Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (39 page)

‘I’ll
show you Copenhagen! My family
’
s house is in Hellerup. Off the Ryvangs Alle. Hellerup
’
s sort of a suburb, but not really. You
’
ll meet my sister Ingrid
—
maybe even my aunt Mathilde.
’
Jensen laughed.
‘
But we
’
ll bum around the
city mos
tl
y. Lots of good snack bars, friends to look up
—
and it
’
s cool, even now
.’

Ingham wanted to go, desperately, but he felt that it would be a postponement of what he had to do, which was get back to New York and start his life there again. Copenhagen would be like a five-day Christmas celebration. He really did not want that.

‘
What
’
s the matter?
’
Jensen asked.

‘I’d
like to very much, but I shouldn
’
t. I can
’
t. Not just now. Thank you, Anders.
’

‘
You
’
re just melancholic tonight. Give
me
one
good
reason why you can
’
t come.
’

1 suppose I
’
m a
little
disturbed. It would be self-indulgent. It
’
s hard to explain. I
’
d better get back on my own tracks again. But can I
—
maybe visit you sometime, if you
’
re there?
’

Jensen looked disappointed, but Ingham thought
he understood.
‘
Sure. Make it soon. I may go away again in January
.’

‘I’ll
make it soon.
’

Four
days later, Ingham drove Jensen to the airport. They stood in the terminus bar and drank
boukbahs.
Hasso had. already been loaded in his box on to the plane. Ingham made a fierce effort to be cheerful, even jolly. It actually worked a
little
, he thought. Jensen was obviously so pleased to be going home, that Ingham felt ashamed of his own depression. They embraced at the gate like Frenchmen, and Ingham stood watching Jensen
’
s tall, lank figure, lugging portfolios,
until
he reached the turning point at the end of the corridor. Jensen looked back and waved.

Ingha
m
went straight to the ticket office of the terminus and bought a ticket for New York for Tuesday, four days off,

Jensen
’
s empty rooms upstairs made Ingham think, perversely, of a tomb that had been robbed. He tried to put the floor above out of his mind, pretend it wasn
’
t there, and he certainly had no intention of going up to look at the rooms, even to see if Jensen might have forgotten something. The only happy thought was that Jensen was very much alive, and that he would see him again somewhere, in a matter of months if he wished.

The other happy thought was of course his finished book. It would be pleasant to do some more polishing in the days he had left here, work that required no emotional effort. He was pleased with the book, and only hoped his publishers would not think it dull after
The Game of
’
‘If
’
.
Dennison had a less primitive attitude than most people about money, and he hoped he had made that point. Money to him had become impersonal, essentially unimportant, like an umbrella that can be borrowed to hold over someone
’
s head, an umbrella that
could be returned like the umbrellas in the racks at some railway stations that Ingham had heard about, somewhere. Banks did the same thing, even extracting interest, and hoped that there wouldn
’
t be a run on them.

He began slowly to prepare for leaving, though there was absurdly little he had to do. He had no bills in town. He wrote to his agent. He sent off Ina
’
s mats, and spoke to the post office, giving them a date at which to start forwarding to his New York address, and he gave the man a tip. He called on OWL to inform him of the news, and they made a date for dinner the night before his departure. Seeing him off was unnecessary and awkward, Ingham said, because he had to return his rented car in Tunis.

‘
But how
’
re you going to get to
the
airport then?
’
OWL said.
‘I’ll
come with you in my car to the rental place.
’

There was no dissuading OWL.

Now when there was no need of routine, because he wasn
’
t writing, Ingham particularly stuck to one. A swim in the morning, a little work, a swim again, a short walk before lunch, work again. He was taking his last looks at the town at the Caf
é
de la Plage, all male always, even down to the three-year-old tot seated at a table of wine-drinkers. Strange things crossed Ingham
’
s mind, some that made him laugh, such as, how easy it would have been to hire an Arab for a few days to pose as
the
missing Abdullah, to satisfy Ina that Abdullah was not dead. But that would not have made any essential difference
in
his and Ina
’
s relationship, Ingham knew.

The morning before he left, he had two pieces of mail, one a postcard from Jensen. It read:

Dear Howard,

Will write later, but meanwhile have this. I will torture you by saying I sleep under a blanket here. Please visit soon.

Write me.

Love,

Anders

The picture on the card was of a greenish-roofed building surrounded by a moat or canal.

The second item was a letter, much forwarded, and Ingham caught his breath when he saw the handwriting in the centre of the envelope. It was from Lotte. The original postmark was California. Ingham opened it.

July 20,
19—

Dear Howard,

I am not sure this will reach you, as I only know our old address. How are you? I hope well and happy and working well. Maybe you are married by now (I heard something along this line via the grapevine) but if not, knowing you, I feel sure you are involved, as they say.

I am coming to New York next month and thought we might meet for a drink for old times
’
sake. I
’
ve had a rough last year, so don
’
t expect me to look the picture of happiness. My husband was a charmer to quite a few others too, and we at last decided to call the whole thing off. No children, thank God, though I had every intention of having some. (You won
’
t believe that, but I have changed.) I hope to stay in New York for a while. Even sunshine can become boring, and I found California so full of weirdies I finally felt as square as the Smith Brothers in comparison. There was a rumor here that you had gone to the Near East to write a play or something. True? Write me c.o. Ditson, 121 Bleecker Street, N.Y.C. Won
’
t be staying there, but they will forward letters to wherever I am. In New York by August 12 about.

Love,

Lotte

When he had read it, Ingham breathed again. Ah, fate! It was as if she had read his thoughts. But it was more than that So much more had had to happen to her than to him to make the letter possible. So she was free now. Ingham began to smile in a dazed way. His first impulse was to write her that he would like very much to see her, then he realized he would be in New York tomorrow night. He could give her
a ring from his own apartment
—
rather the Ditsons, and ask where she was. He didn
’
t know the Ditsons.

At Melik
’
s that night, OWL commented on his good mood. Ingham felt very merry, and talked a great deal. He realized OWL thought he was happy merely because he was leaving. Ingham could have told him about Lotte, but he did not want to. And despite his apparent good humour, he was feeling very compassionate towards Adams and a
little
sad about him. Adams seemed so lonely under his own cheer, and his cheer seemed as bogus as the phrases he dictated to his tape machine. How long could such pretence sustain anyone? Ingham had a terrifying feeling that one day OWL would pop like a balloon, and collapse and die, possibly of heartbreak. How many more people would turn up in the months ahead to keep OWL company? OWL had said he had met three or four people he had liked since being here, but of course they always went away after a while. OWL plainly saw himself as a lonely guardian of the American Way of Life, in a desolate outpost, keeping the lighthouse aglow.

The next morning at the airport, OWL gripped Ingham
’
s hand hard.
‘
Write me. I don
’
t have to tell you my address. Ha-ha!
’

‘
Good-bye, Francis. You know
—
I think you saved my life here
.’
It may have sounded a bit gushy, but Ingham meant it.

‘
Nonsense, nonsense.
’
OWL wasn
’
t thinking about what Ingham had said. He poked a finger at Ingham.
‘
The ways of Araby are strange as her perfumes. Yes! But you are a son of the West. May your conscience let you rest! Ha-ha! That rhymes. Unintentional. Bye-bye, Howard, and God bless you
!
’

Ingham walked down the corridor that Jensen had. He felt as if he were being borne slowly up into the air, higher and higher. Even the typewriter in his hand weighed nothing at all now. There is nothing, he thought, nothing so blissful in the world as falling back i
nto the arms of a woman who is
possibly bad for you. He laughed inside himself. Who had said that? Proust? Had anyone said it?

At the end of the corridor, he turned. OWL was still standing there, and OWL waved f
r
antically. Querying things, Ingham couldn
’
t wave, but he shouted a
‘
Good-bye, Francis P unheard in the shuffle of sandals, the din of transistors, the blare of the unintelligible flight announcements.