Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (29 page)

And now, Ina loved him, and she loved her brother Joey, and she had turned to the church for some moral support and perhaps for some kind of guidance. (How
much
had she turned to the church, he wondered.) But what kind of guidance did the church ever give except to counsel resignation? Stop sinning, of course, but if one were in an awful predicament with husband, family or whatever
—
or if the problem was poverty, for instance
—
the church
’
s advice was to resign oneself to it, Ingham felt, and he was reminded of the Arabic religion, uncomfortably.

His thoughts veered away from that and returned to Ina. He was glad he and she were old enough to know the importance of tenderness, to have lost some of the selfishness and self-centredness of youth, he hoped. They were two worlds, similar but different, complex yet able to explain themselves to each other, and he felt they had something to give each other. He recalled a few paragraphs he had written in his notebook, in preparation for the book he was writing, about the sense of identity within the individual. (As it turned out, he had used none of them in his book, but it was always that way.) He wanted very much to read some of these notes to Ina, to see what she would think of them, what she would say. One note, he remembered, he had copied from a book he had been reading. It concerned
under-privileged children in an American primary school The children had had no joy in life or in learning. All of them lived in crowded homes. Then the school had given each child a small mirror in which he could see himself. From then on, each child began to realize that he or she was an individual, different from everyone else, someone with a face, an identity. The world of each child had changed then. All at once, Ingham felt acutely the pressure of Joey
’
s tragedy on Ina now, the sadness his disease must cause in her whenever she looked at him
—
or thought of him
—
even in the best of moments. And now the mysterious and perhaps insoluble problem of Joey
’
s attachment to her. This onus, this pain, was like something which crept up behind Ingham
’
s back and leapt upon him, sinking its claws. He sprang out of
bed.

He had an impulse to go straight to Ina now, to comfort her, to tell her that they would be married
—
maybe to
ask
her, but that was a technicality
—
to stay with her the rest of the night talking and making plans
until
the Tunisian dawn came up. He looked at his wristwatch. Eighteen minutes past three o
’
clock. Could he even get into the hotel? Of course, if he banged on the door hard enough. Would she be annoyed? Embarrassed? But what he had to say was important enough to cause a disturbance in the night. He hesitated. Wasn
’
t it weak, even fatal somehow, to doubt whether he should go or not? Wouldn
’
t he have gone if he
’
d been twenty-five, even thirty?

Ingham decided that he shouldn
’
t go at this hour. If Ina had been in a house alone, yes. It was the hotel part.

He cheered himself up by thinking about tomorrow. He would see her at lunch. He
’
d tell Jensen he wanted very much to see Ina alone at lunch, and Jensen wouldn
’
t mind. And then Ingham would talk about all this, and he would talk also about their marrying. He would fly back with her, or at least very soon after she left, and they would look for an apartment in New York and maybe in less than a month
from now, she would be out of that Brooklyn house and living in an apartment in Manhattan with him. That was a very exciting plan. He went back to bed, but it was at least half an hour before he fell asleep.

Ingham awakened at nine-thirty, and found that Jensen had already left the house. Ingham had intended to offer to drive him to the Reine, though he doubted if Jensen would have accepted. Now he would have to keep an eye out for them, if he expected to see them before lunch, Ingham supposed. He worked in the morning, mainly polishing and retyping messy pages in his manuscript, but just before twelve-thirty, he wrote two new pages. Then he put on white dungarees and a shirt, and went down to the Caf6 de la Plage.

He was happy to see Ina and Jensen sitting at a table over glasses of vin ros
é
.
‘
Knock-knock
.’
Ingham said, approaching them.
‘
Can I crash in? Did you have a nice morning?
’

They looked as if they had been talking seriously for some minutes before he arrived. Jensen dragged a chair over from another table. Ina
’
s eyes moved all over Ingham
—
his face, his hands, his body-in a way that pleased him, and she was absently smiling.

‘
Is the fort interesting?
’
Ingham asked her.
1
haven
’
t been inside
.’

‘
Yes I Nobody there. We could wander around anywhere
.’
she said.

‘
Not even ghosts
.’
said Jensen.

It was soon evident Jensen was not going to leave. They went to Melik
’
s, and all of them had yoghurt, fruit, cheese and wine, because it was too hot for anything else. Ina might enjoy a siesta, Ingham thought. He might go back with her to the hotel, and they could talk there. Jensen got the bill and asserted his right to pay it, as he had wanted to take Ina to lunch. Then he excused himself.

‘I’m
going to work for a while
—
after a nap, that is. Did Fatma turn up?
’

‘
Not this morning
.’
Ingham said.

‘
Damn
!
If she turns up this afternoon, I think I
’
ll send her away. Do you mind?
’

‘
Not a bit,
’
Ingham said.

Jensen left.

‘
What
’
s your fatma like?
’
Ina asked.

‘
Oh
—
about sixteen. Always a big smile. She doesn
’
t know much French. Her favourite activity is turning the tap on the terrace. She just stands there watching the water run and run. Sometimes we give her money to buy food and wine. There
’
s never any change from it. Whatever we give her is
“
exactly enough
”
.
’
Ingham laughed.

Ina looked as if she were not listening, or was not interested.

‘
Tired, darling? I
’
ll take you back to your hotel. It
’
s so damned hot
—I
thought you might like a siesta. Maybe with me.
’

‘
Do you think we
’
d sleep?
’

Ingham smiled. 1 had some things I wanted to talk to you about.
’
He wished he
’
d brought his notebook along, but he hadn
’
t, and he wasn
’
t going to the house for it.
‘
Matter of fact, I almost came storming over to see you last night. At three-thirty. I even jumped out of bed.
’

‘
A bad dream? Why didn
’
t you come over?
’

‘
Not a bad dream. I hadn
’
t been to sleep. I was thinking about you.
—
You know, darling, you could come back to my place. We could have a nap there.
’

‘
Thanks. I think I
’
d rather go back to the hotel.
’

She
’
d be of course much more comfortable at the hotel, Ingham realized. But he had the feeling she disliked his place, maybe thought it sordid. He felt a vague defensiveness about his two rooms, even though she had not yet specifically attacked them. They were, after all, the sanctum of his work just now, and as such they were rather hallowed to Ingham.
‘
All right. Let
’
s go darling.
’

He drove her to the Reine de Hammamet. The desk clerk handed her a telegram.

‘
That
’
s fast communication
.’
Ingham said, wondering whom it could be from.

‘I
cabled the office
.’
Ina said.
“
This is from them
.’

Ingham waited while she read it, watched her start to frown, and saw her lips move in an inaudible
‘
Damn
’
.

‘I’
ve got to cable something back
,
’
she said to
him
.
‘
I won
’
t be long.
’

Ingham nodded, and went to look for a newspaper.

‘
What was it?
’
he asked when she was finished.

It
’
s about a copyright. I told them the story was in the clear, but they were still worried, so they asked me where to look. They want to check it. It
’
s all very tedious.
’

Ina took a cool shower, then Ingham asked if he could do the same. The cool, not too cold water felt like heaven. It was a treat also to be able to reach for Ina
’
s scented soap in the niche, to slip it back. There was even a huge unused white towel which he appropriated.

‘
Ah, delicious
.’
he said when he came out in the towel, barefoot.

‘
You know, Howard —
’
She was lying on the bed, propped up, smoking.
‘
It
’
d be nice if you had a bungalow. Why don
’
t we take one
—
or two?
’
she added, smiling.

Ingham emphatically did not want to take a bungalow.
‘
Well,
you
could
—
provided they
’
re not full up. Did you ask?
’

‘
Not yet. But your place is so uncomfortable, darling, let
’
s face it. That John! And you
’
re not broke. I don
’
t know why you do it.
’

‘
For a change. I got tired of my bungalow.
’

‘
What
’
s there to get tired of? Good kitchen and bath, everything simple and clean. Francis says you can get an air-conditioner.
’

1 wanted to see how the Arabs live, buy stuff in the market and all that.
’

‘
You can see how they live without doing it. It
’
s bloody uncomfortable the way they live. I saw a lot of them this morning, walking with Anders back of the fort.
’

‘
Isn
’
t that a fascinating section?
’
Ingham smiled.
“
The tiling is, I
’
m working so well now where I am. I just think of it as a place to work, you know. I wasn
’
t intending to be there more than a month.
’

‘
Francis thinks you
’
re punishing yourself.
’

‘
Oh? I think he said that to me, too. Sounds strangely Freudian for OWL. Anyway, he
’
s a bit wrong. When did he say this to you, by the way?
’

‘
I ran into him on the beach this morning. Rather he hailed me
—
from afar. He was out in the water. I went for an early swim. So we sat on the sand and talked for a while.
’
She laughed.
‘
He looks so funny with those flippers and that spear, and that waterproof cap with a
visor.
Do you know he swims with it under water?
’

‘
Yes, I know.
’

She was silent for a moment, then,
‘
You know, he says you
’
re not telling the whole story about that night Abdullah was killed. On your terrace, Francis says.
’

‘
Um-hum,
’
Ingham said, sighing.
‘
First of all, no one knows if he was killed or not. No one
’
s seen a body.
—
Adams is acting like an old maid snoop about this. Why doesn
’
t he call the police in, if he
’
s so concerned?
’

‘
Well
—
don
’
t get worked up about it.
’

‘
Sorry.
’
Ingham lit a cigarette.

Is that why you moved?
’

‘
Of course not.
—
I
’
m still on good terms with OWL. I moved
—
because of something I wanted to discuss with you, matter of fact. Or tell you about. It has to do with the book I
’
m writing. Essentially, it
’
s whether a person makes his own personality and his own standards from within himself, or whether he and the standards are the creation of the society around him. It has a
little
to do with my book. But I found that since being here in Tunisia, I think about these things a lot. What I mean is
—
the opposite of authoritarianism. And I speak mainly of morals
—
I suppose. My hero Dennison makes his own, you see. But granted he
’
s cracked.
’

Ina was listening in silence, watching him.

‘
There were moments here in Hammamet, days and weeks, in fact, when I hadn
’
t any letters from you or from anybody, and I felt strange even to myself, as if I didn
’
t know myself. And part of it, perhaps
—I
know from a moral point of view
—
was that the Arabs all around me had different standards, different ethics. And they were in the majority, you see. This world is theirs, not mine. You know what I mean?
’

‘
And what did you do about it?
’

He laughed.
‘
One doesn
’
t
do
anything. It
’
s like a state. It
’
s a very troubling state. But in a way, it was quite good for my book, I think. Because it
’
s concerned a little with the same thing.
’

‘
I don
’
t think my moral values would change, living here.
‘I’d
really love some plain iced water.
’

Ingham went at once to the telephone and ordered it. Then he said,
‘
Not necessarily change, but you might find them hard to practise if no one around you were practising them, for instance.
’

‘
Give me an example.
’

Ingham for some reason balked, though there were any number of examples he might have given. Petty chiselling. Or having a wife and as many mistresses as one could afford, because everyone else was enjoying the same pleasure, and to hell with what one
’
s wife felt about it. Well
—
if one
’
s been robbed five or six times, there might be an impulse to rob back, don
’
t you think? The one who doesn
’
t rob, or cheat a little in business deals, comes out on the short end, if everybody else is cheating.
’