Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (17 page)

… He had travelled far in the Old and New Worlds; in him I recognized once again that simple mind of the sailor or wanderer who learns, as he goes along, to talk and think decen
tl
y; who, instead of gathering fresh encumbrances on Life
’
s journey, wisely discards even those he set out with
.
[
Fountains in the Sand
by Norman Douglas. 1912
]

That appealed very much to Ingham now. Miss Darby was certainly not one of his encumbrances, but Ina might be. A terrible thought, in a way, because he had considered her
—
for a year at least
—
a part of his life. He had counted on her. And knowing himself, Ingham knew he had not had the whole reaction he would have, a
little
later, from her letter. The curious thing, the comforting thing was that Africa would help him to bear it better
—
if he was going to have any bad reaction. It was strange, he couldn
’
t explain it, to be floating like a foreign particle (which he was) in the vastness of Africa, but to be absolutely sure that Africa would enable him to bear things better.

He decided not to think about his letter to Ina, the letter he would write in a few days. Let her wait, say, five or six days, ten including the time the letter would take to get there. She had made him wait a month.

Ingham went over to say good-bye to OWL.

OWL was washing his flippers in the kitchen sink. He shook his flippers neatly, like a woman shaking out a dishcloth, and stood them upside down on the draining-board. They looked seal-like, but somehow as repellent as Adams
’
s feet.

‘I’m
going away for a couple of days,
’
Ingham said.

‘
Going away where?
’

Ingham told him. He did not mention Jensen.

‘
Are you giving up your bungalow?
’

‘
No. I wasn
’
t sure I could get it back.
’

‘
No, you
’
re right. Would you like a drink?
’

1 wouldn
’
t mind a beer, if you have one.
’

‘
Got six, ice cold,
’
Adams said cheerfully, and got a can from the refrigerator. Adams made himself a Scotch.
‘
You know, I found out a little something today,
’
he said as they went into the living-room.
‘
I think
—
I
’
m pretty sure —
’
Adams looked around at the windows, as if for eavesdroppers, but because of the air-conditioning, his windows were all shut, even all the shutters closed except the one behind
Ingham
’
s chair where there was no sun.
‘
I think I know who the prowler was the other night.
‘
Abdullah. The old Arab with the cane. The one you said stole your jacket or something
.’

“
Oh. One of the boys told you?
’

‘
No, I heard it in town
.’
Adams said with a faintly satisfied air, as if he were in the secret service and had ferreted out something.

Ingham
’
s heart had tripped. He hoped he did not look pale, because he felt pale.

‘
At the Plage
.’
Adams continued,
‘
they were talking about
“
Abdull
”
, a couple of Arabs at the bar. There
’
re lots of Abdullahs, but I saw the barman give the fellows a sign to pipe down, because of me. They know I
’
m at the Reine. I understood enough of what they said to know he was
“
gone
”
or
“
disappeared
”
. I wanted to ask them about him, because something had just made a connection in my mind. I didn
’
t ask, I didn
’
t want to butt in. But I remembered seeing Abdullah by the curio shop near the hotel here Friday night. It was a night I drove into Hammamet around eight to have dinner. I
’
d never seen the old fellow around here before, so I remembered it. And I noticed yesterday and today, he wasn
’
t around town. I was in Hammamet three times lately, and he wasn
’
t around, not since Friday. It
’
s
strange?
Adams looked at Ingham, his head a
little
cocked.

Silence for a few seconds.

‘
Well, won
’
t somebody report him missing?
’
Ingham asked.
‘
Won
’
t the police do something?
’

‘
Oh
—
his neighbours might miss him. I presume he
’
s got a room to sleep somewhere, probably with six other people. I doubt if he
’
s got a wife and family. Would a neighbour go to the police?
’
Adams pondered this.
‘
I doubt that. They
’
re fatalistic.
Mekioubl
It is the will of Allah that Abdullah should disappear! Voil
à
! It
’
s a far cry from the American Way, isn
’
t it?
’

Jensen
was punctual the next morning, standing on the road near the narrow alley, with a brown suitcase at his feet. He wore pale green cotton trousers,
neatly
pressed. Ingham pulled up a bit past Melik
’
s on the other side of the road, and Jensen walked over. Ingham helped him stow the suitcase in the back of the car. They had plenty of room, even with Jensen
’
s knapsack and dangling gear of cooking-stove and pots.

€
You know, Anders, you ought to put on shorts
.’
Ingham said.
‘
It
’
s going to be a hot drive. You ought to save those good pants
.’
He spoke gen
tl
y, always afraid somehow to hurt Jensen
’
s feelings.

‘
All right
.’
Jensen said, like a willing, polite
little
boy.
‘I’ll
change up in Melik
’
s loo.
’
Jensen opened his suitcase and dragged out a pair of shorts made from old levis. He went up the steps to Melik
’
s.

Ingham stood outside his car and lit a cigarette.

Jensen was back in a moment. He had lean brown legs with golden hairs. He put his trousers away carefully in his suitcase.

Ingham took the road southward, along
the
sea. The morning was still cool. The emptiness of the clear blue sky seemed to promise a reward, or pleasure, ahead of them. In a quarter of an hour they reached Bou Ficha, a village, and in about the same time something larger called Enfidaville. Jensen held the map. The road was good to Sousse. They did not stop at Sousse even for a coffee, but went on southward on the shorter inland route towards Sfax, where they intended to have a late lunch. Jensen reeled off the names:

‘
Msaken next… Bourdjine .
.. Amphitheatre! Weill No, that
’
s not a town, it
’
s a
fact. They have one. Probably Roman.
’

‘
I find it amazing,
’
Ingham said,
‘
there
’
s so little remains of the Romans, Greeks, Turks and so forth. Carthage was a disappointment. I expected it to be so much bigger.
’

‘
No doubt it has been pillaged a thousand times,
’
Jensen said with resignation.

In Sfax, where they lunched at a very decent restaurant with pavement tables, Jensen was of great interest to a boy of about twelve. At least that was the way Ingham saw it. He hadn
’
t seen Jensen make a single inviting move. The boy hung around, smiling broadly, rolling big dark eyes, leaning against a metal pole some six feet away. At last the boy spoke to Jensen, and Jensen murmured something that sounded bored in Arabic. The boy giggled.

‘
I asked him,
’
said Jensen,
‘
do I look like I have a millime? Scram!
’

Ingham laughed. The boy was rather handsome, but dirty.

‘
They don
’
t bother you?
’
Jensen asked.

One had approached him in Tunis, but he said,
‘
No, not yet.
’

‘
L
ittle
bores. L
ittle
nuisances,
’
Jensen said, as if he spoke of a minor vice of his own which he could not shake.

Ingham anticipated that Jensen might find a boy or two on this trip. He thought it might pick Jensen up.
‘
How much money do they want, usually?
’

‘
Oh!
’
Jensen laughed.
‘
You can get them for a packet of cigarettes. Half a packet.
’

They made it easily to Gabes by 6 p.m., even stopping for half an hour at a town called Cekhira for a swim. It was the hottest time of the afternoon, just after three o
’
clock. They stepped out of the already oven
-
like car, which had been lumbering over sandy soil towards the beach, into something worse, a bigger oven. Ingham changed as fast as possible into swimming trunks, while standing at one side of the car. There was no living thing in sight. What could have stood
the heat? They ran down to the sea and jumped in. The water was refreshing to Ingham, though Jensen said the water was not cold enough. Jensen was an excellent swimmer, and could stay under water for so long that Ingham grew alarmed at one point. Jensen swam in his shorts. When they came back to the car, the door handles were too hot to touch. Ingham had to take off his trunks and use them to grip the handle. In the car, Jensen sat in his wet shorts on a towel.

Gabes was Ingham
’
s first view of the desert, stretching inland to the west behind the town, flat and yellow-orange in the light of the setting sun. The town was quite big, but the buildings were not all jammed together as at Sousse or Sf ax. There were spaces through which one could see distant palm trees with fronds stirring in the breeze. It was not so warm as Ingham had feared. They found a second-class hotel, which was respectable enough to be listed in Ingham
’
s
Guide Bleu,
however. Jensen was a
little
proud about paying his way, and Ingham did not want to let him in for much expense. It would be odd, Ingham thought, if Jensen were really quite well off, and had simply decided to rough it for a while. That could go, Ingham supposed, as far as buying a cheap brown suitcase to begin with, and if one roughed it long enough, the suitcase could look like Jensen
’
s at this moment. Ingham didn
’
t care one way or the other. He found Jensen a good travelling companion, uncomplaining, interested in everything, and willing to do anything Ingham proposed.

Only Ingham
’
s room had a toilet and shower. Jensen took a shower in Ingham
’
s room. Then they both went out to walk around the town. The jasmine sellers were here, too. The oversweet scent had become the scent of Tunisia to Ingham
—
its cosmetic scent, at any rate
—
as certain scents evoked certain women. Lotte
’
s had been Le Dandy. Ingham could not think of the name of Ina
’
s now, though he had bought some for her once or twice in New York. He
certainly could not recollect how it smelt. The olfactory memory might be long and primitive, ante-dating words, but it seemed one couldn
’
t call up a smell in memory as one could call up a word or a line of poetry.