looked happy, his shirt and tie and straight dark hair contributed to the picture of a rather handsome man, after all. And he had yet to find a gray hair.
Someone was talking about food. Spaghetti, wieners, were coming up. Bowls of pretzels and Ritz crackers stood everywhere, nearly empty.
“Alex, what’s this?” Philip asked. “Money?”
Rickie, rather near, overheard this.
“Hey, now, no selling in my house, eh? OK if you want to give it.” Philip was on his feet now.
“Nobody gives it,” said Alex, rising to his feet a little unsteadily. “Not even me. I’m a convenience store.” He said the last sentence in English, and laughed.
“Sorry, Philip. He just said twenty francs and I had it, so—” This from a fellow on his knees on the floor. The paper tube was still in his hand.
“OK, I’ll give it back,” said Alex, fishing in a pocket.
Now Philip was embarrassed. “It’s just the idea of selling —here.”
Rickie moved closer. “Sure, Philip’s right. It’s a party, and Philip’s not selling drinks, is he? It’s not that Philip is against —that, I’m sure,” he added soothingly, with a glance at Alex’s remaining rows, two.
“Sure,” someone echoed. “Just don’t sell it, Alex.”
“OK, I’ll put it away!” Alex’s eyes flashed with anger, because at least six people were looking at him.
“And no hard feelings, eh?” This drawling voice from the background sounded slightly drunk.
Rickie moved off to the kitchen in search of a beer. The fridge was full of beer, plus a big bowl of potato salad. But Rickie chose a beer from a bucket on the floor, wiped the bottle with a tea towel, and opened it. Then looking for the bathroom, he opened a bedroom door, and espied two of the younger guests standing before the mirrored armoire, not looking at themselves but kissing in such a delicate, new way, that he thought it must be their first kiss, and he stepped backward and closed the door. The next door was the correct one.
When he emerged from the bathroom, carrying his beer bottle, the apartment was quiet, except for one angry voice saying, or yelling, “Well, somebody must’ve invited him!”
“ Ja-a —who told him about a party?”
“Doesn’t even take his hat off in somebody’s house!”
“What’s he, stoned? Mute?”
“Who the hell is he?” asked a young voice.
A frowning young man stood in the doorway to the living room.
“What happened?” Rickie asked him.
The young man shrugged. “Doorbell rang—and this guy—” He gestured.
Willi Biber, Rickie now saw to his astonishment, stood smack in the middle of the living room in his usual garb, dark trousers, old work jacket, and broad-brimmed gray hat.
Rickie called out, “Willi!”
Willi in his doltish way replied with a “Hee-aay!” and raised a finger, pointing at Rickie, but whether the gesture was an accusation or a greeting was dubious.
“You know him, Rick?” a voice asked.
“I have seen him—in my neighborhood,” Rickie said in the careful manner that often came over him when he was feeling his drink.
“But did you invite him?”
“Certainly not !” Rickie replied, loud and positive. “Word of honor.”
“Come on, fellows, let’s cool it.” This was from Philip. “Carry on and have fun.”
“He’s a troublemaker, this guy!” a new voice said. “I’ve seen him at Jakob’s. He’s a basher!” The voice meant gay-basher.
Philip approached the unwanted figure. “Look, Willi—we’d all be just as happy if you left. OK? Would you like a taxi?”
“ Ja-a! ” yelled someone. “A taxi!”
“I just answered the bell, opened the door,” said another voice on a defensive note. “Am I supposed to vet everyone who—”
Willi Biber turned slowly, as if trying to make all the faces sink into his memory, or he could have been looking for a face he knew among the dozen men in the room. His gray eyes were dull, and he wore a dazed expression. Suddenly he opened his arms,
Someone was talking about food. Spaghetti, wieners, were coming up. Bowls of pretzels and Ritz crackers stood everywhere, nearly empty.
“Alex, what’s this?” Philip asked. “Money?”
Rickie, rather near, overheard this.
“Hey, now, no selling in my house, eh? OK if you want to give it.” Philip was on his feet now.
“Nobody gives it,” said Alex, rising to his feet a little unsteadily. “Not even me. I’m a convenience store.” He said the last sentence in English, and laughed.
“Sorry, Philip. He just said twenty francs and I had it, so—” This from a fellow on his knees on the floor. The paper tube was still in his hand.
“OK, I’ll give it back,” said Alex, fishing in a pocket.
Now Philip was embarrassed. “It’s just the idea of selling —here.”
Rickie moved closer. “Sure, Philip’s right. It’s a party, and Philip’s not selling drinks, is he? It’s not that Philip is against —that, I’m sure,” he added soothingly, with a glance at Alex’s remaining rows, two.
“Sure,” someone echoed. “Just don’t sell it, Alex.”
“OK, I’ll put it away!” Alex’s eyes flashed with anger, because at least six people were looking at him.
“And no hard feelings, eh?” This drawling voice from the background sounded slightly drunk.
Rickie moved off to the kitchen in search of a beer. The fridge was full of beer, plus a big bowl of potato salad. But Rickie chose a beer from a bucket on the floor, wiped the bottle with a tea towel, and opened it. Then looking for the bathroom, he opened a bedroom door, and espied two of the younger guests standing before the mirrored armoire, not looking at themselves but kissing in such a delicate, new way, that he thought it must be their first kiss, and he stepped backward and closed the door. The next door was the correct one.
When he emerged from the bathroom, carrying his beer bottle, the apartment was quiet, except for one angry voice saying, or yelling, “Well, somebody must’ve invited him!”
“ Ja-a —who told him about a party?”
“Doesn’t even take his hat off in somebody’s house!”
“What’s he, stoned? Mute?”
“Who the hell is he?” asked a young voice.
A frowning young man stood in the doorway to the living room.
“What happened?” Rickie asked him.
The young man shrugged. “Doorbell rang—and this guy—” He gestured.
Willi Biber, Rickie now saw to his astonishment, stood smack in the middle of the living room in his usual garb, dark trousers, old work jacket, and broad-brimmed gray hat.
Rickie called out, “Willi!”
Willi in his doltish way replied with a “Hee-aay!” and raised a finger, pointing at Rickie, but whether the gesture was an accusation or a greeting was dubious.
“You know him, Rick?” a voice asked.
“I have seen him—in my neighborhood,” Rickie said in the careful manner that often came over him when he was feeling his drink.
“But did you invite him?”
“Certainly not !” Rickie replied, loud and positive. “Word of honor.”
“Come on, fellows, let’s cool it.” This was from Philip. “Carry on and have fun.”
“He’s a troublemaker, this guy!” a new voice said. “I’ve seen him at Jakob’s. He’s a basher!” The voice meant gay-basher.
Philip approached the unwanted figure. “Look, Willi—we’d all be just as happy if you left. OK? Would you like a taxi?”
“ Ja-a! ” yelled someone. “A taxi!”
“I just answered the bell, opened the door,” said another voice on a defensive note. “Am I supposed to vet everyone who—”
Willi Biber turned slowly, as if trying to make all the faces sink into his memory, or he could have been looking for a face he knew among the dozen men in the room. His gray eyes were dull, and he wore a dazed expression. Suddenly he opened his arms,
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