Small g by Patricia Highsmith Page B

was Renate’s highest order of contempt. But Luisa was able to throw him a quick smile, at least, before she had to give ear to Renate. They were walking toward the door and home, the short, tense Renate and the lithe young Luisa, so politely listening to Renate’s mumbling.
    And there was Dorrie Wyss! With a girl Rickie didn’t know. They were dancing, the short-haired blonde Dorrie moving with a beautiful energy, jumping as if on springs. People chanted, “One—two—three— four !”
    “Dorrie!” Rickie cried, but she couldn’t hear him. The brunette with her was quite pretty, about twenty, with large silver circles in her earlobes. A new romance, Rickie supposed. Dorrie didn’t come every week to the Small g.
    The music ended before Rickie got back to his table, and he sought Dorrie’s attention again, raised a hand.
    And with a look of surprise, she raised a finger, index first, then a different finger, laughing.
    Rickie pointed to the corner to tell her where he would be, and he saw her nod agreement. People shifted to make room for Rickie and Lulu on the bench. Georg was standing at the other end of the table, looking over the scene.
    “Is your handsome friend tied up tonight—completely?” Ernst whispered in Rickie’s ear.
    “Don’t you know by now?” Rickie replied. “What were you doing while I was gone?”
    “Anything’s possible. My motto. Philip’s interested, too. He just went to the gents.”
    “Philip is gadding about too much,” said Rickie with deliberate primness. “Exams coming up—” He saw Ernst’s gaze move again to Georg, or Teddie, dreamily.
    Dorrie arrived, by herself. “Rickie! I’m back! Haven’t seen you in . . .”
    Philip returned, Rickie introduced him, and from a distance Georg. Dorrie did know Ernst. Dorrie wasn’t in a sitting mood.
    “Who was the pretty girl with you?” Dorrie asked, gesturing toward Renate’s table.
    “You see? You don’t come here often enough!” Rickie said. “We have lovely girls here—”
    “Answer my question!” Dorrie tugged her red waistcoat down gently. She wore attractive garb tonight, dark blue corduroys, white shirt, red waistcoat with brass buttons.
    “ Luisa ,” Rickie said finally, and saw Georg glance at him.
    “One of us?” asked Dorrie.
    “Not sure,” Rickie said. “But you never know.” He felt mellow now, and loved the din around him.
    “Kim,” Dorrie said, as her dark-haired friend with the earrings came up. Unlike Dorrie, whose straight blonde hair and blue eyes hardly needed adornment, Kim wore lipstick, and her short hair had been lacquered en brosse on top, while the short sides looked like a prison job. “She works with me just now. My assistant!” Dorrie said.
    “How convenient,” Rickie replied, thinking that Kim’s hair reminded him of certain shoe brushes.
    Dorrie Wyss was a windowdresser, and worked freelance for some of the finest stores and shops in Zurich. A crazy occupation, persuading window-shoppers to buy at the highest prices what they didn’t need. But wasn’t his work exactly the same—except that he made drawings?
    “May I offer you beautiful girls something to drink?” Rickie asked.
    “Thanks, Rickie, we want to dance.” Dorrie smiled, tense with nervous energy. “See you!”
    “Come back—here!” Rickie shouted, pointing, not knowing what he himself meant—tonight or next week or both.
    “If you bring Luisa!” Dorrie yelled over her shoulder.

10
    A little after 1 A.M. , Rickie and Teddie stood talking outside Jakob’s. His name was Teddie Stevenson, his mother was Swiss, his father American, Teddie had explained. He had told Rickie a different name, because—well, why?—because he liked to feel like another person, somebody else now and then.
    “I’ve never done anyone any harm by it,” Teddie said. “I’m not trying to cover up anything.”
    “Oh, I understand,” Rickie said, only half understanding.
    Rickie had by now learned that Teddie had