Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (20 page)

‘
The nice thing is, half the time they manage to get themselves killed, one way or another. Do you know Abdulla couldn
’
t even walk in the
little
street where I live? The Arabs chased him out with stones. You call him a loss? That
walking bag of rags and
—
’
Jensen couldn
’
t think of a word
‘
Merde,
’
he said finally.

Ingham glanced at Jensen, trying to convey that he didn
’
t want Jensen to go too far. Jensen knew that, of course, but Ingham could practically feel the heat of Jensen
’
s boiling blood across the table.

“
All
people can be improved, given a chance at a new way of life
.’
said OWL.

If you
’
ll forgive me, I won
’
t be alive to see much of it, and while I
’
m here I prefer to trust to my own experience and my own eyes,
’
said Jensen.
“
When I came here about a year ago, I had quite a wardrobe. I had suitcases, cuff-links, a good easel. I was renting a private house in Sidi Bou Said, that picturesque, immaculate little village of blue and white houses
’
—
Jensen waved a hand airily
—
‘
noted for delicately wrought bird-cages, for its coffee-houses where you can
’
t get an honest drink for love nor money, a town where you can
’
t buy a bottle of wine in a shop. They cleaned me out there, even took a lot of my landlord
’
s furniture. All my canvases. I wonder what they did with them? After that, I decided to live like a beatnik, and maybe I wouldn
’
t get robbed again
.’

‘
Oh, bad luck,
’
said Adams sympathetically.
’
Your dog — He didn
’
t guard the house?
’

‘
Hasso at that time was at a vet
’
s in Tunis. Somebody had thrown hot water on his back. He was in pain, and I wanted to make sure the hair would grow back.
—
Oh, no, I don
’
t think these mongrels would come into any house if Hasso was there. They knew he was gone for a few days.
’

‘
Good God,
’
Ingham said. The story depressed him. No use asking if Jensen ever found out who robbed him, Ingham supposed. No one ever found out.

‘
You cannot fight or change an enormous tide,
’
Jensen said with a sigh.
‘
You must give it up, become reconciled. And yet I am human enough
—
yes,
human
—
to be glad when one of them gets what he gave. I mean Abdullah.
’

OWL looked a little squelched.
‘
Yes. Well, maybe
the boys at the hotel did finish him off. But—
’
Adams glanced at Ingham.
“
That night, the boys didn
’
t leave their bunks
until
they heard someone yell. I think he was killed by that one blow, whatever it was
’
.

A blow now, not a bump. An insane amusement, perhaps caused by tension, made Ingham set his teeth.

‘
Maybe one of his own people stabbed him,
’
Jensen said and gave a titter.
‘
Maybe two Arabs were after the same house I
’
Now Jensen sat sideways, threw an arm over the back of his chair, and laughed. He was looking at Adams.

Adams looked surprised.
‘
What do you know about it?
’
Adams asked.
‘
Do you know something?
’

‘
I don
’
t think I would say if I did,
’
Jensen said.
‘
And do you know why? Because it just
—
doesn
’
t
—
matter.
’
With the last two words, he tapped a cigarette on the table, then lit it.
‘
We speculate about Abdullah
’
s death as if he were President Kennedy. I don
’
t think he
’
s quite that important.
’

This quietened Adams, but it was a resentful silence, Ingham could tell. Jensen daydreamed and brooded, speaking, when he did speak, in monosyllables. Ingham was sorry Jensen had made his personal resentments seem resentments against Adams. And Ingham felt that Adams had guessed that he had told Jensen something about that night that he had not told to Adams. Adams knew, too, that Ingham was essentially in accord with Jensen
’
s outlook on life, which was not exactly OWL in nature.

They drove to the Plage in Ingham
’
s car. Ingham had thought Adams would prefer to say good night when they left the Reine
’
s dining-room, but he did not. Jensen now stood the drinks.

‘
A bitter young man. It
’
s too bad all that happened to him,
’
Adams said when Jensen was at the bar ordering.

They were sitting at a table. Again, it was hard to talk in the place. Livened by wine and beer, the shouted conversations now and then exploded in startling whoops and roars.
‘I’m
sure he
’
ll get over it
—
when he gets back to Denmark.
’

Ingham had thought Jensen might ask Adams to come to his house and see his paintings, but Jensen did not. Adams would have come, Ingham was sure. They left after the single round of drinks.

‘I’ll
be seeing you!
’
Ingham said to Jensen on the road.

‘
A
bient
ô
t
.
Thank you very much for dinner. Good night, Francis
.’

‘
Good night, good night,
’
said Adams.

Silence as they drove back to the Reine. Ingham felt Adams
’
s thoughts turning. Ingham put his car up near Adams
’
s bungalow. Adams asked if he would like to come in for a nightcap.

‘
I think I
’
m a
little
tired tonight, thanks.
’

‘I’
d sort of like to speak with you for a minute.
’

Ingham came with him. The bungalow headquarters was silent and dark. The side door, where the kitchen was, stood open for air. To the left of the kitchen was the room where ten or twelve boys slept. Ingham declined another drink, but he sat down, on the edge of the sofa this time, elbows on his knees. Adams lit a cigarette and walked slowly up and down.

‘
I just have the feeling, if you
’
ll forgive me
—
that you
’
re not telling the truth about that night. You
needn
’
t
forgive me for asking, if you don
’
t want to.
’
He smiled, not so pouchily, and in fact it was not a real smile.
‘I’
ve been frank with you, you know, about my tapes. You
’
re the only person in Tunisia who knows. Because you
’
re a writer and an intellectual and an honest man.
’
He cocked his head for emphasis.

Ingham disliked being called an intellectual. He was silent, and for too long, he felt.

‘
First of all,
’
Adams said, ever so gen
tl
y,
‘
it
’
s funny you wouldn
’
t have opened your door or at least listened that night after hearing that yell. And since it was on your terrace
—
what am I supposed to think?
’

Ingham sat back. There was a comfortable pillow to lean back against, but he did not feel comfortable. He felt he was fighting a silly duel. What Adams said was true. He couldn
’
t
continue lying without obviously lying. Ingham wished very much he could claim some kind of diplomatic immunity for the moment, put off an answer at least
until
tomorrow. His real problem was, he did not know the importance of whatever he might say. If he told the truth, for instance, would Adams say anything to the police? What would happen then?
‘
I forgive you for asking
.’
Ingham began, a statement whose falseness he realized as soon as he had uttered it. He could have gone on,
Do you mind if I reserve the right… After all, you
’
re not the police.
It happened that night as I told you. You can call me a coward for not opening the door, I suppose.
’

Now Adams
’
s smile was paunchy, the shiny
little
squirrel again. CI simply don
’
t believe you
—
if you
’
ll forgive me,
’
he said, even more gen
tl
y.
‘
You can trust me. I want to
know
’

Ingham felt his face grow warm. It was a combination of anger and embarrassment.

‘
I can see you
’
re not telling the whole story. You
’
ll feel better if you tell me,
’
Adams said.
‘
I know.
’

Ingham had a brief impulse to jump up and sock him. Was he a Father Confessor? Or just an old snoop? Holier-than-thou, whatever he was.
‘
If you
’
ll forgive me,
’
Ingham said, CI don
’
t see I
’
m under any obligation to tell you anything. Why are you quizzing me?
’

Adams chuckled.
‘
No, Howard, you
’
re not under an obligation. But you can
’
t throw off your American heritage just because you
’
ve spent a few weeks in Africa.
’

‘
American heritage?
’

‘
You can
’
t laugh it off, either. You weren
’
t brought up like these Arabs.
’

‘
I didn
’
t say I was.
’

Adams went to the kitchen.

Ingham stood up and followed him.
‘
I really don
’
t want a drink, thanks. If I may, I
’
ll use your John.
’

‘
Go ahead! just here to the right,
’
Adams said, happy to be able to offer something. He put on the light.

Ingham had never been in Adams
’
s bathroom before. He faced a mirror, and rather than look at himself, opened the medicine cabinet and stared into it as he made use of the toilet. Toothpaste, shaving cream, aspirin, Entero-Vioform, a lot of little bottles with yellow pills. Everything neat as an old maid. The tubes of things had American brand names like Colgate
’
s, Squibb
’
s and so forth. Jensen wouldn
’
t take this load of crap, Ingham told himself, and he flushed the toilet and left the bathroom with a self-assured air. By load of crap, he meant his American heritage. Just precisely what did that mean?

Adams was seated in the straight chair at his desk, but turned sideways so that he faced Ingham, who was again on the sofa.
“
The reason I sound so positive,
’
Adams began affably, smiling a little, his bluish eyes terribly alert now,
‘
is because I talked with the people in the cottage behind you. They
’
re French, a middle-aged couple. They heard the yell that night
—
and a clatter of some kind like something falling, and then they heard a door slam. Your door.
—
It must
’
ve been you who closed it.
’

Ingham shrugged.
‘
Why not somebody in another bungalow?
’

‘
They
’
re positive where the sound came from.
’
Adams was using the dogged, argumentative tone that Ingham had heard on his tapes.
‘
Did you hit him with something that made a clatter?
’

Ingham now felt only a faint warmth in his cheeks. He thought he was as deadpan as a corpse. Is there
any
purpose
in your asking me all this? Why?
’

‘
I like to know the truth about a story. I think Abdullah
’
s dead.
’