Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (28 page)

Ingham thought Jensen had done quite well that evening, and waited for Ina to say something favourable, but she did not.
‘
Want to take a walk along the beach?
’
he asked.
‘
What kind of shoes are you wearing?
’
He looked under the table.

‘I’ll
go barefoot.
—
Yes, I
’
d like that.
’

Ingham
paid the bill. Jensen had left eight
hundred
millimes.

The sand on the beach was pleasantly warm. Ingham carried Ina
’
s shoes and his own. There was no moon. They held hands, as much to stay together in the darkness as for pleasure, Ingham thought.

‘
You
’
re a little triste tonight
.’
Ingham said.
‘
Does Anders depress you?
’

‘
Well, he
’
s not the soul of mirth, is he?
—
No, I was thinking about Joey.
’

‘
How is he
—
really?
’
It gave Ingham a twinge of pain to ask it, and yet he felt the question sounded heartless.

‘
He has times when he
’
s so uncomfortable, he can
’
t sleep. I don
’
t mean he
’
s any worse.
’
Ina spoke quickly, then was silent a few seconds.
‘
I think he should marry. But he won
’
t.
’

‘
I understand. He
’
s thinking of Louise.
—
Is she really intelligent?
’

‘
Yes. And she knows all about the disease.
’
Ina
’
s steps grew more plodding in the sand, then she stopped and flexed the toes of one foot.
‘
The funny thing
—
the awful thing is, he thinks he loves me
.’

Her grip on his hand was light, no grip at all. Ingham pressed her fingers.
‘
How do you mean?
’
They were almost whispering.

‘
Just that. I don
’
t know about sexually. That
’
s ridiculous. But it seems to force anybody else out of his
—
affections or life or whatever. He should marry Louise. It isn
’
t impossible that he could have children, you know
.’

I
’
m sure
.’
said Ingham, though he hadn
’
t been sure.

Ina looked down at her feet.
‘
It doesn
’
t
exactly
give me the creeps, but it worries me
.’

‘
Oh, darling!
’
Ingham put his arm around her.
‘
What
—
what does he say to you?
’

‘
He says
—
oh, that he can
’
t ever feel for another woman what he feels for me. Things like that. He
’
s not always mopey about it. Just the opposite. He
’
s cheerful when he says it. The thing is, I know it
’
s true.
’

‘
You ought to get out of that house, darling.
—
You know,
the
house is big enough for you to get someone to live in, if Joey needs—
’

‘
Oh, Mom could take care of him
.’
Ina said, interrupting him.
‘
Anything he needs
—
and it
’
s really only making his bed. Matter of fact, he
’
s done that several times. He can even get in and out of the tub.
’
She laughed tensely.

Yes. Joey had his own quarters on the ground floor, Ingham remembered.
‘
You should still get out, Ina.
—
Darling, I didn
’
t know what was troubling you tonight, but I knew something was.
’

She faced him.
‘
I
’
ll tell you something funny, Howard. I
’
ve started going to church. Just the last two or three months.
’

‘
Well
—I
don
’
t suppose it
’
s funny,
’
Ingham said, though he was thoroughly surprised.

‘
It is, because I don
’
t believe in any of it. But it gives me comfort to see all those
—
greyheads, mostly, listening and singing away and getting some kind of comfort from it. You know what I mean? And it
’
s just for an hour, every Sunday.
’
Her voice was uncertain with tears now.

‘
Oh,
darling?
Ingham held her close for a minute. A great unspeakable emotion rose in him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 1 have never,
’
he said softly,
‘
felt such a tenderness for anyone as I do for you
—
this minute.
’

She gave one sob against his shoulder, then pushed herself back, swept the hair back from her forehead.
‘
Let
’
s go back.
’

They began walking towards
the
town, towards the palely floodlit fortress
—
monument of some battle plainly lost, at some time, or else the Spaniards would be there.

Ingham said,
‘
I wish you
’
d talk to me more about it. About everything. Whenever you feel like it. Now or anytime.
’

But she was silent now.

She must get out of that house, Ingham thought. It was a cheerful-looking house, nothing gloomy or clinging-to-the-past about it, but to Ingham it was now a most unhealthy
house. It was now that he should propose something positive, he thought. But it was not the moment to ask if she would marry him. He said suddenly, stubbornly,
‘
I wish
we
lived together somewhere in New York
.’

Rather to his surprise and disappointment, she made no answer at all.

Only near his car, she said,
‘I’m
not much good tonight. Can you take me back to the hotel, darling?
’

‘
But of course.
’

At the hotel, he kissed her good night, and said he would find her somewhere after her tour of the fortress with Jensen. When he got home, Jensen
’
s light was off, and Ingham hesitated in the court, wanting very much to waken him and speak with him. Then Jensen
’
s light came on, as Ingham was staring at his window.

‘
It
’
s me,
’
Ingham said.

Jensen leaned on the sill. CI wasn
’
t asleep. What time is it?
’
he asked through a yawn.

‘
About midnight. Can I see you for a minute? I
’
ll come up.
’

Jensen merely pushed himself back from the sill, sleepily. Ingham ran up the outside stairs.

Jensen was in his levi shorts, which fitted his thin frame loosely.
‘
Something happen?
’

‘
No. I just wanted to say
—
or to ask
—I
hope you won
’
t say anything tomorrow to Ina about Abdullah. You see, I told her the story I told Adams, that I didn
’
t even open my door.
’

‘
No. Well, all right.
’

‘
I think it might shock her,
’
Ingham said.
‘
And just now she has problems of her own. Her brother
—
the one she was talking about who
’
s a cripple. It
’
s depressing for her.
’

Jensen lit a cigarette.
‘
All right. I understand.
’

‘
You didn
’
t tell her anything already, did you?
’

‘
What do you mean?
’

It was always so vague to Jensen and so clear to Ingham.
“
That I threw the thing that killed him
—
my typewriter
.’

‘
No, I didn
’
t say that. Not at all
.’

‘
Then don
’
t please
.’

‘
All right. You don
’
t have to worry
.’

In spite of Jensen
’
s casualness, Ingham knew he could count on him, because when Jensen had said,
‘
It just
—
doesn
’
t
—
matter,
’
he meant it.
‘
The fact is
—
and I admit it
—
I
’
m ashamed of having done it
.’

‘
Ashamed? Nonsense. Catholic nonsense. Rather, Protestant
.’
Jensen leaned back on his bed and swung his brown legs up on the blanket.

‘
But I
’
m not particularly a Protestant. I
’
m not anything
.’

‘
Ashamed yourself
—
or of what other people might think of you?
’

There was a hint of contempt in
‘
other people
’
.
‘
What other people might think,
’
Ingham answered. The other people were only Adams and Ina, Ingham was thinking. He expected Jensen to point this out, but Jensen was silent.

‘
You can count on me. I won
’
t say anything. Don
’
t take it so seriously
.’
Jensen put his feet on the floor in order to reach an ashtray.

Ingham left Jensen
’
s room with the awful feeling that he had gone down in Jensen
’
s estimation because of his weakness, his cowardice. He
’
d been truthful with Jensen, beginning with their talk on the desert. But it was funny how guilty he felt, how shaky with Jensen, though he knew he could trust Jensen even with a few drinks in him. Jensen was not weak. Ingham suddenly thought of the scared-looking, but flirtatious and seductive Arab boy who was sometimes loitering in the alley near the house, who always said something in Arabic to Jensen. Twice Ingham had seen Jensen dismiss him with an annoyed wave of the hand. Jensen had used to go to bed with him occasionally, Jensen had said. The boy looked revolting to Ingham, mushy, unreliable, sick. Despite all that, Jensen was not weak.

Ingham
could not get to sleep. It was oppressively hot and still. After a bucket shower, he was damp with sweat again in a matter of minutes. Ingham did not mind. He was used to the discomfort by now. And his thoughts entertained him. He was thinking of Ina, and he was filled with tenderness and love for her. It was a large, all-enveloping feeling, taking in all the world, himself, all the people he knew, everyone. Ina was its centre and in a way its source. He thought of her not only as an attractive woman, but in terms of her background and what had made her. She had told him she felt neglected in her childhood, because Joey, being ill from birth, had captured all her parents
’
affections and attentions. She had tried to do very well in school (this was in Manhattan, where the family had lived then) in order to call attention to herself. She had finally gone to Hunter College and made excellent grades, majoring in English composition. She had been in love with a Jewish boy when she was twenty, a boy more or less approved of by her family (he had been a postgraduate student of physics at Columbia, Ingham remembered), but his family had made Ina feel uncomfortable, because they strongly disapproved, at the same time saying that their son had a right to lead his own life. Nothing had come of the love but a few months of heartache for Ina, and a sl
ightly
lower mark when she graduated than she would have got, she had told Ingham, if it had not been for the break-up. Before that, at fifteen, she had had a terrible crush on a girl a
little
bit older, a girl who was really queer, although doing nothing about it at that time. Ingham smiled a
little
at that, at the bitter suffering of adolescence, the loneliness,
the
inability to talk to anyone. Everyone had such experiences and somehow at twenty-five, at thirty, they became forgotten
—
like rocks in a stream which had to be swum over, causing pain and wounds, yet which the unconscious knew were to be expected, and so like birth pains, perhaps, the agony was not even vividly remembered. And then there was her marriage of a year and a half to that brilliant playwright Edgar something (Ingham was pleased that he had forgotten his last name) who had turned out to be a tyrant, who had drunk erratically, and had struck Ina a few times, and who had been killed in a car accident a couple of years after her divorce.