Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (38 page)

Ingham looked away from her hand.
‘
You
’
ll meet someone
else easily enough, I think. Maybe even before you leave Tunisia
.’

She laughed.
‘O
WL?
’
Then she got up and made Scotches.
‘
How
’
re you going to finish that book if you don
’
t get any sleep?
’

‘I’ll
finish.
’

She was leaving for Paris in two days, or possibly tomorrow, and Ingham thought it would be tomorrow. She had had a cable from her office saying she could have another week. And of course the heat here was a bit much. The Scotch nearly knocked Ingham out, but he didn
’
t mind, in fact was grateful.

‘
Shall we all have dinner tonight? You and I and Anders? Maybe OWL?
’

‘
I simply can
’
t. If you don
’
t mind.
’
There were tears in her eyes.

Ingham knew he had said the wrong thing, that he couldn
’
t improve things by proposing that they have dinner together alone. He stood up. The only thing he could do to please her was to leave.
‘
Darling, I
’
ll ring you tomorrow to find out when you
’
re leaving.
’

T didn
’
t say I was leaving tomorrow.
’

She was standing barefoot in the white robe. He wanted to embrace her, but was afraid she would reject him.
‘I’ll
call you anyway.
’
He went to the door.
‘
Bye-bye, darling.
’

He pulled the door to, and thought of nothing
until
he was down on the beach again, where he removed his sneakers. Now the hotter sand made him run fast to the water. He splashed in, wetting his dungaree cuffs, rolled them up, and plunged on towards Hammamet, ankle-deep, splashing. He had no doubt that Ina would see OWL tonight. OWL would express regret and disapproval.

In his room, Ingham felt calmer. He made coffee, and drank it in sips as he tidied up. Jensen was quiet upstairs. Maybe both he and the dog were sleeping. With a second cup of coffee, he sat down to work. But before he could collect
his thoughts about his chapter in progress, he thought of Lotte. The throb of loss, or maybe of lust or maybe love, went deeper this time. He had an impulse to write to her now (the only address he knew was their old one, but the letter might be forwarded), and to ask her how she was, ask her if she might like to see him sometime in New York, for a drink or for dinner, if she ever came to New York. Was she happy or unhappy? Might she possibly like to see him? They
’
d had very few mutual friends. There was no one Ingham could ask in New York about her. She
’
d been in California for over a year. He realized he wanted her back, just as she was. She had that incredible quality
—
not a virtue, not an achievement
—
which let her do no wrong. That was to say, no wrong in his eyes. She had made mistakes, she had behaved selfishly sometimes, but Ingham had some
how
never blamed her, never resented, never found fault. Was that love, he wondered, or simply madness? He decided that he must not write to her, though it was a brinkish decision.

Another five minutes walking around his room, another cigarette, then he sat down and worked. Dennison was out of prison. The period had been seven years, which Ingham had compressed into five pages of intense prose of which he was rather proud. His wife, faithful always, had remained faithful. Dennison was forty-five now. Prison had not changed him. His head was unbowed, not at all bloodied, just a trifle dazed by the ways of the world that was not his world. Dennison was going to find a job in another company, an insurance company, and s
tart the same financial manoeuv
rings all over again. Other people
’
s hardships were intolerable to Dennison, if merely a little money could abolish them. Ingham, sweating, shirtless, in sticky white dungarees, produced five pages by four-thirty, got up from his chair and dropped on his bed. The air in the room, though everything was open, was motionless and saturated with heat. He was asleep within seconds.

He awakened with the now familiar logginess of brain that
always took fifteen seconds to clear. Where was he? What was up or down? What time of day was it? What day of
the
week? Was there anything he had to do? Hasso was back. He had talked with Ina. He had got through the awful speech to her, or she had made it for him. One more day
’
s work, maybe a day and a half
’
s work, would finish
Denniso
n’
s Lights.

Ingham took off his clothes and poured a bucket of water over himself on the terrace. He put on shorts, and soaked his sweaty dungarees in the bucket which he filled at the sink. Then he went up to see Jensen.

He found Jensen painting, his blond hair dark with sweat. Jensen wore nothing but cotton underpants. The dog slept on the floor.
‘
Can I invite you for dinner
che
z
mo
i
?
’
Ingham asked.

‘
Avec plaisir, m
’
sieur! J
’
accepte
!
’
Jensen looked bleary with fatigue, but happy. He was working on his picture of the Arab with the two huge sandals in the foreground. A jar of
Vaseline
was on the floor near Hasso.

‘
Did you write your family about — Ingham pointed to Hasso.

‘
I cabled them. I said I
’
d be home in a week
.’

‘
Really?
—
Well, that
’
s news.
’
As the dog breathed, Ingham could see his ribs rise and fall under the black and buff hair.

‘
I don
’
t want anything else to happen to him. The
C
houdis were very nice this morning. I think they were as glad as I was
!’

The Choudis were the Arab family next door.

Jensen
’
s face glowed with a simple and rather angelic happiness.

‘
You
’
re going to collapse in this heat,
’
Ingham whispered,
‘
Shouldn
’
t you take a nap?
’

All around them, the town seemed to be sleeping. There was not a sound beyond the windows, only thick, silent sunlight.

‘
Maybe I will. Shall I bring some wine and some ice
?’

‘
Don
’
t bring anything.
’
Ingham left.

He went out for the shopping, thinking he might be too early for the butcher
’
s to be open, but he wanted to buy a lot, and he might have to make two trips, anyway. The ten-year-old daughter of the Choudis was sitting in her open doorway, arranging round stones on the doorstep. She grinned at him with bright eyes, and said something
I
ngham could
not
under
stand.

Ingham replied in French, with a smile also. He thought she had said
‘
Hasso
’
, but even this word was different when she said it. Her
little
face was warm and friendly. Ingham walked on. He felt suddenly different towards the family next door, felt they were friends of his and Jensen
’
s, instead of just a family who lived there. He realized he had vaguely suspected them of having had something to do with Hasso
’
s disappearance.

Tie dinner that night was the best Ingham could provide, given the town
’
s resources. He had gone to the Reine
’
s little grocery. There was salami, sliced hard-boiled eggs, lambs
’
tongues, cold ham and roast beef, potato salad, cheese and fresh figs. Jensen had brought
boukhab,
and of course there was Scotch and cold white wine. Hasso was there, too, and ate bits of meat which they handed him from the table.

1 don
’
t usually do this, but tonight
’
s a special occasion,
’
said Jensen.

‘
Is he keeping everything down?
’

Hasso was, said Jensen. Jensen still looked very happy, too happy even to sleep, perhaps.
‘A
nd Ina? How is she?
’

‘
All right. I think she
’
s with OWL tonight.
’

‘
She might stay another week, you said.
’

‘
No, I think she
’
ll go on to Paris. Maybe day after tomorrow
.’

‘
And you, too?
’

‘
No
.’
Ingham said a little awkwardly,
‘
I told her I didn
’
t think we should marry.
—
It
’
s not the end of her life, I
’
m sure.
’

Jensen looked puzzled, or maybe he had nothing to say.
‘
Nothing to do with that dead Arab, I trust.
’

‘
No
.’
Ingham laughed a little. He wanted to mention Lotte, to say he was still in love with her, but first he was not sure that was true. He was not at all sure Lotte had been the main reason why he had decided not to marry Ina. The Castlewood affair had shaken Ingham more than he had realized when he first heard about it.
‘
Did you ever have someone in your life
.’
Ingham said,
‘
who
’
s like the one great love? The rest just can
’
t ever be as good
.’

‘
Ah, yes
.’
said Jensen, leaning back in his chair, looking at the ceiling.

A boy, of course, but Ingham felt that Jensen knew exactly what he meant.
‘
It
’
s a funny thing
—
the feeling that such people can
’
t do any wrong, no matter what they do. A feeling that you
’
ll never have a complaint against them.
’

Jensen laughed.
‘
Maybe that is easy if you don
’
t live with them. I never lived with mine. I never even slept with him. I just loved him for two years.
—
Well, for ever, but for two years I didn
’
t go to bed with anybody.
’

But Ingham meant, even if you did live with someone, as he had with Lotte. Ingham let it go. He realized he would miss Jensen painfully when he left.

Ingham
saw Ina off at the airport the next day. She left on the 2.30 p.m. flight to Paris. OWL went with them in Ingham
’
s car. Ingham had rung her just before eleven o
’
clock from Melik
’
s, and Ina had told him her arrangements.

1 was just about to send a messenger to you
—
or something
.’
she said, blithely enough.

Ingham wasn
’
t sure whether to believe her, but he knew she had his address.
‘I’ll
take you in the car. We can have some lunch at the airport.
’

‘
Francis wants to take me.
’

‘
Then ask him to come along in my car
.’
Ingham said, a bit irked by the ever-present OWL.
‘I’ll
be there in about half an hour
.’

Then he went home and changed, and started out almost at once. Ina hadn
’
t wanted to stay one more day. Ingham knew that 2.30 p.m. flight. It left every day.

Ina was settling her bill in the lobby. Then through the glass doors Ingham saw Adams
’
s black Cadillac pull up outside the hotel. Adams had a small bouquet of flowers.

‘
So
—
you
’
re missing a Paris holiday in delightful company
.’
OWL said with his squirrel smile, but Ingham could see that Ina had told him they were not going to marry.

Ingham insisted, over OWL
’
s protest, on taking his car, and they got in. There were the usual remarks on the seascape by OWL.

Ina said to Ingham, I
’
ll check on your apartment as soon as I get home.
’
She was in the front seat beside Ingham.

‘
Don
’
t hurry.
—
Anyway, I might be home in ten days myself
.’

She laughed a
little
.
‘
How long have you been saying that?
’

They lunched in the slightly mad restaurant of the airport. Service was sporadic, but they had plenty of time. Again the departure and arrival announcements were inaudible beneath the radio
’
s claptrap. Ina made an effort (so did Ingham), but he could see a certain sadness, a disappointment in her face that pained him. He really was so fond of her! He hoped she was not going to cry on the plane, as soon as she was out of his sight.

‘
Is there anyone you know in Paris now?
’
OWL asked.

‘
No. But one usually runs into someone.
—
Oh, it doesn
’
t matter. I like walking around the city
.’

Two-ten. It was bound to be time to start boarding. Ingham paid. A kiss at the gate, OWL got a smack on the cheek, too, a second quick, passionless kiss for Ingham, then she turned and walked away.

Ingham and Adams walked in silence back to Ingham
’
s car. Ingham felt sad, depressed, sl
ightly
impatient, as if he had made a mistake, though he knew he had not.

‘
Well, I gather things didn
’
t work out
.’
OWL said.

Ingham set his teeth for an instant, then said,
‘
We just decided not to marry. It doesn
’
t mean we had a quarrel.
’

‘
Oh, no.
’

At least that shut Adams up for a while.

Finally Ingham said,
‘
I know she enjoyed meeting you. You were very nice to her.
’

OWL nodded, staring through the windscreen.
‘
You
’
re a funny fellow, Howard, letting a wonderful girl like that go by.
’

‘
Maybe.
’

‘
There
’
s not someone else in your life, is there? I don
’
t mean to be prying.
’

‘
No, there isn
’
t.
’

Ingham was back home by four o
’
clock. He wanted to work, but it was an hour before he could set
tl
e down. He was thinking of Ina.

He produced only two pages that day. One more day
’
s work would certainly see the book finished, Ingham thought As usual at the end of books, he felt tired and somehow depressed, and wondered if it was something akin to postnatal depression, or was it some doubt that the book wasn
’
t as good as he thought it was? But he had had the same depression after books he knew were quite good, like
The Game of
‘If’.

The following day it took him three dragging hours to produce the four pages that ended the book. After a few minutes, he went upstairs to tell Jensen he had finished.

‘
Hurray
!’
Jensen said.
‘
But you look gloomy I
’
Jensen laughed. He was cleaning brushes with a messy rag.

‘I’m
always like this. Pay no attention. Let
’
s go to Melik
’s.’

Ingham picked up after some drinks with Jensen before dinner. Jensen had gone to a hotel that afternoon and arranged his flight to Copenhagen for next Friday, just four days off. Ingham felt absurdly forlorn at the news.

‘
You
’
d
—
better make sure your canvases are dry, shouldn
’
t you?
’

‘
Yes. I won
’
t paint any more. Just draw a little.
’
His smiling face was in great contrast to Ingham
’
s gloom.

Ingham replenished Jensen
’
s Scotch and water.

‘
Come with me, Howard!
’
Jensen said suddenly.
‘
Why not? I
’
ll tell my family I
’
m bringing a friend. I already told them about you. Stay a week or so. Longer! We
’
ve got a big house
.’
Jensen was leaning towards Ingham.
‘
Why not, Howard?
’

It was exactly what Ingham wanted to do, to take off when Jensen did, to see the North, to plunge into a world completely different from this one.
‘
You mean it?
’

But there was no doubt Jensen did.