Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (19 page)

‘
Well
—
Adams knows it was Abdullah. He knows since a couple of days, because of something he heard in the Plage. About Abdullah being gone, missing or something. Adams
heard someone yell that night. Not only that, but one of the boys told Adams the Arab was on my terrace.
’

‘
But where did you lie?
’

1 told Adams I
’
d heard a yell, but I said I didn
’
t know anything about it. I didn
’
t even admit I
’
d got out of bed
.’

‘
Just as well
.’
Jensen said, and paused to light a cigarette.

What do you think
’ll
happen if he
’
s dead?
Ingham wanted to ask, but he waited for Jensen to speak.

Jensen took so long, Ingham thought he was not going to speak, or was thinking of something else
—
maybe because the story was so commonplace, it did not much interest him.

cIf I were you, I
’
d forget about it. You can
’
t tell what happened,
’
Jensen said.

It was vaguely comforting. Ingham realized he needed a great deal of reassurance.

1 hope you got him,
’
Jensen said in a slow voice.
‘
That particular Arab was a swine. I like to think you got him, because it makes up a little for my dog
—
just a little. However, Abdullah wasn
’
t worth my dog.
’

Ingham felt suddenly better.
‘
That
’
s true.
’

They lay down again, face down, faces buried in their sweatered arms for warmth. Jensen had blown the fire out.

It
was Friday, July 28th, before they got back to Hammamet. They had visited the city of Medinine and the island of Djerba. They had roughed it in a small town with no hotel, sleeping in a room above a restaurant where they had eaten. Ingham, like Jensen, had shaved every other day. In
Metouia, an ancient town near Gabes where they stopped for coffee one afternoon, Jensen found a boy of about fourteen whom he liked, and went off with him, after asking Ingham if he minded waiting a few minutes. Jensen was back after only ten minutes, smiling, carrying a woollen mat with a black and red pattern. Jensen said the boy had taken him to his house, in no room of which had there been any privacy. Jensen had made him accept five hundred millimes, and the boy had stolen the mat behind his mother
’
s back, in order to give Jensen something. The boy said his mother had woven it, but did not receive five hundred millimes from the shopkeeper to whom she sold her mats.
‘
He
’
s a nice boy. I
’
m sure he
’
ll give the money to his mother,
’
Jensen said. The story lingered in Jensen
’
s mind, pleasantly. What had the mother thought of Jensen
’
s coming home with her son, or did it happen a couple of times a day ? And what did it matter if it did?

When Ingham returned to his bungalow, the neat blue and white cleanliness seemed to have a personality of its own, to be on guard, and to hold something unhappy. Absurd, Ingham thought. He simply hadn
’
t seen anything comfortable for five solid days. But the distaste for the bungalow persisted. There were four or five letters, only two of which interested him: a contract by his agent for a Norwegian
edition of
The Game of ‘If’
, and a letter from Reggie Muldaven
, a friend in New York. Reggie was a free-lance journalist, married, with a small daughter, and he was working on a novel. He asked Ingham how long he was going to be in Tunisia, and what was he doing there since Castlewood
’
s suicide?
How is Ina} I haven
’
t seen her in a month or so, and I only said hello in a restaurant that time
…
Reggie knew Ina pretty well, however, well enough to have rung her and talked with her. Ingham was sure Reggie was being diplomatic in saying nothing more about her. Ingham felt sure that people like Reggie would have heard about John
’
s relationship with Ina. People always wanted to know the reasons for a suicide, and kept asking questions
until
they found out.

Ingham unpacked, showered and shaved. He moved slowly, thinking of other things. He was to pick up Jensen at eight o
’
clock, and they were going to have dinner in the hotel dining-room. It was now six-thirty.

He remembered the letter he owed to Ina, and when he had dressed, he sat down and began it in longhand, not that he was in the mood, but because he did not want it hanging over his head any longer.

July 28, 19—

Dear Ina,

Yes, your letter was rather a surprise. I had not known things had gone so far, shall we say. But no hard feelings here. Typewriter is being repaired, so I don
’
t write this with my usual ease.

Of course I don
’
t see why we shouldn
’
t see each other again, if we both wish to. And of course I understand that, from your point of view, I perhaps seemed lukewarm. I was cautious, no doubt about that. I have a past, you
’
re familiar with it, and it wasn
’
t and hasn
’
t been easy to get through
—I
mean this past year and a half
until
I met you and began to love you. And when was that? Nearly a year ago. The whole time, now a year and eight months (since
my divorce) seems a sort of prolonged nightmare without sleep (matter of fact I did not sleep well for nearly a year, as I
’
ve told you, and even after meeting
you)
but I hate to think what it would have been if I had not met you at all. You at least lifted me back among the living, you lifted my morale more than I can ever say. You made me realize that someone could care for me again, and that I could care for someone. I
’
ll always be grateful. You might even have saved my life, who knows, because even though I was able to work always, I was going downhill mentally, losing a
little
weight and so forth. How long could that have lasted?

That was not bad, Ingham thought, and it was certainly sincere. He continued:

I’
ve just got back from a five-day trip south in the car. Gabes (oasis), camel rides, the island of Djerba. Much desert. It changes one
’
s thinking. I think it makes people see things more clearly, or not so close up. More
simply
,
perhaps. Let us not take all this so seriously. Don
’
t feel guilty for what happened. If you
’
ll forgive me, I must tell you that I was laughing one night at the thought that:
“
John sacrificed his love for Ina on the altar of Howard
’
s bed.
’
Somehow this had me in stitches.

He was interrupted by a knock. It was OWL.

‘
Well, hello! Greetings!
’
Ingham said as heartily as OWL usually greeted him.

‘
Greetings to you! When did you get back? I saw your car.
’

‘
Around five. Come in and have a drink.
’

‘
No, you
’
re working.
’

‘
I
’
m only writing a letter.
’
Ingham persuaded Adams in, then at once became aware of his absent typewriter.
‘
Sit down somewhere. Anywhere.
’
Ingham went into the kitchen. He
was glad the boys had not cut the refrigerator off, so there was ice.

‘
Whereabouts did you go?
’
Adams asked.

Ingham told him, and told about the freezing night on the desert, when he had got up at 5 a.m. and stomped around to get warm.

‘
By the way, I went with Anders Jensen, the Danish fellow
.’

‘
Oh, did you? Is he a nice fellow?
’

Ingham didn
’
t know what Adams meant by
‘
nice
’
. Maybe it included Jensen
’
s politics.
‘
He
’
s good company,
’
Ingham said.
‘
He still can
’
t find his dog. He
’
s sure the Arabs got him, and he
’
s a
little
bitter about that. I can
’
t blame him
.’

It got to be seven-thirty. Ingham replenished Adams
’
s drink, then his own.
‘
I
’
m meeting Anders at eight and we
’
re going to have dinner at the hotel. Would you like to join us, Francis?
’

OWL brightened.
‘
Why, yes, thanks.
’

Ingham and Jensen found Adams in the hotel bar a little after eight o
’
clock. They stood at the bar and had a Scotch. Ingham noticed that the cash register showed the alarming figure of 480.00. A bang from a waiter, and the figure jumped to
850
.00. Ingham leaned closer and saw that the register had been made in Chicago. It was registering millimes, and the dollar sign had been removed.

Jensen and OWL chatted pleasantly. Ingham had asked Jensen if everything had been all right at his house, and everything had, except that there was no news about his dog. Jensen said he had spoken to the Arab people next door, with whom he was on good terms.

Jensen ate like a starved wolf, though his table manners, in this ambience, were perfect. They had
kebab t
un
is
i
en,
kidneys on a skewer. Ingham ordered a second bottle of ros
é
. The blonde Frenchwoman and her small son were still here, Ingham noticed, but otherwise most of the people had changed since he had last been in the dining-room.

‘
There
’
s still no sign of Abdullah
.’
Adams said to Ingham in a lull in the conversation.

‘
And
tant
—
mieux?
Jensen said firmly.

‘
Oh, you know about Abdullah?
’
Adams asked.

Ingham and Jensen were opposite each other. Adams sat at one end of the table, between them, partly in the path of waiters.

‘
Howard told me the story
.’
Jensen said.

Ingham shifted and kicked Jensen deliberately with his right foot under the table, but since Adams looked quickly at Ingham at this moment, Ingham was not sure he had not kicked Adams.

‘
Yes, you know it happened right outside Howard
’
s bungalow. I think the fellow was killed,
’
Adams said to Jensen.

Jensen gave Ingham a quick, amused glance.
‘
And so what? One less thief in this town. Plenty more to go.
’

‘
Well —
’
Adams tried to smile with good humou
r
.
‘
He was still a human being. You can
’
t just —
’

‘
That could be debated,
’
Jensen said.
‘
What makes a human being? The fact something walks on two legs instead of four?
’

‘
Why, no. Not merely,
’
Adams said.
‘
There
’
s the brain.
’

Jensen said calmly, buttering yet another bit of bread,
‘
I think Abdullah used his exclusively for thinking about how to get his hands on other people
’
s property.
’

Adams managed a chuckle.
‘
That doesn
’
t make him any less a human being.
’

‘
Any
less
? Why not? It makes him exac
tl
y that,
’
Jensen replied.

‘
If we started figuring that way, we
’
d just kill everybody who annoyed us,
’
Adams said.
‘
That wouldn
’
t quite do, as
the
English say.
’