her own had discarded the curtains almost at once after Renate’s death, and made new ones of yellow silk lined with white material.

  Dorrie, because of her acquaintance with set designers, got free theater tickets sometimes for herself and Luisa. Luisa was glad that Dorrie seemed to take their relationship lightly. Luisa would have been frightened of anything else, and perhaps Dorrie understood this. They didn’t telephone every day, or write intimate notes to each other. If they wanted to spend a night together, Luisa went to Dorrie’s flat, and Helen Suhner asked no questions. For her an eighteen-year-old had the right to privacy, Luisa supposed. Dorrie showed no jealousy of Teddie, even when Teddie and Luisa danced on Saturday evenings. And Teddie was quiet in regard to Dorrie.

  With Helen Suhner, Luisa went to the Kunsthaus now and then on Sundays, more to see the exhibitions than to sketch what the women were wearing. Like the rest of the world for Luisa, the Kunsthaus with its great stairways, its coffee shop, had become what it was, transformed by the absence of Renate, and a little by the presence of another person, the more youthful Helen.

  One morning came a letter from Mr. Gamper of UBS. Their investigations into Renate Hagnauer’s sister’s whereabouts had led them to Goerlitz in the former GDR, and the authorities had been slow in replying. They had found out that the sister had died nearly a year ago. Therefore Luisa was the sole beneficiary. It was a working day before 10 A.M. when Luisa read this news. She said nothing to Vera or to Helen, and told herself that it made no change, that she had half expected it, anyway. Luisa found that she didn’t think about it—it being the fact of having, pretty soon, maybe after three months more, a seven-figure sum in the charge of UBS and Mr. Gamper in her name, a comfortable current account all her own with which she could buy a coat or a pair of shoes whenever she wished. It wasn’t quite imaginable to Luisa.

  Some two weeks after she had learned this, Rickie asked Luisa what she had heard from “Renate’s bank.”

  “Oh yes. Mr. Gamper said they’ve found out that the sister is dead. So I’m the only—inheritor.”

  “Really,” said Rickie, suddenly earnest. “That’s—well—congratulations.”

  One evening when she had been alone, Luisa had plucked up her courage and read through the copy of Renate’s will, not understanding every phrase. But she understood that there were two or three other banks with stocks and bonds, and also two bonds held by UBS.

  The same evening she had told Rickie, she had said, “Don’t mention this to anyone, will you, Rickie? I’m not telling even Dorrie—or Vera at the workshop. I don’t want anyone to think that I’m conceited—or changed.” She patted Lulu’s white head. The dog had been staring, listening intently.

  “I am honored that you told me,” said Rickie. “I shall keep it quiet.”

  “Even from Freddie.”

  “Agreed.”

  In March, Luisa was to receive her inheritance, a mystery or problem that no longer troubled her, because she had talked with Mr. Gamper at UBS and also with Rickie. One kept the investments on, and spent what one needed to from the interest—as a rule, said Rickie. Also in March would come her final exam after which, if she passed it, she could take on one apprentice of her own.

  Often Helen and Luisa took mid-morning coffee at Jakob’s. Almost never was Willi Biber to be seen. Luisa had steered Helen toward the long table at which Luisa and Renate had usually sat. The atmosphere was now so different that Luisa hardly ever thought of Renate at Jakob’s. Rickie was generally opposite, for a time hidden behind the Tages-Anzeiger, then greeting them with a “Good morning!” and sometimes he came over to sit for a few minutes, and they would exchange news, if there was any.

  “Well, which do you really prefer, Dorrie or me?” Teddie asked a couple of times, and each time Luisa had answered, “Must I be so precise—definite? It’s casual—light—”

  Yes, she had gone to bed with Teddie too, two or three times when Helen had been out for the evening, once when Teddie’s mother had been away for a weekend. How could she or anyone make a decision based on something like that?

  The scar on Teddie’s back was now a shrinking spot, and he was proud of it, Luisa thought. Teddie was in no position to demand decisions from her, hard and fast, unless he was proposing marriage, which he wasn’t. After his journalism school, he would have to find well-paid work, if he expected to acquire his own apartment. It seemed to Luisa that an ocean of time lay between now and that future, plenty of time for Teddie to meet another girl or two. Rickie said that to Luisa and maybe to Teddie. Meanwhile, Luisa thought, what was the matter with her being his favorite girlfriend? Maybe even second favorite? Teddie’s mother liked her better, Luisa could feel, maybe because she, Luisa, had acquired some independence, and because Teddie no longer had his head in the clouds.

  “Are you going to be one of those AC-DCs?” asked Teddie. “You’ll have to decide sometime.”

  Would she? If Teddie felt unhappy with the situation, he could part company with her, Luisa thought, though that would be harsh to say, and in fact she didn’t want that. What was wrong with taking it easy? Luisa loved Dorrie for not making things heavy.

  And Rickie—Luisa liked him for being always there, reachable, if she wanted to talk to him about something. Even when he and Freddie went to Paris for a long weekend, Rickie left his hotel name and number.

  Rickie met Freddie’s wife Gertrud after prodding Freddie, and inquiring Gertrud’s preference as to restaurant.

  “Gypsy,” Freddie had said, puzzling Rickie.

  Hungarian? All right. Rickie played host, first in his apartment, for pre-dinner drinks—he had been told Gertrud preferred Cinzano and soda—then a taxi to a fine Hungarian restaurant. Gertrud was blondish, not very tall, and worked as bookkeeper for at least three orchestral groups in the Zurich area, as Rickie understood it. The important thing to Rickie was that she seemed friendly. He had been every bit as nervous as when he had met Teddie’s mother, and Gertrud’s smile, the way she had extended her hand, had suddenly put him at ease. She looked a healthy and well-kept forty, with a nice haircut and good but conservative clothes. She talked easily about Freddie’s progress in detection school, and said with a glance at her spouse that soon his hours would be even odder.

  “I never know when to cook a good meal, so this is a treat,” she said to Rickie.

  She had chosen roast duck with hot apple sauce, red cabbage, potato dumpling, which had sounded so attractive, the men had followed suit.

  Gertrud and Freddie had been married ten years, Rickie knew, and Freddie had told him that Gertrud had been married once before. It was a mutually satisfactory marriage, Rickie thought, and he judged from little things—the way Freddie held her chair for her at the restaurant, and his air of pride, even satisfaction, when he looked at her. Strange, Rickie thought, but then a lot of life was strange.

  A successful evening and a milestone, Rickie felt. Would his relationship with Freddie grow into something as strong and steady as Freddie’s and Gertrud’s? No use in asking himself, he knew. No use in asking Freddie. The funny thing was, Rickie in a quiet way felt happy.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR


  Born in Fort Worth, Texas, in 1921, Patricia Highsmith spent much of her adult life in Switzerland and France. She was educated at Barnard College, where she studied English, Latin, and Greek. Her first novel, Strangers on a Train, published initially in 1950, proved to be a major commercial success, and was filmed by Alfred Hitchcock. Despite this early recognition, Highsmith was unappreciated in the United States for the entire length of her career.

  Writing under the pseudonym of Claire Morgan, she then published The Price of Salt in 1952, which had been turned down by her previous American publisher because of its frank exploration of homosexual themes. Her most popular literary creation was Tom Ripley, the dapper sociopath who first debuted in her 1955 novel, The Talented Mr. Ripley. She followed with four other Ripley novels. Posthumously made into a major motion picture, The Talented Mr. Ripley has helped bring about a renewed appreciation of Highsmith’s work in the United States, as has the posthumous publication of The Selected Stories and Nothing That Meets the Eye: The Uncollected Stories, both of which received widespread acclaim when they were published by W. W. Norton & Company.

  The author of more than twenty books, Highsmith has won the O. Henry Memorial Award, the Edgar Allan Poe Award, Le Grand Prix de Littérature Policière, and the Award of the Crime Writers’ Association of Great Britain. She died in Switzerland on February 4, 1995, and her literary archives are maintained in Berne.

  More praise for Patricia Highsmith and Small g

  “[Highsmith’s] characters astonish themselves, and us, by discovering love in the very last places they ever expected to find it.”

  —Francine Prose, O Magazine

  “Its superabundance of characters is only one of the elements that give ‘Small g’ its air of Shakespearean complexity.”

  —David Leavitt, New York Times Book Review