Small g by Patricia Highsmith Page B

which did not surprise Rickie. Their mother had given a dinner party for six or seven people, and seemed in fine health.
    “You sound sad, Rickie.”
    “Sad? Not at all, Dorothea! Why? I wasn’t even saying anything.”
    “Maybe that’s why you seemed sad.”
    Rickie laughed. It was a conversation like others they had had, comforting to Rickie. Dorothea knew about Petey, of course; she had said the proper sympathetic words, and in her way she had meant them. After all, Petey had been in Rickie’s life for nearly a year. The months might be intense, hopeful, Rickie supposed, but it still wasn’t a marriage in his sister’s eyes or in anybody’s eyes, Rickie knew.
    “Now cheer up. Come and see us soon. Come for dinner—bring a friend, if you want. You know. Elise would like to see you too.” Dorothea laughed. “And you can meet her new heartthrob, maybe.”
    “Looking forward.”
    “Don’t joke, Rickie. Phone us. Promise? Room to stay the night, you know.”
    “I promise. Thank you, dear sister.” They hung up.
    Rickie looked around at his visibly tidier tables, chrome this and that, unframed blowups on the walls, metal wastebaskets, his little sink and two-burner that looked like something in a hospital. There were times when Rickie was proud of his workplace, times when he was ashamed. Just now, he felt somehow ashamed.
    Silly inferiority complex, Rickie told himself. He didn’t live here, he worked here.
    And tonight—he’d go to the Small g, where dear Philip Egli might be, despite his exams, where Ernst surely would be, and maybe the darling Luisa. Maybe. And shitty Willi.
    Rickie chuckled at the thought of Willi on a Saturday night, when everyone was merry but Willi! Rickie went out and strolled to his apartment house, greeting a neighbor on the way, old Frau Riester, a widow who lived in his studio building. She was carrying two shopping bags, one of woven rope that sagged with age. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, a mauve cardigan.
    “And how are you faring, Frau Riester?”
    Her wrinkled, smiling face looked up at him. “Pretty well, Rickie. And I’m Ruth to you, remember?”
    “Of course I remember—”
    “You taking care of your laundry well enough?”
    Out of the past, more than a year ago, Rickie recalled: he’d been down with flu for several days, and Ruth Riester had called for his laundry and washed it in her machine, and brought it back with his shirts and even his socks ironed. “Yes, Ruth—I swear. I wield a fine iron.” Rickie pantomimed ironing. “You should come to our local pub more often. Jakob’s.” Ruth hardly ever came. “It’ll cheer you up.” Rickie was drifting away.
    “Oh, I’m cheery enough. So people say.” Smiling, she trudged on.
    Rickie went to Jakob’s just before 10 P.M. that evening, wearing a new white cotton jacket, dark blue summer trousers, well-polished black loafers. He preferred sneakers, but at his age he thought sneakers suggested that he was trying to look younger than he was. I’m just looking around tonight , he told himself as he walked in with Lulu in her pale blue leather collar, which happened to match Rickie’s shirt.
    “Lulu!”
    “Hi, Lulu ! Good evening!”
    “Hello, Rickie! Sit with us?” This was from a sextet at the table where Renate and Luisa usually sat in the morning.
    Rickie vaguely knew two of the fellows, the blonde girl with them not at all. “Not just yet, thanks, maybe later.”
    A young boy and girl were dancing to music that came from a radio behind the bar. There was an amplifier on the other side of the dance floor, which Rickie now circled, drifting toward the back terrace, which he wanted to look at, see who was there.
    “ Rickie! ”
    Rickie saw Ernst Koelliker in the far right corner, half standing up as he hailed Rickie. There were four or five people at this table. “’ Evening! Maybe in a minute!”
    “Hey, you on luxury cruise tonight?” a voice on his right asked, just as he was about to enter the