“Yes.” She sounded impressed. “Hey—” But she was whispering, glancing up quickly as if she expected Renate to be leaning out of a front window. “What’s she up to—treating you like a servant?”
Luisa shrugged. “Her nature. Got to crack the whip, you know.”
“But what did you do—anything? Or maybe you don’t want to tell me.” Stefanie smiled mischievously.
“Nothing!” Luisa said firmly, believing it.
They climbed the steps to the front door.
“Got a nice boyfriend?” Stefanie asked, with hopeful air.
“Very.”
In the presence of so many others, Renate took the tack of ignoring Luisa that morning. Luisa had gone at once to her room to put on a fresh shirt. Renate had removed her eye patch, and from time to time put her cupped palm carefully over her right eye, as if it hurt, though it looked no different from the other.
Luisa did not go out with Renate for the nine-thirty coffee break, but took coffee in the kitchen with the girls.
Around eleven, the doorbell rang. Renate sent Vera down to see who it was.
Vera returned in less than five minutes with a big bouquet in her arms. “For you, Luisa!” Vera said, smiling.
“Me?” Luisa stood up from her sewing machine. She was aware that Renate stared with disapproval, as Luisa took the cellophane-wrapped bouquet from Vera. “Thanks for bringing it, Vera.”
“Oh, that’s OK! Seems to be roses.” Vera winked.
Luisa took the bouquet to the kitchen to make use of the big table. The flowers required snipping of thin wire, disposal of damp tissue. And she had to find a vase, or vases. A dozen red roses! Long-stemmed. An envelope held a card. It said:
I am walking on air, my
darling. I hope you are
too. Your Moritz.
Luisa bit her underlip quickly, repressed a giggle. She found two vases, put seven roses in one and five in the other. Then mustering courage, she went into the workroom with the larger vase.
“Oo-ooh! Look!” cried Stefanie.
“Oh, gorgeous!” From Elsie.
“Aren’t they? I hope they’ll brighten up the workroom!” said Luisa, setting the vase down in the middle of the long table, where today there was room.
“You will take those to your own room, Luisa. This is a workplace.” Renate’s thin black brows came down.
“But I have another vase for myself. I thought the girls might like to—”
“Take them out!”
Luisa did. And dear Stefanie groaned loudly in sympathy. Luisa vowed to herself, she would manage to let the girls know they were welcome to one or two roses to take home. How often did something pretty come into the workshop?
At noon, Luisa asked Renate what she might like for lunch. A tuna fish salad with lemon, onion, and buttered toast. Luisa delivered her creation on a tray in the TV-sitting room, then with keys in pocket slipped out the door. She had passed a message to Stefanie in the kitchen: the girls could go into her room and take a couple of roses before they departed this afternoon, if they wished.
Luisa trotted toward Jakob’s, aware that, if Rickie weren’t there, she would be badly disappointed. Sometimes he had to work over the lunch hour. Rickie was not at his usual table, but suddenly she saw him standing in the doorway that led to the back terrace. They took a table under the grapevines, with more shade than sun.
“Rickie, the roses are beautiful! Thank you.”
Rickie lightly blew her a kiss. “My love! I have had a good morning’s work and I’ve been thinking.”
Ursie arrived, beaming with good spirits, her fair hair streaked with perspiration and her white apron rather soiled for this time of day. Rickie ordered a Coke at once for Luisa and beer for himself. Cold cuts and bread for both.
“We must somehow make better use of Dorrie—in regard to Renate.” Rickie’s brow wrinkled. “If you moved to my atelier to sleep—to make your breakfast, to live—she’d consider you a delinquent. Fine. We have to make her throw you out, so you can finish your apprenticeship with another seamstress.”
“Yes. With bad references,” Luisa said at once.
Their plates arrived.
“Another beer, Rickie?” asked Ursie. “While I’m here.”
“Ja—um—ein kleines,” said Rickie. He pushed the mustard pot closer to Luisa. “Ah, these Renate types. They occur among men too, you know? Didn’t happen to me, but to a young friend of mine about eight years ago. Heinz. Apprentice advertising artist and again the man who befriended him—Heinz was living in his big studio—was a closet queen. Most people assumed he was straight. He had no sex life, so as soon as Heinz met a boy and fell in love”—Rickie lowered his voice, glanced at the next table which was noisy with its own conversation—“Meyer the older man blew up. He kicked Heinz out like something filthy. That wasn’t disastrous, because Meyer wasn’t his teacher, just his landlord. But it’s the same situation, you see, Luisa.”
Luisa did see. She sought for the right word and came out with “possessiveness.”
“More profound,” said Rickie darkly. “The Meyers and the Renates see their protégés meeting people who will give them something they can’t give—or won’t. Sex. I doubt if you’d accept any advances from Renate if they came, would you?”
“No.” Luisa smiled nervously, because it was weird to imagine, yet not impossible to imagine. Luisa had always been aware that it pleased Renate to think that she, Luisa, had a slight crush on her, or more than slight. Luisa didn’t want to say this, and she felt Rickie knew, anyway.
A certain recollection had jolted Rickie: Heinz had died young. AIDS. And from whom? Who knew? Heinz had wasted away fast, was already in hospital when Rickie had paid his first and last visit. He’d looked like a skeleton, something to be afraid of. Rickie was ashamed of himself. Why hadn’t he found the time to visit twice, three times, even though Heinz hadn’t been a close friend? Philip Egli had done better as a friend, Rickie remembered. He remembered Heinz’s smile from his hospital pillows. Rickie had brought some peaches and a book. Pitiful.
“To change the subject— Ah, most welcome, Ursie!” His beer had arrived. “Teddie phoned me this morning. He’s having a birthday in about a week—wants to invite you and me and a few others for dinner at the Kronenhalle. And—said his mother will pay for a year at journalism school.”
How nice for him, Luisa thought. “It sounds like a happy future.” She pushed back her empty plate, aware that Rickie was watching for some reaction in regard to Teddie.
“Oops,” Rickie said quietly. “Our Willi has reappeared. Behind you. He’s standing in the doorway looking around at people. Coffee, dear Luisa?”
“No time. You know, we don’t get quite an hour.”
“Lunch is on me. Now you run if you must.”
“Thank you, Rickie.” Luisa stood up, glanced behind her long enough to see Willi Biber’s figure—sporting his gray hat—slowly turn in the doorway. “You know, Rickie, I think you’re looking trimmer.” She slapped her own waist.
Rickie beamed.
She bent toward Rickie. “Even Frau Wenger at L’Eclair asked me what happened—because Renate’s so hostile to me. She told me Renate said, ‘It’s something so shocking, I prefer not to tell you or anyone.’ Ha-ha!” Luisa was off, trotting toward the back garden gate.
Typical, Rickie was thinking. Renate Hagnauer was a classic case indeed—with a list of symptoms as definite as those of Spanish flu or meningitis. Rickie had forgotten to pass on something else Teddie had said. He wanted to invite Luisa for a cruise on the Nile. Rickie had reminded Teddie of certain dangers from fundamentalist attacks on tourists lately. Teddie had said, “A cruise down the Mississippi then. A steamboat down to New Orleans!”
“Come on, dear Lulu. Back to the factory.”
> Rickie had work, and his work went well that afternoon. But he was aware of feeling lonely. He hadn’t a date that night, certainly not with Teddie Stevenson, of whom he sometimes thought, or daydreamed, even when he was working. Or with Freddie Schimmelmann either. He felt like ringing Freddie up. But where was he, at work, at home, in one of his classes for detection training? Working out at a gym?
One telephone call that afternoon was from a salad-sauce company, Rainbow, whose representative wanted to tell Rickie that “the boss” liked his waterfall idea. With an effort, Rickie recalled: a façade of falling water of various delicate of colors.
“I’m glad,” Rickie said. “Thanks for telling me.”
The rep did sound happy about it. Rickie felt just as down, however, after he had hung up. He looked over at Mathilde who was addressing envelopes, then at the phone on his long table.
Rickie dialed Freddie’s home number.
A woman answered.
“Hello,” said Rickie. “Is—Officer Schimmelmann there, please?”
“Not here now. He’s going to phone in before six. Who shall I say called?”
Rickie hesitated, then took the plunge. “Rickie. It’s—”
“Rickie. Oh yes, he’s mentioned your name,” the voice said on a cheerful note. “Any message?”
“No-o. It’s not important. Just say I phoned, please.”
“Certainly will, Rickie.”
They hung up. Was that his wife? Rickie supposed so. Amazing. How did Freddie do it?
28
A few days passed before Rickie had a glimpse of Luisa, and that was around 10 A.M. at Jakob’s, when she appeared with Renate—a rare sight these days. Renate often came alone.
“Wah-wah-wah,” Rickie said silently with his lips, and gestured with thumb and fingers to Luisa. Yack! He pointed to himself. Call me up. Something to say. Rickie wanted to discuss his and Dorrie’s idea for giving Renate a shock.
When the telephone rang around four that afternoon, Rickie had hopes. Renate sometimes sent Luisa out for pastry around this time. To Rickie’s surprise, his caller was Ursie.
“It’s Ruth,” said Ursie. “You know, Frau Riester? She’s been drinking a lot this afternoon.” The idea was, could Rickie help her get home?
“Of course,” Rickie said at once, and only fifteen seconds later felt rather annoyed. Pity there wasn’t another friend of Ruth’s at Jakob’s to do the favor.
Rickie explained the situation to Mathilde. Ruth lived in Rickie’s atelier building.
At Jakob’s, Rickie found Ruth gazing into space with an empty wine glass before her. At the same time he saw Luisa near the telephone booth, and she saw him.
“Rickie, I was just going to phone you!”
“Hello, my sweet! Got to see Ruth home—to my studio building. Hello, Ruth! Rickie.”
Ursie hovered. “She wouldn’t eat lunch, though I offered her a plate. It’s the anniversary of her husband’s death, she says.”
“I’ll walk you home, OK?” Was that hostility he saw in those milky eyes under the gray brows?
“Oh-h—Rickie—n-nice boy!”
Rickie grasped the hand she extended, and thought: Thank God! Up, up and away.
Luisa helped.
“You know—a year ago m’husband died,” murmured Ruth. The front of her gray dress was wet with something she’d spilled, maybe white wine. “I mean—”
“I understand,” said Rickie. He nodded at Ursie. They were going to make it. Ruth swayed, but she didn’t sag.
“Thank you, Rickie,” said Ursie, sighing with relief.
On the pavement, Rickie said, “Take some deep breaths, Ruth.”
“I’m fine!” said Ruth, supported under each elbow now.
“Luisa, I’m so happy to see you!” said Rickie. “Did you hear from Teddie?”
“You mean about the newspaper article, yes. He phoned. I had luck. Rather I just hung up after half a minute. Had to!”
“My husband Eric—it was a year—no, many years. It was today,” said Ruth.
“True. It was,” said Rickie.
“’S natural to remember—”
“Listen, Dorrie and I have an idea. Can you come in my studio for—even two minutes?”
“I’m supposed to be buying sweet rolls at L’Eclair,” said Luisa, ready to laugh at the incongruity of what she was actually doing.
Rickie said, “Almost there, Ruth. Got your key?”
She woke up a bit at the sight of the six steps up to the front door of the apartment house. Rickie and Luisa wafted her up. The key was in her purse, good. Then another aerial flight up some polished granite steps to Ruth’s door.
They left Ruth with a glass of water by her bedside table, and Ruth lying on her own double bed in her bedroom. He made sure that the window was slightly open.
Outside, they were only a couple of steps from the stairs that went down to his studio. Luisa said she had to start back now, as she was off course for L’Eclair anyway. Rickie knew.
“Look—” He began to walk back with her, slowly as he dared. “Renate—” Here he laughed. “She finds Dorrie in bed with you one night—or even early evening. Opens your room door, for instance. A shriek of horror. Renate—she’s bound to fire you. Or she may have a real heart attack!”
Luisa gave a laugh. “Dorrie’s idea?”
“Ours. You can count on me for a roof over your head—money if you need it. Philip Egli’s sister thinks her boss might take on another apprentice.”
“But Rickie—it’s so uncertain. And getting Dorrie into it—”
“I know Renate’s type. What other way is there?”
“Got to say g’bye, Rickie.” Luisa turned and trotted away.
Trotting, Rickie thought with some resentment, watching her figure grow ever smaller, trotting back toward Renate Hagnauer.
Rickie realized that Ruth’s keys were in his trouser pocket, that he’d been squeezing them while he talked with Luisa. He walked back a few steps and went down his atelier steps. His own door was locked, and he had to ring for Mathilde. “Rickie!”
She opened. “Hi. Mr. Hallauer phoned again—you know, about the aluminum spoons.”
“The aluminum spoons—”
“It’s your airplane idea.”
“Ah—right.”
“He doesn’t like the crossed spoons but he likes the spoon design you did. Wants you to phone him.”
“Ok. Just now I have to go back to Frau Riester’s—upstairs. I came away with her keys.”
Mathilde’s full red lips smiled. “I saw you two—with that pretty girl Luisa. What a sight! Ha-hah!” She slapped a thigh.
“Back in a couple of minutes.”
Rickie rang Ruth’s bell, knocked, and loudly announced himself before he used her apartment door key. Nothing had changed, Ruth seemed asleep. He went to the fridge, which to his surprise looked rather clean and tidy. He cut several cubes of cheese that looked like Tilsiter. These he put on a small plate.
“Ruth?”
She was sound asleep with mouth slightly open. So many wrinkles in her face! Horrible to grow old, he thought. And not a damn thing to do about it—except painful facelifts, of course, which soon became visible, and one got chided for that. Or an early death or suicide. Easy to see, looking at Ruth Riester’s now meaningless body, her gray hair, puckered face, why some people preferred suicide.
Rickie forced himself to remove Ruth’s shoes, dreading her waking up.
“Aw-wr—”
“Rickie, Ruth,” he whispered.
“Aw-wr—” She relapsed with closed eyes again.
Rickie found a light blanket, and covered her with it. One never knew with elderly people. Philip Egli had sounded optimistic about Luisa’s finding a slo
t. A couple of words about Renate had been enough to apprise Philip of the situation. “One of those,” Philip had said drearily. “Yes, I remember her from Jakob’s, sure.”
He left a note under Ruth’s keys:
Couldn’t double-lock. Keep
well, dear Ruth. Rickie.
29
They chose the following Saturday night—late. Luisa was to stay at home all evening, and open the door for Dorrie at a quarter past 1 A.M., by which time Luisa was ninety percent sure Renate would be in bed and asleep, and if not, then absorbed in a TV program. The TV set was in Renate’s room, whose door was always closed or almost closed. Renate had announced that she wasn’t going to Jakob’s this Saturday. Luisa reasoned that even if Renate spotted them in the hall as Dorrie came in, she’d be furious enough on finding her entering the house at that hour. But better yet would be to find the two of them in bed. Luisa had after a couple of days become so used to the idea of both of them piling into her single bed, that it seemed they had rehearsed. When Luisa thought of the scene, a laugh started, but at once another thought sobered her: it was going to be a turning point. Luisa saw her life kicked upside down. She was braced for being out on the street.
Rickie as ever was an angel—so calm, so sure all would go well, that she would soon be a “free human being,” as he had said a few times.
The Saturday arrived, a sunny day—promising success, smiles, freedom, laughter, and goodwill tomorrow from her friends. Would that be? Luisa had done the shopping, using Renate’s little two-wheel trolley to roll it all back. It had taken several trips up the stairs. Renate, still resting her eye, hadn’t wanted to drive. Renate was having a leisurely morning at L’Eclair, over tea and light lemon cake that Frau Wenger claimed to have created.
That evening, Luisa studied her English, and went over at least five pages in her big book of textiles with illustrations in color, and its names of fabrics in four languages.
Nearly eleven. Renate seldom knocked or barged into her room after this hour. Luisa relaxed a little, and imagined the scene at Jakob’s now. She imagined Dorrie, behaving as usual with Rickie and others, having a beer, maybe dancing. Rickie intended to walk with Dorrie part of the way, he had told Luisa, to see if Luisa were free to open the front door for Dorrie. So at five, then ten past one, Luisa checked that Renate’s bedroom door was closed, and at thirteen minutes past, she went softly down the stairs in her slippers, slacks, and a blouse.