Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (6 page)

Where would he go? Look at the Tunisia map tomorrow, Ingham thought. Or get back to work on the book,
until
Ina
’
s letter or cable came. That was the wisest thing. His
bungalow with breakfast cost about six dollars a day, not that he was worried about money. But much of his Tunisian expenses would obviously have to come out of his own pocket now. Anyway, he ought to wait two or three days for a word from Ina, in case she wrote instead of cabled.

They said good night on the bungalow driveway.
‘
My thoughts are with you
.’
Adams said, speaking softly, because people were asleep in the near-by bungalows.
‘
Get some rest. You
’
ve had a shock, Howard.
’

Ingham
meant to sleep late, but he awakened early. He went for a swim, then came back and made some instant coffee. It
was still only
half-past seven. He worked
until
Mokta brought his breakfast at nine o
’
clock.

‘
Ah, you work early this morning
!’
Mokta said.
‘
Be careful you do not make the head turn.
’
He made a circular motion with one finger near his ear.

Ingham smiled. He had noticed that Arabs were always worried about overstraining their brains. One young man he had spoken with in Naboul had told him that he was a university student, but had overstrained his brain, so he was on a vacation of several weeks on doctor
’
s orders.
‘
Don
’
t forget to see if I have a letter, will you, Mokta? I shall look around eleven, but a letter may come before then.
’

‘
But today is Sunday.
’

‘
So it is.
’
Ingham was suddenly depressed.
‘
By the way, I can use a clean towel. Hassim took mine yesterday and forgot to bring a clean one.
’

‘
Ah, that Hassim! I am
sor
r
y
sir
! I
hope there are clean towels today. Yesterday we used them all.
’

Ingham nodded. Somebody was getting clean towels, anyway.

‘
And you know,
’
Mokta said, leaning gracefully against the door jamb,
‘
all the boys go to school
for
five
months
to learn hotel work? You would not believe it, would you?
’

‘
No.
’
Ingham buttered a piece of toast.

Ingham slept from twelve
until
one o
’
clock. He had written nine pages and he was pleased with his work. He took his car and drove to Bir Bou Rekba, a tiny town about seven
kilometres away, and had lunch at a simple
little
restaurant with a couple of tables out on the pavement. The wandering cats were skinnier, ribs showing, and all their tails were broken at a painful angle. Breaking cats
’
or kittens
’
tails was eviden
tl
y a minor sport in Tunisia. Most of the cats in Hammamet had broken tails, too. Ingham heard no French. He heard nothing that he could understand. It was appropriate, this environment, he thought, as the main character in his book lived half his time in a world unknown to his family and his business associates, a world known only to himself, really, because he couldn
’
t share with anyone the truth that he was appropriating money and forging cheques with three false signatures several times a month. Ingham sat in the sun dreaming, sipping chilled ros
é
, wishing
—
but not desperately at this moment
—
that time would pass a
little
faster so that he could have a word from Ina. What would her excuse be? Or maybe a letter from her had got lost, or maybe two had. Ingham had telephoned the Hotel du Golfe the day before yesterday, but not yesterday. He was sick of being told there wasn
’
t anything for him. And anyway, the Golfe was apparently forwarding reliably to the Reine. The sun made his face throb, and he felt as if he were being gen
tl
y broiled. He had never known the sun so close and big. People farther north didn
’
t know what the sun was like, he thought. This was the true sun, the ancient fire that seemed to reduce one
’
s lifespan to a second and one
’
s personal problems to a minuscule absurdity.

The dramas people invent I
Ingham thought. He felt a detached disgust for the whole human race.

A scruffy, emaciated cat looked at him pleadingly, but they had taken away Ingham
’
s plate of fish-with-fried-egg. Ingham tossed the inside of some bread on to the dusty cement. It was all he had. But the cat ate it, chewing patien
tl
y with its head turned sideways.

That afternoon, he worked again, and produced five pages.

Monday and Tuesday came and went without a letter from
Ina. Ingham worked. He avoided Adams. Ingham felt morose, and knew he would be bad company. In such a mood, he was apt to say something bitter. On Wednesday, when he would have liked to have dinner with Adams, he remembered that Adams had said he always spent Wednesday evenings alone. It seemed to be a law Adams had made for himself. Ingham ate in the hotel dining-room. The cruising American was still here, dining with a man tonight. Ingham nodded a greeting. He realized that he hadn
’
t answered Peter Langland
’
s letter. He wrote a letter that evening.

June 28, 19—

Dear Peter,

I thank you very much for your letter. I had not heard the news, as you know from my first letter, and matter of fact Ina hasn
’
t written me as yet. I was very sorry to hear about John, as I had thought like everyone else that he was doing well. I didn
’
t know him well, as you may know
—
for the past year, but not well. I had no idea he was in any kind of crisis.

In the next week, I
’
ll probably leave and go back to the States. This is undoubtedly the strangest expedition of my life. Not a word, either, from Miles Gallust, who was to be our producer.

Forgive this inadequate letter. I am frankly still dazed by
the
news.

Yours,

Howard Ingham

Peter Langland lived on Jane
S
treet. Ingham sealed the envelope. He had no stamps left. He would take the letter into Hammamet tomorrow morning.

In the bungalow fifteen feet behind Ingham
’
s, beyond some lemon trees, some French were saying good night. Ingham could hear them distinc
tl
y through
his open window.

‘
We
’
ll be in Paris in three days, you know. Give us a telephone call.
’

‘
But of course! Jacques! Come along! — He
’
s falling asleep standing up!
’

‘
Good night, sleep well!
’

‘
Sleep well!
’

It seemed very dark beyond his window. There was no moon.

The next day passed like the one before, and Ingham did eight pages. He knocked on Adams
’
s door at 5 p.m. to invite him for a drink, but Adams was not in. Ingham did not bother to look for him on the beach.

On the morning of 30th June, a Friday, a letter from Ina arrived in a CBS envelope. Mokta brought it. Ingham tore it open, in too much of a hurry to tip Mokta.

The letter was dated June 25th, and it said:

Howard dear,

I am sorry I have not written before. Peter Langland said he wrote you, in case you hadn
’
t heard about John, but it was in the Times (London) and the Trib in Paris, so we supposed you
’
d seen it in Tunisia. I am still so bouleversed, I can
’
t write just now, really. But I will in a day or so, I hope tomorrow. That
’
s a promise. Please forgive me. I hope you are all right.

My love,

Ina

The letter was typewritten. Ingham read it a second time. It wasn
’
t a letter at all. It made him a
little
angry. What was he supposed to do, sit here another week
until
she felt in the mood to write? Why was she
so bouleversed?
‘
We thought.
’
.’
Was she so close to Peter Langland? Had she and Peter been holding John
’
s hand in the hospital before John died? That was, assuming he had taken sleeping pills.

Ingham took a walk along the beach, plodding the same sand he had crossed so many times in quest of a letter from Ina. Maddening, he thought, her letter. She was the kind who could dash off a ten-line letter and give the facts, and
perhaps say,
‘
Details later,
’
but here there weren
’
t even any facts. It was unexpectedly heartless of her Ingham felt. She might have had the imagination to realize his position, sitting miles away, waiting. And why hadn
’
t she had time to write him in all the days before John did it? And this was the girl he intended to marry? Ingham smiled, and it was a relief. But he felt swimmy and lost, as if he floated in space. Yes, it was understood that they would marry. He had proposed in a casual way, the only way Ina would have liked. She hadn
’
t said,
‘
Oh,
y
es,
darling!
’
but it was understood. They might not marry for several months. It depended on their jobs and the finding of an apartment, perhaps, because sometimes Ina had to go to California for six weeks or so, but the point was—

His thoughts trailed off, cooked by the sun on his head, discouraged by the sheer effort of imagining New York
’
s unwritten conventions in this torrid Arabic land. Ingham remembered a story Adams had told him: an English girl had smiled, or maybe just stared too long, at an Arab, who had followed her along a dark beach and raped her. That had been the girl
’
s story. An Arab considered a girl
’
s stare a green light. The Tunisian government, to keep in good odour with the West, had made a big to-do, tried the man and given him a long sentence, which had been very soon commuted, however. The story was an absurdity, and Ingham laughed, causing a surprised glance from the two young men
—
they looked French
—
who were walking past with skin-diving gear just then.

In the afternoon, Ingham worked, but did only three pages. He was fidgety.

That evening, he had dinner with the man in levis. Ingham had found him in the
Café
de la Plage, where he went to have a drink at eight o
’
clock. The man spoke to him first. Again the German police dog was with him. He was a Dane and spoke excellent English with a slight English accent. His name was Anders Jensen. He said he lived in a rented apartment in a street across from Melik
’
s. Ingham
tried the
boukhah
which Jensen was drinking. It was a little like
grappa
or
tequila.

Ingham was in a rather tight-lipped mood, so far as giving information about himself went, but Jensen did not pump him. Ingham replied, to a question from Jensen, that he was a writer and taking a month
’
s vacation. Jensen was a painter. He looked thirty or thirty-two.

‘
In Copenhagen I had a breakdown
.’
Jensen said with a tired, dry smile. He was lean and tan with light straight hair and a strangely absent, drifting expression in his blue eyes, as if he were not paying full attention to anything around him.
‘
My doctor
—
a psychiatrist
—
told me to go somewhere in the sun. I
’
ve been here for eight months
.’

‘
Are you comfortable where you are?
’
Jensen had said his place was simple, and he looked capable of roughing it, so Ingham supposed the house was primitive indeed.
‘
Good conditions for painting, I mean?
’

‘
The light is splendid
.’
Jensen said.
‘
Hardly any furniture, but there never is. They rent you a house, you know, and you say,
“
Where
’
s the bed? Where
’
s a chair? Where
’
s a table, for Christ
’
s sake?
”
They say that will come tomorrow. Or next week. The truth is, they don
’
t use furniture. They sleep on mats and fold their clothing on the floor. Or drop it. But I have a bed at least. And I made a table out of boxes and a couple of boards I picked up on the street.
—
They broke my dog
’
s leg. He
’
s just getting over the limp
.’

‘
Really?
—
Why?
’
Ingham asked, shocked.

‘
Oh, they just threw a big rock. They dropped it out of a window, I think. Waited their chance when Hasso was lying in the shade by a house across the street. They love to hurt animals, you know. And maybe a thorough-bred dog like Hasso is more tempting than an ordinary dog to them.
’
He patted the dog who was sitting by his chair.
‘
Hasso
’
s still nervous from it. He hates Arabs. Crooked Arabs.
’
Again the distant but amused smile.
‘
I
’
m g
la
d he
’
s obedient, or he
’
d tear the trousers off twelve a day around here
.’

Ingham laughed.
“
There
’
s one in red pants and a turban I
’
d like to paste. He haunts my car all the time. Whenever it
’
s parked around here.
’

Jensen lifted a finger.
‘
I know him. Abdullah. A real bastard. Do you know, I saw him robbing a car just two streets from here in the middle of an afternoon?
’
Jensen laughed with delight, but almost silently. He had handsome white teeth.
‘
And no one does anything!
’

‘
Was he stealing a suitcase?
’

‘
Clothing of some kind, I think. He can always flog that in the market.
—
I think I shall not stay here much longer because of Hasso. If they hit him again, they may kill him. Anyway, it
’
s an inferno of heat here in August.
’

They got into a second
bottle
of wine. Melik
’
s was quiet. Only two other tables were occupied, by Arabs, all men.

‘
You like to take vacations alone?
’
Jensen asked.

‘
Yes. I suppose I do.
’

‘
So you are not writing now?
’

‘
Well, yes, I
’
ve started a book. I
’
ve worked harder in my life, but I
’
m working.
’

By midnight, Ingham was on his way with Jensen to have a look at Jensen
’
s apartment. It was in a small white house with a door on the street which was closed by a padlock. Jensen turned on the feeblest of electric lights, and they climbed a naked white
—
but grimy
—
stairs without a banister. There was the smell of a toilet somewhere. Jensen had the next floor, which consisted of one good-sized room, and the floor above, which had two smaller rooms. A conf
u
sion of canvases leaned against the walls and lay on tables of the box-and-board variety Jensen had described. In one of the upstairs rooms, there was a little gas stove with two burners. There was one chair which neither of them took. They sat on the floor. Jensen poured red wine.