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“Do you know if Frau Hagnauer had a preference as to where she would like to be buried?”

“No, I do not. It may be in the will. Have you the certificate of death?”

It was arranged in seconds: Luisa was to come to Dr. Rensch’s office at three-thirty. Luisa so informed Vera (to whom Luisa had given Renate’s set of keys), and Luisa set off for Rickie’s studio without phoning him. Rickie gave her the original certificate, and called a taxi for her. He also offered to come with her.

“I’ve got to learn,” Luisa said. She took off alone.

Luisa felt weakened by the heavy leather-upholstered chairs in the waiting room of Rensch and Kuenzler in the Bahnhofstrasse. Renate would have been dressed for this formal setting. Luisa wore white cotton slacks and her best rubber-soled shoes. A door opened and she was beckoned in.

Dr. Rensch, a plump man with gray hair, laid an envelope with a visible red seal on his desk. He looked carefully at the death certificate. “A fall down the stairs, you say—horrid.” Then he opened the envelope with a penknife. “You will permit me—the burial matter first, I think.”

Luisa kept silent. The will seemed to be about six pages long and on heavy paper.

Frowning, the lawyer read on, turned a page. “Ah yes, I remember now. Frau Hagnauer preferred cremation.”

An ugly thought flew across Luisa’s mind: Renate preferred cremation because it would burn her crippled foot to ashes, never to be seen again.

Dr. Rensch was saying, “We can give you some counsel about that, if you like. These are heavy responsibilities for one as young as you.”

“Yes,” Luisa agreed politely.

Dr. Rensch read on. “She still owns the apartment, I presume?”

“Yes.” Months ago Renate had mentioned that she owned the apartment.

“And her sister? Is she in touch?”

“I don’t know.”

“The sister in Zagreb?” Dr. Rensch looked at Luisa. “We’ve got to notify her. This will was updated this year, so I’ll assume the address here is still valid for the sister. Edwiga Elisabeta Dvaldivi,” the lawyer said carefully. “You and she are the co-inheritors, you know. I suppose you know.”

Co-inheritors. Fifty-fifty. It was as unreal as the sister, whose name Luisa had never heard Renate utter. “No, I didn’t know.”

“Oh, Frau Hagnauer thought most highly of you—and of your talent.” He gave a restrained smile, lifted his glasses and looked at Luisa.

Was that true, Luisa thought. Thought highly, yes, in the sense that she was so special, she had to be imprisoned. Luisa felt her heart beating heavily. “I’m sorry but I have to ask you what I’m supposed to do about the cremation.”

Dr. Rensch nodded. “We’ll take care of that for you—with your consent, I trust.” He pushed a button.

A woman opened a door on the lawyer’s right.

“Can you make a copy of Frau Hagnauer’s will, please, Christina?”

Less than twenty minutes later, Luisa was on a tram, riding toward Aussersihl and home. The will in its envelope made her handbag bulge. Co-inheritor. Half the apartment, what did that mean? Half Renate’s bank account? Luisa felt quite neutral, uninterested. It somehow wasn’t true. It was like Renate’s death, which had happened “early yesterday, Sunday,” today being Monday, but her death didn’t seem true, or real.

Duties next: check with Vera on the progress of the day’s work, and be sure they had not neglected any client they were supposed to speak to today. Luisa was to ring Rickie, if she had time, and report on the lawyer.

“Look, Luisa, perfect,” said Stefanie with a proud gesture. The foulard square hung over a line by the ironing board. “I’d get full marks for that.”

“It does look prettier than when I bought it!” In a beam of sunlight, the gold, blue, and tan of the pattern came up like a stained-glass window. “Now I need a gift wrap.”

“You’re giving that
away
?” cried Stefanie.

“Aw-wr,” said Elsie, glad to have something to smile at.

“I’m going—I have to go to a birthday party tonight,” Luisa explained, “and I didn’t do any shopping.”

Vera told Luisa that everything was in control. She beckoned Luisa into a corner of the workroom. “And the funeral?” she whispered. “What’s happening?”

“I just found out—it’s supposed to be a cremation. The lawyer’s going to see about that. It’s bound to be tomorrow—don’t you think?”

Vera nodded. “Sure. Very likely. The lawyer’s going to phone you?”

Luisa nodded.

The girls were winding things up for the day, as usual trying to leave the worktable reasonably tidy. Luisa did not ring Rickie, because there was hardly time, if she swept the workroom and got dressed. She realized she didn’t want to say anything to Rickie about being co-inheritor, or about cremation. Not now, not tonight.

“I almost forgot,” Vera said, “your friend Dorrie rang twice, and she’d like you to ring back. Left a number. It’s there.”

Then Luisa was suddenly alone in the flat. She looked at the message Vera had written: Dorrie and a number. She wanted Dorrie with her this evening, wanted Dorrie’s smile and her easy manner. In her room, Luisa reached for her German dictionary (the safest place she’d been able to think of) on the top shelf of her bookcase, and got from it the card Teddie had given her, one of his mother’s personal cards, with home address and number. Teddie had drawn a line through “Frau Katarina Stevenson” and written “Teddie” above.

Teddie’s mother answered. “Oh, hello, Luisa!” she said, more friendly than Luisa had expected. “Yes, Teddie’s here—in the bath—but I’ll ask.”

Teddie came on, using a bathroom phone, he said. “What’s the matter? You’re coming tonight, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, I was wondering, could I invite a friend—who’s been very helpful—”

“Sure!” said Teddie.

“Dorrie. Thanks, Teddie . . . of course. I look forward.”

Then Luisa dialed the number for Dorrie. It was still only five to five, and she knew Dorrie didn’t usually stop work at five. A man’s voice answered (not Bert), then Dorrie came on.

“Yes, a busy day!” Luisa said. “I just spoke with Teddie. Can you join us tonight? Kronenhalle at seven-thirty?”

“I could. I heard about it from Rickie. You’re sure it’s OK?”

It was OK. Teddie had said it was a buffet.

31

R
ickie had walked over to Luisa’s, and had ordered a taxi to come there. Luisa was down on the pavement, in a longish blue-and-gray cotton skirt with pleats and her finest white blouse, with a generous black shawl to guard against the evening cool.

The taxi arrived at almost the same time as Rickie.

“Kronenhalle,
bitte
,” said Rickie, looking at the flat square box Luisa carried, with its thin blue ribbon. “I didn’t bring anything, I’m afraid, so Teddie will have to forgive me. I was busy today. So you won’t tell me what the lawyer said?”

“Not now. Not that he said much.”

“Gave you a copy of the will?”

“Oh, yes. Dorrie’s coming tonight.”

Rickie smiled. “So is Philip Egli. Lots of work for you to do—in regard to the will?”

Luisa shook her head. “No.”

Rickie wanted to ask when the funeral would be, but now didn’t seem the time. However, when would be the right time? Luisa looked rather paralyzed by events.

When they were inside the Kronenhalle’s doors, Rickie said, “The funeral—it’s tomorrow?”

“It’s a cremation. The lawyer’s going to let me know the time. I suppose tomorrow.”

Rickie was sure Luisa would go to the service, and there was always a service. “Let’s go up. It’s on the floor above this.”

Teddie’s party was in a big room which held two long tables, set at a wide angle. Teddie came at once to greet them, very dapper in a blue summer suit and a red bow tie.

He kissed Luisa’s cheek. “You look beautiful! Hi, Rickie! These are for you, Luisa.” Teddie extended a pair of gardenias, which he had been carrying delicately on one palm. “Ribbon has a little safety pin to—” he explained anxiously, ready to help, but Luisa said she could manage.

“Thank you, Teddie. Such a fresh smell! This little item is for you. Happy birthday!”

“You didn’t have to bring me
anything
!” Grinning, he turned the flat box over. “I’m going to leave this at the front desk or I’ll lose it. Please—welcome to the party. Have a drink. I’ll be back.” He dashed out of sight down some stairs.

Waiters fussed around the two linen-covered tables, bringing stacks of plates in addition to the glasses and cutlery. Wine bottles stood in ice buckets.

“Good evening,” said Freddie Schimmelmann, bowing to Luisa. “And Rickie.” To Luisa he added, “I heard the—about the accident. I don’t think any of us expected a mishap like that.”

“No, we didn’t,” said Luisa, at once conscious of the “we.” Meaning who?

Teddie was back with a tall, blond young man. “Eric—my military training pal. Luisa—Rickie—”

Eric, staring at Luisa, said, “’Evening.”

Then came Philip Egli and a dark-haired young man. “Hello. This is Walter Boehler. You know, Rickie, from the travel bureau.” Philip looked radiantly happy.

Rickie did remember, somebody new. “Walter of the travel bureau!” Rickie echoed, as if greeting a great poet. “And Andreas! Can’t believe my eyes!”

Andy, in a proper suit and tie, drifted forward, smiling. “’Evening, Teddie.
Ein
Appenzeller, Rickie? Ha-ha!”

“What a surprise!” Rickie said.

“For me too, but I can’t stay long. Half an hour, Ursie said.”

“I invited Ursie,” Teddie said to Rickie, “but she absolutely couldn’t come even for twenty minutes. Andy—please make these people take some drinks. You know how to do it!”

“Teddie—for you.” Andy pulled a white envelope from a jacket pocket. “A card from us all. We all say happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Andy.”

They moved toward the drinks table. There was lots of Coca-Cola and tomato juice.

“Fraulein Luisa,” said Andy, ducking his head an instant. “Ursie and I and Hugo—all of us are very sorry to hear about Madame.”

“Thank you, Andy—for your sympathy. I think we are all shocked.”

Long-stemmed dahlias stood in vases on both tables, and shorter tulips and white roses. Suddenly it wasn’t like “a funeral,” as Luisa had thought moments ago, but like a burst of pretty things, and special food and drink. A waiter was lighting the candelabra.

“Mademoiselle?” A waiter offered a tray of stemmed glasses, all half full of bubbling champagne.

Everyone took a glass, even two or three young-looking girls whose names Luisa didn’t know, and who looked so shy, Luisa felt herself a picture of poise by comparison.

“Happy birthday, Teddie!”

“And many more!”

“To Teddie!”

“Speech, Teddie!”

“Ye-es-s! Some words from the great journalist!”

Rickie exchanged a smile with Luisa. He had a Scotch on the rocks, thanks to Andy.

“Thank you all—very much—for being here,” said Teddie.

“More!”

“Yes—OK. Finally I’m twenty-one.” Teddie looked at the floor, lifted a foot as if he were about to stomp on the carpet. “Can’t believe I’ve reached the age that Americans tell you to wait for. Wait till you’re twenty-one before you do this and that.” He cleared his throat. “At least tonight I have the right to gather my favorite people around me: a few school friends, military training pal—Eric—who may have saved my life and did save my self-respect, when he told me to lie flat. Otherwise I’d have got a live bullet—in the backside. Wrong side for a soldier.”

“Hah-ho.” A murmur of laughter.

“Tonight Franzi is here, my school friend with whom I shared almost everything, boxes from home, books, secondhand cars—a room, yes—girls, no. And tonight Luisa is here, the girl who says ‘I’m not sure, I have to think about it.’ Even about a date.”

Whispers: “Who’s Luisa?”

“Last but not least—my friend Rickie, who took me in one night, when I wasn’t the equal of a street attacker. My all-round pal, Rickie Markwalder. Now let’s eat, drink, and have a good time!”

“Ye-eay, Rickie!” a male voice shouted. Whose voice?

Luisa just then saw Dorrie’s black-clad figure in the doorway, raising a hand to acknowledge Luisa’s wave.

A patter of applause. A little laughter.

People became interested in the buffet tables.

Teddie drifted toward Rickie. “I hadn’t counted on making a speech.” Teddie passed a hand across his forehead.

“You did quite well!”

“I thought later—you know—some of us might go to Jakob’s. Nightcap. OK, Rickie?”

“Of course it’s OK,” Rickie replied, dubious about Luisa’s and his own energy level later. “Freddie’s on duty tonight at ten, I know.”

Not far away from Rickie, Dorrie was saying to Luisa, “I brought this for Teddie. Is he collecting presents now?” She held a small rectangular box.

“I suppose so. What did you get him?”

“Joke pens. Well, they work. I happened to have them because I’d just bought them! Hah!”

Now Luisa smiled. “I brought something I had too. No time today for shopping.”

“Did you have to see—well—her lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Luisa felt like ducking the question, and held herself straight. “I don’t want to talk about it just now. Sorry.”

“Let’s get something to eat. Somebody said there was beef Stroganoff.”

A couple of smaller tables had now been covered with white linen and chairs set round, for those who wished to sit. Luisa and Dorrie chose to sit, and were soon joined by Rickie. Beef Stroganoff and rice was the hot dish, and the cold offerings pâté, sliced ham, sausages, and salads.

“Everything all right?” Teddie was on his feet, wine glass in hand, and with no intention of sitting, it seemed.

Luisa was looking at Teddie, when her vision went gray, and sounds became blurred. She laid down the fork she had just picked up. “I can’t—” Then she was dropping to her right, the side where Dorrie wasn’t.

Cold water on a napkin across Luisa’s forehead. She saw an unfocused cream-colored ceiling with panels.

“. . . heavy day . . . tomato juice . . .”

Luisa realized that she lay on her back on a couple of benches; that she must have been quite unconscious for a minute or two.

“Feeling steadier now?” Dorrie was asking, pressing her hand.

“Oh, sure.”

“Don’t eat anything if you don’t want to,” someone said.

“A little is good,” Rickie’s voice said.

Luisa ate a bite, slowly.

Rickie’s deep voice said, “A little beef, a sip of wine—”

The morsel of beef brought the scene back. Tonight she would sleep in Rickie’s studio, as she had last night. She sipped some water. “I’m OK,” she said to Dorrie and Teddie, because he was seated opposite her now, looking at her. He stood up and bowed a little.

“I’ll be back.”

“A cake!” a girl shouted.

A cake was arriving, inspiring applause. It was carried by two waiters and sat on a rather large tray, but the cake with twenty-one candles ablaze was not huge. This was deposited in the center of the buffet table, which had been partly cleared.

“No more speeches!” yelled Teddie. “And I’m not going to blow all these out. It’s unsanitary! Come up and I’ll cut!”

Luisa stayed where she was, so did Dorrie. Rickie came back with three plates of cake, held somewhat dangerously.

“What kind? Looks homemade,” Dorrie said.

“Coconut meringue.”

Rickie wanted to see Luisa home early, he explained to Teddie, as she was tired. Teddie of course had to stay with his guests. Dorrie said her thanks and good night to Teddie, and she and Luisa and Rickie departed.

In the taxi, Rickie kept silent. If Luisa wanted Dorrie to stay the night, he thought, she could as far as he was concerned, but he was not going to say anything about it. As it turned out, Dorrie asked to be dropped at a corner which she said wasn’t far from where she lived.

Then Rickie and Luisa went on to the studio. Rickie unlocked with his own key.

“It’s weird,” Luisa said when she was down in the big white room. She tossed her handbag onto the single bed that she had made neatly that morning. “I really feel weird now.”

Rickie glanced at the floor. “It is weird—yes, that’s the word. A very strange two days. Sit down on Mathilde’s chair.” Rickie pulled out the swivel chair. “Mind if I look for a small beer?” He opened the fridge. There were two.

“I must tell you something. I mean—I feel like telling you.”

He thought of Mathilde’s confession of pregnancy, which hadn’t been true. “Yes. What, my dear?”

“Renate made me co-inheritor in her will. The other is her sister in Zagreb.”

“In a way, I am not surprised, you know?” But Rickie felt very surprised, and was sure he even looked surprised. “Everything?”

“I suppose. The lawyer Rensch said half and half—with the sister. Of course they have to find the sister. Then I’ve heard people always have to wait for months—proving things.”

“Yes. Six months usually. Then you’ll have death duties, maybe eight percent.” Rickie sipped his Heineken from the cold bottle. “Didn’t Renate own that apartment too?”

“Yes.” It hit Luisa again as a frightening responsibility: a big property tax (maybe) to pay before she could touch any of Renate’s money to cover the bills. Electricity and telephone bills. She’d have to talk to Gamper at UBS, certainly. Then a happier thought came. “You know, Rickie, Vera—one of the girls—she’s a ‘coworker,’ higher than apprentice. She’s got an idea. We’re going to visit the women’s technical school at Kreuzplatz, and look for a dressmaker who could take Renate’s place. There may be a person who’d be glad of an apartment to live in, Vera thinks.”

The thought cheered Rickie too. “Of course! You could keep the same girls—the same clientele! But you ought to get the place repainted. I don’t mean it’s shabby now, but to pick yourself up. Pick the girls up too. Luisa, I’ll leave you. You’re OK? Will you get to bed? Soon?”

Luisa nodded. “
Yes
.”

“I’ve got to put in an appearance at Jakob’s, you know.” He tipped the little bottle and finished it. “’Bye, my dear. I’ll lock from the outside. Got your keys?”

“Yes.”

O
N THE WAY TO
J
AKOB’S
, Rickie undid his bow tie, stuck it in his pocket, and opened the top button of his shirt. He was thinking that Luisa had looked unusually pretty tonight with her brown hair shining as usual, her small gold circles of earrings, her wonderful mixture of shyness and good humor. Co-inheritor! What would Renate have left in stocks and bonds? More than a million francs, he’d guess, Renate being thrifty by nature and having had a long working life. Would that make any difference at all in regard to Teddie? No, why should it? Who did Luisa like better, Teddie or Dorrie?

Lulu, he thought, as he neared his apartment house. Rickie unlocked his front door, then his apartment door, and heard Lulu scampering toward him. He felt for her lead in the dark: it hung from a row of coat hooks on the left in the hall. Out again, and Lulu went tidily into the gutter for a pee. He didn’t put her lead on till they were almost at the door of Jakob’s.

Ursie was the first familiar figure he saw, Ursie behind the bar, drawing two beers. “Rickie! A good evening?”

“Yes, and so elegant! Ursie, we missed you!”

“I know, I know, thank you,” pouring wine now, eyes on the glass.

“Teddie’s due here tonight.”

“Ah, good!”

The second figure to catch his eye was that of Willi Biber, hunched over white wine, his big hand concealing the stem of the glass and part of the bowl. He wore his old gray broad-brimmed hat, and was slow to look up at Rickie. Then Willi tensed, and his feet shifted as if he might leave.

Rickie looked away. That had been a “hostile” glance from Willi. Rickie knew he was one of the “others,” the enemy, the wrong kind of people, the people that Renate Hagnauer had not cared for, and about whom she had been scathing. Rickie realized that he would be, therefore, among the curious few who might be glad of Renate’s death, whereas Willi Biber in losing Renate had lost a
protectrice
, a comforter, a friend. Small wonder that Willi looked dejected and melancholic tonight! He sat at the end of the table, where Rickie had often seen him when Renate had been at the table, seated at right angles to Willi. Willi might have been conjuring up memories of Renate, Rickie thought, seated close to him, drawing on her cigarette holder, eyeing the goings on with disapproval—though often making a sketch. Rickie stood at the bar.