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When the phone rang, Luisa flew for it and lifted it before the first ring was finished. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’ll meet you in ten minutes downstairs, OK?” said Dorrie’s voice, and she hung up.

So did Luisa hang up, and smiled a little, thinking of Renate with fork in hand, not fast enough to catch any of that.

“What was that?” cried Renate.

“Wrong number.”

Luisa checked her watch, stuffed keys and some money in her trouser pocket, and spent what time she had tidying the kitchen. On the dot of her ten-minute command, Luisa opened the door and escaped, floated down the stairs and out.

25

T
he shiny black hatchback rolled into sight and stopped near a parked car. Luisa dashed for it, opened the door, and climbed in.

“Hi, Dorrie!”

“Good evening! You know—I was taking a chance and I won, didn’t I?” Dorrie laughed. “Where would you like to go? We can go anywhere.”

True. The black car offered concealment, at least partial, from outsiders, and Luisa imagined that it might be bulletproof too, though it probably wasn’t. “I have to think.”

“Rickie called me and asked me for a drink
chez lui
. Told me Teddie was turned down and was miserable. What happened?”

The car crept along in first.

“I didn’t turn him down. Renate picked up the second phone and yelled at Teddie. Then when you rang I said yes right away, I was so angry.”

“You said nothing. I said I’ll be here in ten minutes. Did you eat yet?”

“Not really.”

“Let’s try the Pavilion—if we can park and there’s a table. Two big ifs.”

Off they went, through the Langstrasse, under the tracks of the city’s railway station. Dorrie couldn’t find a legitimate parking place, and took a chance in a narrow street off Raemistrasse, saying she felt lucky tonight. There was no table at the Pavilion for the moment, so they bought beers at the bar with the aid of a waitress Dorrie knew—one Marcia who promised to do her best for a table. Dorrie introduced them.

“Luisa—pretty name, pretty girl.” Marcia went off with a heavy tray.

The place was loud with conversation. Music from somewhere was nearly drowned out. It was just what Luisa loved, at least tonight, lots of people and anonymity.

“A table!” said Dorrie.

Marcia had signaled.

Chili con carne caught Luisa’s eye on the menu. She had heard that it was very popular in New York pubs. Then she exclaimed softly, “Smoked salmon!” as if it were the greatest luxury in the world.

“That’s cool, have it,” said Dorrie.

Dorrie gave their order. She told Luisa about Bert stealing a naked male mannequin today from a store where they were working together.

“It’ll come back, of course, when he gets tired of it. One of the shopgirls asked him was he going to sleep with it and what would he
do
with it. ‘A hard man is good to find,’ Bert said.” Dorrie’s face grew pink with laughter.

They went to a basement bar-café near the Weinplatz, where Dorrie dared to park her car. “For an hour—maybe less. I like to think my black car can hide itself from cops.”

Luisa stole a glance at her watch: ten forty-three. The bar-café, rather small, was called the Shopping Center. The waitresses wore black overalls and white shirts. Dorrie knew a few people here, a gay bar for girls, Luisa supposed, though only two girls looked like people Luisa might have labeled gay. She ordered an espresso at the bar.

A rather large blonde girl asked Dorrie if she could “interrupt,” meaning dance with Luisa.

“No, thanks,” Luisa said. “We want to talk.”

“See? Easy,” said Dorrie.

It was all easy, and smooth, until she and Dorrie were rolling along in Dorrie’s car again, getting ever nearer the street where Luisa lived. Then everything shifted into a tight gear, as if in readiness for a war.

“I’ll say it again. If she locks you out tonight, you stay at my place. No problem. So I’ll wait—ten minutes? And if you don’t come down I’ll know you got in.”

Luisa, peering, saw no light at the sitting room window. She was poised to open the car door. “She can play a game for ten minutes, knowing I’m trying my key—keeping the door bolted.”

“Then I’ll wait fifteen minutes,” Dorrie said. “Or get a taxi to my place. Or—well, Rickie would let you sleep at his apartment, wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“I’d hate that, but it’s closer,” said Dorrie. “Try it, sweetie, and I’ll be here fifteen minutes.”

Luisa climbed the front steps and used her front door key. It was half-past midnight, late for the people in this building. Luisa climbed the stairs softly, and inserted her key. The first bolt moved, but she couldn’t open the door. She took a breath, then knocked gently.

Silence, and she listened hard. She could hear her heart beating, but what she listened for was Renate’s step, which however soft she tried to make it would be audible where Luisa stood. She knocked again, more loudly. Unthinkable to ring the bell, it was loud and shrill.

Still nothing happened. Six, seven minutes had passed? She could still run down and rejoin Dorrie, go to Dorrie’s place, and Dorrie would bring her back before eight. Luisa started down the stairs, softly but still audibly in her sneakers, and a step creaked. She went down more steps, then paused.

She heard a bolt slide. The door opened a crack, a very small crack, and Luisa climbed the stairs again. The crack stayed the same, as if Renate were ascertaining that it was she and not some stranger. “Thanks,” Luisa whispered.

Renate took a few seconds to open the door wider. The apartment hall light was on.

Luisa slipped in.

Renate muttered, “You should be glad I let you in. Thankful!”

“I’m sorry you put the bolt on. I needn’t have woken you.”

“Needn’t have woken me, when you ran out this evening to God knows where? How do I know what you’ll come home with! I saw who you were with. You think I’m running a whorehouse—a place for call girls?”

Luisa kept a calm silence, her objective being to get to bed as soon as possible. She turned in the hall, because she intended to be polite. “Good night.” Then Luisa saw and recognized a couple of blouses, beige trousers, pajamas that had been tossed out onto the hall floor. Her clothes, from the basket in the big bathroom with the bath.

“I don’t want your filthy clothes with mine. Wash yours separately, I don’t care where! You understand?”

Luisa picked her clothes up. “Yes,” she said firmly. She took the clothes into her room.

“
And
,” yelled Renate, advancing with a slap, scrape, “you are not to use the big bathroom again, understand? Take your things and you can start using the shower bathroom only.”

Luisa hoped that was Renate’s last message for tonight. From the big bathroom, Luisa collected her spare toothbrush, towel, and a few items from the medicine cabinet. Now she’d have to use the washing machine separately in the basement on Tuesdays, Luisa supposed. Was Renate going to hand her her own dirty clothes in the basket and expect her to wash them as if she were a servant, Luisa wondered, and had to smile at the thought. She washed and put on pajamas. She longed for a glass of milk, but was afraid of another yell from Renate, whose door down the hall was still slightly open.

“Luisa!” The yell had come.

Renate wanted cold tea with ice, sugar, and lemon on the side. Luisa set about this, and managed to take a glass of milk to her room.

Renate claimed to feel pressure behind her eye, and a weight on her chest. In bed, she kept her good eye mostly closed, and maintained a miserable expression. Luisa did all her biddings and said not a word.

A
ROUND TEN THAT EVENING
, Freddie Schimmelmann had telephoned Rickie (not having found him in Jakob’s), and said he was in the neighborhood and could he come by? Rickie had hesitated, then said yes. Freddie might have news.

Freddie appeared in uniform, even long-sleeved shirt and jacket. “I have just talked with our mutual friend,” he announced to Rickie, removing his cap as he entered the apartment.

“Which one?”

“Willi—our
Dorftrottel
,” said Freddie with his wrinkled grin. “May I?” He removed his jacket, then loosened his tie. “Surprise visit, you know. I thought it would be better if I went alone and in uniform.”

“Did he
say
anything?”

Freddie chuckled. “No. Not at first and not at the end. He got such a shock at the sight of me, he nearly pissed in his pants. Had to let the poor guy go to the toilet.”

“You saw him alone?” asked Rickie, surprised.

“No—because those people—Frau Wenger, she followed close behind me. She heard me knock on his door. So I had to take the gentle tack. ‘Maybe you remember a little more now—about the boy who got hit in the back? With something
hard
?’” Freddie said “hard,” shoving his fist as if to jab someone at kidney height. “And he did maybe, but he kept saying ‘No, no’ and shaking his head. Same as last time. Pity. If I’d been alone with him—”

Rickie took a breath. “So Frau Wenger said you were being cruel tonight?”

“No. She couldn’t. No possibility. It’s unhealthy the way she takes care of that fellow. Very handsome doors there now, Rickie. Stained dark brown and varnished. Have you seen them?”

“Not in their finished state,” said Rickie primly. “But that was fun, Freddie. Worth it! The only punishment Willi’s ever going to get, it looks like, my intrusion with Ernst. The only thing that impressed him—his doors kicked in! Let’s have a beer—or something.”

They drank small beers out of the bottle. Freddie was still sweating, despite a faint breeze through Rickie’s window.

“Could I have a shower, Rickie?” Freddie’s tone was almost pleading.

“But—naturally.” It was natural, after a long day, to want a shower. And Freddie had tried tonight, tried beyond his assigned work or duties, to help. Rickie got a big towel.

Freddie had hung his jacket on the back of a chair and his damp shirt over that. “Y’know, Rickie, we’ll never get the truth out of Willi unless we can get him in a room and bust him. His—stupidity is going to save him.”

Rickie knew. “I wonder what else he’s going to do,” he mused, “if Renate programs him? Maybe a girl next time.”

“A girl?”

Rickie laughed. “Oh, Dorrie’s getting fond of Luisa, I think. Remember Dorrie—the blonde girl who’s a good dancer? I don’t mean it’s serious—but Renate’s jealousy knows no bounds.”

Freddie chuckled, not very interested, and went off to the bathroom.

When he returned, he rather shyly proposed what Rickie had expected him to propose. “Why not?” Freddie asked.

Rickie hadn’t told him that he was “clean.” And Freddie wasn’t clean. “Did I tell you—I was summoned by my doctor—and I’m not HIV positive.” Rickie’s voice was firm. “Dr. Oberdorfer said he was testing me for two months—making me practice safe sex.”

Freddie looked dumbstruck. He stared at Rickie for a few seconds. “Really, Rickie? But that’s
wonderful
! Neither am I HIV positive, y’know? I was only—”

“But you said you were.”

Freddie shook his head, smiling. “I thought with both of us playing it safe—I said it so I could be with you. Thought I had to, from what you said.”

No HIV, plural the two of them. And Freddie willing to lie about a thing like that! “You’re telling me the truth now?”

“I swear. I am.” Freddie raised his right hand. “I get my checkups. So why not, Rickie?”

Rickie thought also, why not? He could trust Freddie. So Rickie headed for his third shower that day, then for another pair of small beers to take to the bedside.

They both laughed: safe sex again. It was almost like being married, Rickie thought. In certain ways, better. Freddie wasn’t a teenager. Freddie wasn’t a thief, either. Rickie had grown used to finding his wallet empty in the morning, or earlier, if his young companion—one of the “little ones”—had wanted to depart, say, at 3
A.M.
How many gold or silver cigarette lighters—?

The curious thing was that despite Freddie being thirty-eight, Rickie’s sex life was becoming better. Certainly better than—if he faced it—with the pretty boys. So rambled Rickie’s thoughts as he lay smoking a cigarette, sipping from the still cold bottle. Freddie seemed to be dozing. Long-distance telephone calls too, Rickie remembered, to impress a former or even current boyfriend, now holidaying in Acapulco or Florida. People like himself, dumb enough to pick up such boys, simply had to pay, pay also with being abandoned. And with Freddie he could feel safe in regard to HIV. It was the horrid existence of the HIV virus, Rickie thought, that made one think: It floats in the air, it can be exchanged with a glance, it rubs off on sheets, though he knew that was not true. HIV had become a specter, however; that much was true.

Wakening, Freddie said, “Oh, I almost forgot something.” He eased himself out of bed. He swung his big towel round himself, then reached into a pocket of his jacket. He produced a little gift-wrapped box.

Rickie felt embarrassed. “For me? Oh, you
shouldn’t
have.”

Under the gift-wrapping Rickie found a white box from a jewelry store whose name he knew. Inside was a silver key ring—his initials in a flat silver circle attached by braided black leather to the key ring proper.

“It’s really good-looking. Thank you very much, Freddie—looks very expensive.”

“Na-aa, I swear.”

“I’ll start using it right away.”

Rickie had a happy idea—ice cream. There was a box of vanilla in his fridge. Rickie put on pajama pants and top and fetched it, plus spoons. Freddie donned his undershorts, his now dry blue shirt, and they sat on the edge of Rickie’s bed, spooning delicious bites. “You know, Freddie—I think Dorrie and Luisa have a date tonight—if Luisa can escape.” Rickie gave a short laugh. “Luisa’s having it rough—Renate trying to coop her up.”

“What’s happened?”

“Nothing—apart from Renate seeing Dorrie—fully clothed—standing in Luisa’s room.” Rickie smiled. He’d told Freddie about that on the phone. “But Renate doesn’t want Luisa to have any—well, boyfriends, I suppose. They’re maybe ‘bad for her work,’ and girlfriends—gay ones out! Dorrie’s got a crush on Luisa.”

“But Luisa doesn’t like girls, does she?”

“No. Maybe she could, I dunno. Renate kept Luisa from seeing Teddie tonight—the first night since that injury he could go out. And he’s had another good word from the
Tages-Anzeiger
, he told me, so he may get his second article published. And there’s Renate—the old closet dyke, listening in on Luisa’s phone calls! Oh, and the
crise
now with Renate’s eye.” Rickie filled Freddie in on that, which Luisa thought an imaginary ailment.

“What Renate needs is a real shock,” said Freddie. “A prank—a surprise party. Make her blow up! Drop dead! Think of something, Rickie. You’re good at that.”