Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (25 page)

Ina set her glass on the night-table, holding the top of the sheet over her breasts with the other hand.
‘
It
’
s what you put into it. Not how original the theme is.
’

That was true. Ingham didn
’
t say anything.
‘
After another glass of this, I
’
ll leave and let you sleep. We can have dinner as late as nine or so. Do you think you
’
d like dinner in the hotel or at a crummy
—
well, Arab place in the town?
’

‘
An Arab place.
’

‘
And
—
would you like to meet Jensen or would you rather be alone?
’

Ina smiled. She was on one elbow. She had just the beginning of a double chin, or a fullness, under her jaw, and Ingham thought it charming. 1 wouldn
’
t mind meeting Jensen.
’

Ingham left the Reine in a glow of happiness, on the wings of success. And he had not forgotten the prize, the kudos or whatever it was, coming to him from the O. Henry Award thing.

J
ensen
was out when Ingham got home at five-thirty. He was either at the Plage or taking a walk along the beach, Ingham thought. Ingham straightened up his rooms a little, gave them a sweep, then went out with the double purpose of finding Jensen and buying some flowers. Flowers in a vase, even if the vase was a glass, would look nice on the table, he thought, and he reproached himself for not having had flowers in Ina
’
s room awaiting her. But how could he have known that the afternoon would turn out as well as it had?

Ingham was about to go into the Plage, when he saw Jensen walking slowly up from the beach, barefoot, carrying something that at first Ingham thought was a child: a long dark object which he held in both arms. Jensen plodded forward, blond and thin, like some starving Viking landed after a shipwreck. Ingham saw that what he carried was a big piece of wood.

‘
Hey!
’
Ingham called, approaching him.

Jensen lifted his head a little in acknowledgement. His mouth was open with his effort.

“
What
’
s that?
’

“
A log
.’
Jensen said.
‘
Maybe for a statue. I don
’
t know
.’
He gasped and set it down. It was water-logged.

Ingham had an impulse to help him, but he was in a good shirt, and his mind was on flowers.

‘
Not very often one finds a nice piece of wood like this. I had to go into the water for it.
’
The legs of Jensen
’
s levis were damp.

‘I’m
bringing my friend over at eight. I hope you can join us for dinner. Can you?
’

‘
Okay. Sure. Do I have to get dressed up?
’

‘
No. I thought we
’
d go to Melik
’
s.
—
Do you know where I can pick up some flowers? Just a few cut flowers?
’

‘
You can try the souk. Or maybe the jasmine guy
’
s at the Plage.
’
Jensen smiled.

Ingham pulled his fist back as if to hit him.
‘I’ll
be home in a few minutes,
’
he said and walked off to the left, in hopes of seeing a flower vendor sitting on the pavement between here and the little Hammamet bank. Ingham couldn
’
t find any flowers, and gave it up after ten minutes. He twisted off a couple of pine twigs from the trunk of a tree by the beach, and at home stuck them in a glass of water. They looked insanely nordic. Once more, he put his typewriter and papers on the floor. Then he took off his shirt and trousers and flung himself on his bed and slept.

He awakened feeling happier than when he had left the Reine, though a
little
dopey in the head from the heat. He took a bucket shower in the court He was now expert at saving the right amount of water to get the soap off. He might introduce the revolutionary idea of two buckets, since the one bucket was often overflowing. He had been correct, the tap didn
’
t come on any further, but he could always draw water from the kitchen sink.

Ingham went to Melik
’
s and reserved a table for between quarter to nine and nine o
’
clock. Then he drove on to pick up Ina. Ina was downstairs in the Reine
’
s lobby, sitting on a big sofa, smoking a cigarette. She was in a pink sleeveless dress with a big, cool-looking green flower printed on the dress above one breast.

‘I’m
not late, am I?
’
Ingham asked.

‘
No. I
’
m just looking over the people.
’
She got up.

‘D
id you have a nap?
’

‘
I had a swim
and
a
nap. The beach is divine
!
’

1 forgot to say, you can get demi-pension here if
you prefer. You might like lunch or dinner here, I don
’
t know
.’

‘
I don
’
t want to be pinned down just yet
.’

Ingham stopped the car in the usual place near Melik
’
s, and asked Ina to wait a minute. He ran up the steps to the terrace. He had arranged to pick up ice. Then Ingham went back to Ina with the ice-tray, locked his car, and they walked into the first narrow alley.

Ina looked around, fascinated, at
everything
. And the Arabs, what few there were in the alley, or leaning in doorways, looked back at her, wide-eyed and faintly smiling.

Ingham stopped at his door, a door like many others, except that his was closed and most were open.

‘
I must say it looks like the real McCoy!
’
Ina said.

Ingham was glad the toilet door was not open.
‘
This is where I work. And also sleep,
’
Ingham said, letting her precede him into his room.

‘
Really
?’
said Ina, in a tone that sounded amazed.

‘
A
little
Robinson Crusoe, maybe, but actually I don
’
t need any more than this
.’
His mind was on getting her to sit down in the most comfortable place
—
the bed. He now had a dark red pillow that one could lean against, but only if one slumped, as the bed was rather wide.

Ina wanted to see the kitchen.
‘
Reasonably neat,
’
she said, still smiling, and Ingham felt that his tidying had been worthwhile.
‘
And I suppose it
’
s dirt cheap
.’

‘
Two dollars a day,
’
Ingham said, coping with the ice now.

‘
And the John?
’

‘
Well, that
’
s just an outside thing. In the court. I have to wash here
.’
The ice fell into the sink and at the same time he cut his thumb slightly on the metal grill of the tray.
‘
Scotch and water? I have soda
.’

‘
Water
’
s fine. Whose paintings are these?
’

‘
Oh, those are Anders
’
s. Do you like them?
’

‘
I like the abstract. I
’
m not so fond of the
little
boy
.’

‘
I didn
’
t tell him you liked painting
.’
Ingham smiled,
happy that Ina and Jensen would have something to talk about.
‘
Here, darling
.’

She took her drink and sat down on the door-bed.
‘
Oof!
’
she said, bouncing a
little
, or trying to.
‘
Not exac
tl
y springy
.’

‘
The Arabs aren
’
t much for beds. They sleep on mats on the floor
.’

Ina wore pale green earrings. Her hair was shorter. It waved naturally, and she wore it without a parting.
‘
A strange people. And just a
little
frightening. By the way, were there any repercussions here after the war? Or during it?
’

‘
Yes, quite a few. Cars overturned in Tunis, windows of the American Information Service library busted right in the middle of town. I didn
’
t —
’

Jensen appeared in the doorway, and knocked. He was in his green trousers, a clean white shirt.

‘
Anders Jensen, Miss Pallant. Ina
.’

‘
How do you do,
’
Ina said, looking him over, smiling, not extending a hand.

Jensen made an abortive bow.
‘
How do you do, Miss
—
Ina
.’
He could sometimes look like an awkward, well-meaning sixteen-year-old.

‘
Fix you a stone,
’
Ingham said, going to the kitchen. Jensen was amused by the adjective
‘
stoned
’
, and he often called a drink a stone. Ingham heard Ina ask:

‘
Have you been here a long time?
’

Ingham brought Jensen his drink, a good big one.

They talked about Jensen
’
s paintings. Jensen was pleased that she had noticed them, and that she liked the orange abstract. Ina did not mention her brother. Jensen said he was working now on a sand picture, inspired by the trip he and Ingham had made to Gabes.

‘
We slept out on the sand,
’
Jensen said.
‘
There wasn
’
t any storm as in my picture, but one gets a very close view with one
’
s eyes
—
at sand level
.’

The conversation rolled on pleasan
tl
y. Ina
’
s quick eyes
took in everything, Ingham felt, Jensen
’
s white leather shoes, their uppers perforated, his thin hands (yellow paint under one thumbnail), his profoundly troubled face that could look tragic and merry and tragic again in a matter of seconds. Ina
’
s forehead grew shiny with perspiration, Ingham hoped there was a breeze on Melik
’
s terrace. She fished a gnat out of her second, iceless, drink.

“
The insects here are alcoholic
.’
Jensen said, and Ina laughed.

At Melik
’
s, it was
couscous
,
of course. Ina thought the place charming. The canary was in good voice. There was also a flute, not too loud, and a breeze, faint but still a breeze.

‘
Are women
allowed
here?
’
Ina asked softly and Ingham laughed.
‘
They have such
f
u
nny laws. Where are the women?
’

‘
Home cooking their own dinner
.’
Jensen said.
‘
And these men
—
they
’
ve probably spent the afternoon with their girl friends, and after dinner they will visit other girl friends and finally go home
—
where their wives are also pregnant.
’

This amused Ina.
‘
You mean, it doesn
’
t cost much to have a lot of girl friends? These fellows don
’
t look
exactly
affluent.
’

‘
I think Arab women dare not say no. I dunno. Don
’
t ask me
.’
said Jensen with a languid wave of a hand. He looked into space.

‘
Not wearing your cuff-links?
’
Ina said to Ingham.

Ingham was wearing very ordinary cuff-links he had bought in Tunis.
‘
I thought I wrote you. I had a slight robbery at the Reine. In my bungalow. They took my stud box with everything I had like that
—
all my cuff-links, a tiepin, a couple of rings.
’
The robbery had included his gold wedding ring, Ingham suddenly realized.

‘
No, you didn
’
t mention it
.’
Ina said.

‘
Also a pair of shoes
.’
Ingham said. 1 was sorry about those cuff-links. I loved them.
’

‘
I
’
m sorry, too.
’