Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (9 page)

It became 3 a.m. Ingham tried to rest between seizures. He sweated. A cold towel on his forehead made him too cold, a sensation he had not had in a long time. He vomited again. He wondered if he should try to get a doctor
—
it didn
’
t seem reasonable to endure this much discomfort for another six hours
—
but there was no telephone in the bungalow, and Ingham could not face, even though he had a flashlight now,
trudging across the sand to the main building, where in fact he might find no one to open the door at this hour. Call Mokta? Wake him at the bungalow headquarters? Ingham could not bring himself to do that. He sweated it out
until
daylight. He had thrown up and brushed his teeth three or four times.

At six-thirty or seven o
’
clock, people were up at the bungalow headquarters. Ingham thought vaguely of trying for a doctor, of asking for some kind of medicine more effective than Entero-Vioform. Ingham put on his robe over bis pyjamas, and walked in sandals to the bungalow headquarters. He was chilly and exhausted. Before he quite reached the building, he saw Adams prancing on his little arched feet out of his bungalow, briskly locking his door, briskly turning.

Adams hailed him.
‘
Hello! W
hat’s
up?
’

Somewhat feebly, Ingham explained the situation.

‘
Oh, my goodness! You should have knocked me up
—
as the English say, ha-ha! Throwing up, eh? First of all, take some Pepto-Bismol. Come in, Howard!
’

Ingham went into Adams
’
s bungalow. He wanted to sit down, or collapse, but made himself keep standing. He took the Pepto-Bismol at the bathroom basin.
‘
Ridiculous to feel so demolished.
’
He managed a laugh.

‘
You think it was the fish last night? I don
’
t know how
clean
that place is, after all.
’

Adams
’
s words recalled the plate offish soup with which they had begun their dinner, and Ingham tried to forget he had ever seen the soup.

‘
Some tea, maybe?
’
Adams asked.

‘
Nothing, thanks.
’
Another trip to the toilet was imminent, but there was some consolation in the thought there could not be much of anything left in him. Ingham
’
s head began to ring.
‘
Look, Francis, I
’
m sorry to be a nuisance. I
—I
don
’
t know if I should have a doctor or not. But I think I
’
d better get back to my house.
’

Adams walked over with him, not quite holding his arm,
but hovering just by his side. Ingham had not locked his door. Ingham excused himself and went at once to the toilet. When he came out, Adams was gone. Ingham sat down gently on the bed, still in his bathrobe. The gripes had now become a steady ache, just severe enough to preclude sleep, Ingham knew.

Adams came in again, barefoot, light and quick as a girl.
‘
Brought some tea. Just one hot cup with some sugar in, it
’
ll do you good. Tea
balls!
He went to Ingham
’
s kitchen, and Ingham heard water running, a pan clatter, a match being struck. 1 spoke to Mokta and told him not to bring breakfast,
’
Adams said.
‘
Coffee
’
s bad.
’

‘
Thank you.
’

The tea did help. Ingham could not drink the whole cup.

Adams gave him a cheery good-bye and said he would look in again after his swim, and if Ingham was asleep, he would not wake him.
‘
Don
’
t lose heart! You
’
re among friends
,’
Adams said.

Ingham did lose heart. He had to bring a cooking pot from the kitchen to keep by his bed, because every ten minutes or so, he threw up a
little
liquid, and it was not worth going to the bathroom to do. As for pride, if Adams came in and saw the pot, Ingham had no pride left.

When Adams came back, Ingham was barely aware of it. It was nearly 10 a.m. Adams said something about not coming in earlier, because he thought Ingham might have dropped off to sleep.

Mokta knocked and came in, too, but there was nothing Ingham had in mind to ask him to do.

It was between ten and twelve o
’
clock, when he was alone, that Ingham experienced a sort of crisis. His abdominal pain continued. In New York, he would certainly have sent for a doctor and asked for morphine, or had a friend go to a pharmacist
’
s to get something to relieve him. Here, Ingham was holding to Adams
’
s advice (but did Adams know how awful he felt?) not to bother about a doctor, that he
’
d soon
feel better. But he didn
’
t know Adams very well, and didn
’
t even trust him. Ingham realized during those two hours that he was very much alone, without his friends, without Ina (and he meant emotionally, too, because if she were really
with
him, she would have written several times by now, would have assured him of her love), realized that he had no real purpose in being in Tunisia
—
he could be writing his book anywhere
—
and that the country wasn
’
t to his taste at all, that he simply didn
’
t belong here. All these thoughts came rushing in when Ingham was at his lowest physically, emptied of strength, emptied of everything. He had been attacked, ludicrous as it might be, in the vitals, where it hurt and where it counted, and where it could kill. Now he was exhausted and unable to sleep. The tea had not stayed down. Adams was not back at twelve o
’
clock, as he had said he would be. Adams might have forgotten. And an hour one way or the other, what would it matter to Adams ? And what could Adams do, anyway?

Somehow Ingham fell asleep.

He awoke at the sound of his sl
ightly
squeaky doorknob being turned, and raised himself feebly, alert.

Adams was tiptoeing in, smiling, carrying something.
‘
Hello! Feeling better ? I
’
ve brought something nice. I looked in just after twelve, but you were asleep, and I thought you needed it.
’
He went on to the kitchen, almost soundless, barefoot.

Ingham realized he was covered in sweat. His ribs were slippery with sweat under his pyjama top, and his sheet was damp. He fell back on his pillow and shivered.

In a very short time, Adams came forth from the kitchen with a bowl of something steaming.
‘
Try this! Just a few spoonfuls. Very plain, won
’
t hurt you.
’

It was hot beef
consommé
. Ingham tried it. It tasted wonderful. It was like life, like meat without the fat. It was as if he sipped back his own life and strength that had for so many hours been mysteriously separated from him.

‘
Good?
’
Adams asked, pleased.

It is
very
good.
’
Ingham drank almost all of it, and sank back again on his bed. Ingham felt grateful to Adams, Adams whom he had so despised in his thoughts. Who else had bothered about him? He cautioned himself that his abject gratitude might not last, once he was on his feet again. And yet, Ingham knew, he would never forget this particular kindness of Adams, never forget his words of cheer.

‘
There
’
s more there in a pot
.’
Adams said, smiling, gesturing quickly towards the kitchen.
‘
Heat it up when you wake up again. Since you missed a night
’
s sleep, I think you ought to sleep the rest of the afternoon. Got the Entero-Vioforms handy?
’

Ingham had. Adams brought him a fresh glass of water, then left. Ingham slept again.

That evening, Adams brought eggs and bread, and made a supper of scrambled eggs and toast and tea. Ingham was feeling much better. Adams took his leave before nine o
’
clock, so Ingham could sleep.

‘
Thank you
very
much, Francis,
’
Ingham said. He could smile now.
‘
I really feel you saved my life.
’

‘
Nonsense! A
little
Christian charity? It
’
s a pleasure! Good night, Howard, my boy. See
you tomorrow!
’

A
couple
of days later, on the 4th of July, a Tuesday, Ingham received a long airmail envelope from a clerk at the Heine
’
s main desk. It was from Ina, and Ingham could tell there were at least two sheets of airmail paper in it. He started to go back to his bungalow for privacy, then realized he couldn
’
t wait, turned back to find an empty sofa to sit on, then changed his mind again and headed for the bar. No one was in the bar, not even a waiter. He sat by a window for light, but out of the sun.

June 28,
19—

Dear Howard,

At last a moment to write. In fact I am staying home from the office today, though I have homework as usual.

The events of the last month are rather chaotic. I don
’
t know where or how to begin, so I will just plunge in. John
—
first of all
—
killed himself in your apartment. I had given him the keys once before but only to take your letters from the mailbox (mailbox key being on your ring) and he must have taken the opportunity to have some others made. Anyway, he took an overdose, and because no one thought of looking in your apartment for four days
—
and anyway when I went there I had no idea I
’
d find John
—
we all simply thought he had left town, maybe gone to Long Island. He was of course in a bad state. He had not lost his nerve about the Tunisia work
—
but he announced that he was in love with me. I was completely surprised. It had never crossed my mind. I was sympathetic. He meant it. He felt guilty because of you. Maybe I was too sympathetic But I told him I loved
y
ou.
John told
me this in the last days of May, just after you left. He must have taken the pills the night of June
10
th, a Saturday. He had told everyone he was going away for the weekend. One could say he did it to spite both of us
—
destroy himself in your apartment, on your bed (but not in it). I did not lead him on, but I admit I was sympathetic and concerned. I made no promises to him
…

A waiter came and asked what he wanted. Ingham murmured,
‘
Rien, merci,
’
and stood up. He went out on the terrace and read the rest of the letter standing up in the sun.

… but I hope you can see why I was upset. I don
’
t think he told anyone else of his feelings for me, at least no one that I know. I am sure a psychiatrist would say his suicide was due to other things too (I don
’
t even know what, honesdy) and that his sudden emotion for me (itself odd) tipped things the wrong way. He said he felt guilty and could not work with you because of his feelings for me. I asked him to write to you and tell you. I thought it was not fo
r me to do…

The rest of her letter was about her brother Joey, about a serial she had to edit which she thought would be a winner for CBS, about packing up John
’
s things from his apartment, assisted by a couple of friends of John
’
s whom she had not met before. She thanked him for the Tunisian vest, and assured him there was nothing like it in New York.

Why had she had anything to do with packing up John
’
s things, Ingham wondered. Surely John had had a lot of friends closer to him than Ina.
I did not lead
h
im on, but I admit I was sympathtic and concerned.
What did that mean, exactly?

Ingham walked back to his bungalow. He walked steadily, and he looked down at the sand.

‘
Hello-o! Good morning!
’
It was Adams hailing him, Adams carrying his silly Neptune spear, wearing his flippers.

‘
Good morning,
’
Ingham called back, forcing a smile.

‘
Got some news?
’
Adams asked, glancing at the letter in Ingham
’
s hand.

‘
Not much, Fm afraid.
’
Ingham waved the letter casually, and walked on, not stopping, not even slowing.

He felt he did not breathe
until
he closed the door of his little house. That glaring sun, that brightness I It was eleven o
’
clock. Ingham had closed the shutters. The room was rather dark for a minute. He left the shutters closed.

Killed himself in his apartment. Of all the filthy, sloppy things to do, Ingham thought. Of all vulgar dramatics I Knowing, no doubt, that he
’
d be found by Ina Pallant, since she was the only person with the key.

Ingham became aware that he was walking round and round his work-table, and he flung himself on the bed. The bed was not yet made up. The boy was late this morning. Ingham held the letter over his head and started reading it again, but couldn
’
t bear to finish it. It sounded as if Ina might have given John some encouragement. If she hadn
’
t, why mention it, or say that she hadn
’
t?
Sympathetic.
Wouldn
’
t most girls have said
—
more or less
—
it
’
s no soap, old pal, you
’
d better forget it? Ina wasn
’
t the mushy, comforting type. Had she really
liked
him? John, in the last fifteen minutes, had become a loathsome weakling to Ingham. Ingham tried and failed to see what about him could have appealed to Ina. His naivet6? His rather juvenile enthusiasm, his self-confidence? But it didn
’
t show much self-confidence to have committed suicide.

Well, what now? No reason to wait for another letter. No reason not to leave Tunisia.