Small g by Patricia Highsmith Page A

little? You could have telephoned.”
    Luisa calmly hung her jacket on a book.
    “What is this, you’re getting fat? What’s under your shirt?”
    “It’s nothing. I lowered my vest because it was hot. Let me go and wash, all right?” Luisa turned right in the workroom, then entered a small room which had a toilet and washbasin, washed her hands quickly, and with the water still running pulled her shirttails out and extricated the muffler. She folded it small, and hearing nothing outside, exited, intending to make a dash for her room.
    But Renate stood in the hall. “What’s that in your hand? You bought something?”
    “Yes. Not important.”
    Renate followed her to the doorway of her room. “Well, what is it?” She was always curious about clothes.
    Luisa shrugged. “Just a scarf.” She tossed it on to her bed, and walked toward the door.
    But Renate advanced. “A long muffler? This time of year?”
    “In a sale. I liked it. Can I do something to help with dinner?”
    “Was this what you had under your shirt? What is this, you are shoplifting now?” Her accent, German-Romanian-Jewish, a potpourri of Mitteleuropa, had come to the fore. “Come on, or we ruin the dinner.”
    The meal interval was cool. Renate suspected something, but wasn’t sure what. Had Luisa met a boy? Had a beer or a Coca-Cola with him just now at Jakob’s? Or at some other place, because too many people knew Luisa at Jakob’s, and might report it to her, Renate?
    “Another little scaloppini Good for you.” Renate had got up and was bringing the iron pan in her mitted hand, lifting a tasty length of veal with a wooden spatula onto Luisa’s plate.
    “It does taste good,” replied Luisa pleasantly.
    “It’s good meat. It pays to buy the best—in everything, material, thread, machines. Don’t forget that.”
    Several minutes later, when Luisa had removed the dinner plates and set the table for dessert—Renate’s own lemon mousse—Renate said, “Your hair looks lovely. That shampoo I bought you is good, no? Makes a gloss.”
    Renate ate, savoring her mousse, her eyes fixed on Luisa. Renate fancied that Luisa had a slight crush on her, that Luisa would appreciate, enjoy, a quick embrace before bedtime, a kiss on the cheek, the pressure of her hand in both Renate’s, for instance. Renate was aware that she took the place of Luisa’s mother, to some extent, that selfish mother who was plainly wrapped up in her second husband (a good-looking bully, Renate gathered) and in her son by him, a child who would be nearly six by now. Poor Luisa had been shoved out in the cold, emotionally speaking. Just as well for her, Renate thought, and indeed had said more than once. Luisa had not replied to Renate’s compliment on her hair. She was unusually pensive this evening.
    “You didn’t meet a new boy,” Renate began on a light, teasing note, as she served them both a little more mousse. “Had a Coke with him maybe?”
    “No,” Luisa said firmly, looking Renate in the eye.
    “I don’t mind if you do, you know. Why should I mind? A nice boy. It’s these homos everywhere that are the problem! So many—you’d think AIDS didn’t exist!” She forced a titter. “They are the silly ones. Always changing partners. They have no partners, just sex en masse, you know. At the same time they flirt. They think they are handsome.” Renate glanced at Luisa who was still looking straight at her, and fitted a cigarette into her long holder, reached for her silver lighter.
    “They certainly don’t flirt with me,” Luisa said, and drank the last of her red wine. “They don’t bother me. What’re you worried about?”
    “I’m not worried!” Renate retorted at once. “Worried about homos? Hah!” Her right hand played with her silver napkin ring, turning it over and over, and realizing this, she banged the ring down on the tablecloth. She went on, aware that she had made the same speech before, but unable to stop herself: “You see,