Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (22 page)

The next day, Ingham moved one suitcase into his new quarters, and he and Jensen went to the souk to buy a few things, a couple of bath-towels, a broom, some cooking-pots, a
little
mirror to hang on the wall, a few glasses, cups and saucers. The family next door had come up with a table,
not very big but of the right height and sturdy. The chair was more difficult, but Jensen persuaded Melik to part with one of his for a dinar five hundred millimes.

On Monday morning, Ingham moved in. He had wiped the kitchen shelf down, so it was reasonably clean. He was not at all fussy. It was as if he had shed, suddenly, his ideas about cleanliness, spotless cleanliness, anyway, and of comfort also. A fruit crate was his night-table, the ceiling light his reading light, causing him to move the head of his bed under it, if he wanted to read in bed. His second blanket, the steamer rug, rolled up, served as a pillow. Any dirty clothes, Jensen told him, could be laundered by the
‘
teen-aged girl of the family next door.

On Monday and Tuesday, Ingham wrote a total of seventeen pages. Jensen lent him three canvases of Ingham
’
s choice. Ingham had not chosen the disembowelled Arab, because Jensen seemed to like to live with it, and Ingham found it disturbing. He borrowed a picture of the Spanish fortress, very roughly painted, pale sand in foreground, blue sea and sky behind. Another picture was of a small boy in a jubbah sitting on a white doorstep, the boy looking round-eyed and abandoned. The third picture was one of Jensen
’
s orange chaoses, and Ingham could not tell what it was, but he liked the composition.

Ingham went daily to
the
Reine
’
s main desk and to the bungalow headquarters for post, though he had written his agent and Ina his new address
—
15 Rue El Hout. Once he saw Mokta and bought him a beer. Mokta was amused and amazed that Ingham had moved where he had. Mokta knew the street.

‘
All Arabs !
’
Mokta said.

‘
It is
interesting
.’
Ingham smiled also.
‘
Very simple.
’

‘
Ah, I believe it!
’

The air-conditioner Ingham had applied for had never appeared, Mokta had not mentioned it, so Ingham didn
’
t.

On Wednesday, Ingham invited Adams for a drink. He
gave one of Melik
’
s boys a couple of hundred millimes in exchange for a tray of ice cubes. Ingham stood on the street to meet Adams and to guide him to the house. Adams looked around with interest as they walked
th
rough the narrow alleys. The Arabs had almost stopped staring at Ingham, but a few of them stared at Adams now.

Ingham had turned his work-table into a cocktail-table. His typewriter and manuscript, papers and dictionary were arranged
neatly
on the floor in a comer.

‘
Well! It
’
s certainly simple !
’
Adams said, laughing.
“
Practically bare
.’

‘
Yes. Don
’
t bother with compliments on the d
e
cor. Fm not expecting any.
’
He extricated what was left of the ice from the tray, put some in a couple of glasses, and put the ice back into the metal tray because it was cooler.

‘
How
’
re you going to get along without a refrigerator?
’
asked Adams.

‘
Oh, I buy things in small tins and finish them. I buy a couple of eggs at a time.
’

Adams was now contemplating
the
bed.

‘
Cheers,
’
Ingham said, handing Adams his drink.

‘
Cheers.
—
Where
’
s your friend?
’

Ingham had told him his apartment was below Jensen
’
s.
‘
He
’
s coming down in a few minutes. He
’
s probably working. Sit down. On the bed, if you like.
’

‘
Is there a bathroom?
’

‘
There
’
s a thing outside in the court. A toilet.
’
Ingham hoped that Adams wouldn
’
t want to have a look at it. A few minutes ago, he wouldn
’
t have cared, Ingham realized.

Adams sat down.
‘
Can you work
here?
’
he asked dubiously.

‘
Yes. Why not? Just as well as at the bungalow.
’

‘
You should be sure you get enough food. And
clean
food. Well—
’
He lifted his glass again. I
hope you
’
ll like it here.
’

“
Thank you, Francis.
’

Adams looked at Jensen
’
s orange chaos. It was the only picture of the three that was signed. Adams smiled and jerked
his head to one side.
‘
That picture makes me hot just looking at it. What is it?
’

‘
I don
’
t know. You
’
ll have to ask Anders.

Jensen came down. Ingham gave him a Scotch.

‘
Any news of your dog?
’
Adams asked.

‘
No.
’

Their conversation was dull, but friendly.

Adams asked for how long Ingham had rented the rooms, and what they cost. There was no ice for their second drink. Jensen finished his second rather quickly, and excused himself, saying he was still at work upstairs.

‘
Any news from your girl?
’
Adams asked.

‘
No. She
’
s just had time to get a letter of mine. Today probably.
’

Adams looked at his watch, and Ingham suddenly remembered that today was Wednesday, that Adams had to be home this evening for his broadcast. Ingham was a little relieved, as he did not want to go out to dinner with Adams.

‘
I was in Tunis yesterday,
’
Adams said.
‘
Saw a nasty word written in Arabic onatailor
’
s shop-probably a Jewish shop.
’

‘
Oh?
’

Adams chuckled.
‘
I didn
’
t know what the word meant, but I asked an Arab. The Arab laughed. It
’
s a word that doesn
’
t bear repeating!
’

‘
I
’
m sure the Jews have a hard time just now,
’
Ingham said, feebly. The picture of
‘
Arabia Aroused
’
in the
Observer
one Sunday had been enough to scare the hell out of anyone: a sea of open, yelling mouths, of raised fists, ready to smash anything.

Adams got up.
‘
I should be getting back. It
’
s Wednesday, you know.
’
He drifted towards the door.
‘
Howard, my boy. I don
’
t know how long you
’
re going to stick this out.
’

He was near enough to the open door to have seen the toilet, Ingham realized. Jensen had just used the toilet, and he never shut the door when he came out.
‘
I don
’
t find it bad at all
—
in this weather.
’

‘
But you can
’
t be very comfortable. Wait till you want an ice-cold lemonade
—
or just a good night
’
s sleep! You seem to be punishing yourself with this
—
“
going native
”
. You
’
re living like a man who
’
s broke, and you
’
re not.
’

So that was it.
‘
I like a change now and then.
’

‘
There
’
s something on your mind
—
something bothering you.
’

Ingham said nothing. Ina was maybe bothering him, vaguely. But not Abdullah, in case Adams was thinking of that.

‘
It
’
s no way for a civilized man, a civilized writer to do penance,
’
Adams said.

‘
Penance?
’
Ingham laughed.
‘
Penance for what?
’

‘
That
’
s within yourself to know,
’
Adams said more briskly, though he smiled. 1 think you
’
ll find all this primitiveness just a waste of time.
’

And who was he to talk about wasting time, Ingham thought, with his hours offish-spearing, never catching anything?
‘
I can
’
t say it
’
s that if I
’
m working, which I am.
’
Ingham immediately hated that he
’
d begun to justify himself with Adams. Why should he?

‘
It
’
s not your cup of tea. You
’
re going against the grain.
’

Ingham shrugged. Wasn
’
t the whole country against his grain, wasn
’
t it a foreign country? And why should everything he did be
with
his grain? Ingham said pleasantly,
‘
I
’
ll walk down with you. It
’
s easy to lose the way.
’

In
the next week, Ingham
’
s thoughts took a new and better turn in regard to his novel. He was sure his change of scene, uncomfortable as his two rooms actually were
—
the worst was the lack of a place to hang clothes
—
was responsible for the jogging of his thoughts. Dcnnison, being mentally odd, was not to experience a collapse when his embezzlement was discovered. And the people whom he had befriended, nearly all of whom were responsible and successful men themselves now, came to his assistance and repaid whatever money Dennison had given them. Since Dennison had himself been investing embezzled money for twenty years, his appropriations had trebled. His infuriated employers at
the
bank, therefore, might have lost the earnings of three-quarters of a million dollars over twenty years, but they could get the $750,000 back. What would justice do then? Therefore, the title
The Tremor of Forgery
wasn
’
t fitting. It might almost do, but since Dennison never trembled to any extent worth mentioning, Ingham felt it wasn
’
t right. It was Ingham
’
s idea to leave the reader morally doubtful as to Dennison
’
s culpability. In view of the enormous good Dennison had done in the way of holding families together, starting or helping businesses, sending young people through college, not to mention contributions to charities
—
who could label Dennison a crook?

Ingham was only sorry to part with the tide.

Between paragraphs, Ingham often walked up and down his room in his blue terry-cloth robe, which he soaked in cold water and wrung out, over a pair of underpants. It was cooler than anything else. It also seemed less silly, in this
neighbourhood, than shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. None of the Arab men wore shorts, and they must know the coollest garb, Ingham thought. Jensen had kidded him:
‘
Are you going to buy yourself a jubbah next?
’