Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (12 page)

Within fifteen minutes, Ingham was uneasy and bored, though Jensen had begun to talk about a trip he had made to an inland desert town with an American friend a few months ago. They had run into sandstorms that had almost flayed the clothes off them, and they had been very cold at night, sleeping outdoors. His dog had been with them. Ingham
’
s mind drifted. He believed, suddenly, that Ina had been in love with
Castlewood
, that she had slept with him. My God, maybe even in his own apartment! No, that was a bit too much. John had his own place, and he lived alone. He had thought Ina was so
solid-
solid physically in a very pleasant and attractive way, solid in her attitude towards him, in her love for him. Ingham admitted to himself that he had even been under the illusion that Ina cared more for him than he did for her. What an ass he had been! He must read her letter,
her damned ambiguous letter, again tonight, after Jensen had left. He realised he had had quite enough to drink, and his glass was still half full, but he
’
d ponder the letter anyway and maybe a flash of intuition would enable him to understand it better, to know what had really happened. Why was Ina so coy and devious, if she and John had slept together? She wasn
’
t the kind of girl to call a spade a
—
a what? Anyway, she called a lay a roll in the hay, or just called it going to bed with someone. She
’
d been quite frank with him about a couple of her affairs since her marriage.

Jensen left just before one o
’
clock, and Ingham dropped him off at his street near Melik
’
s, though Jensen had offered, even begged politely, to walk home. As he got back into his car, Ingham heard Jensen
’
s retreating voice in his alley, calling,
‘
Hasso! Hasso
!
’
A whistle. A rising tone of a curse, something in Danish, a defiant yelp. Ingham remembered the corpse in that same street. A tiny street, but a street full of passion.

Ingham studied Ina
’
s letter once more. He got no further, He went to bed vaguely angry, and decidedly unhappy.

IT
WAS TWO OR THREE DAYS LATER
, in the morning, that Ingham saw the brunette girl of the Fourati on the beach. She was in a beach chair, and a chair beside her was empty. A small boy was trying to sell her something out of a basket.

‘
Mais non, merci. Pas d
’
argent aujourd,hui!, she was saying, smiling but a bit annoyed.

Ingham had just had his noon swim, and was smoking a cigarette, walking along the edge of the water, carrying his robe. From the girl
’
s accent, he supposed her English or American.

‘
Are you having trouble?
’
Ingham asked.

“
Not really. I just can
’
t get rid of him
.’
She was American.

€I have no money either, but a cigarette
’
s just as good.
’
Ingham took two cigarettes from his pack. He thought the boy was selling seashells. The boy seized the cigarettes and ran away on bare feet.

‘
I thought of cigarettes, too, but I don
’
t smoke and I haven
’
t any.
’
She had very dark brown eyes. Her face was smooth and tanned, her hair also smooth and pulled straight back from her forehead.
Almond
was the word that came to Ingham when he looked at her.

‘
I thought you were at the Fourati,
’
Ingham said.

‘
I am. But a friend invited me for lunch here.
’

Ingham glanced up the beach towards the hotel for the friend
—
he assumed a man
—
who must be coming back at any minute. There was a yellow and white towel and a pair of sunglasses on the empty chair beside her. Suddenly Ingham knew, or at least believed, that he would see her this evening, that they would have dinner, and that they would
go to bed together, somewhere.
‘
Have you been in Ham
mamet long?
’
The usual questions, the protocol.

She had been here two weeks, and she was going on to Paris. She was from Pennsylvania. She wore no wedding ring. She was perhaps twenty-five. Ingham said he was from New York. At last
—
and not a moment too soon, because a man in swimming trunks and sportshirt, followed by a waiter with a tray, was walking towards them from the hotel
—
Ingham asked:

‘
Shall we have a drink some time before you leave? Are you free this evening?
’

‘
Yes. For a drink, fine
.’

‘I’ll
pick you up at the Fourati. About seven-thirty ?
’

‘
All right. Oh, my name is Kathryn Darby. D-
A
-
R
-
B
-
Y
.’

‘
Mine is Howard Ingham. A pleasure. I
’
ll see you at seven-thirty.
’
He waved a hand and went away, towards his bungalow.

The approaching man and waiter were still thirty feet away. Ingham had not glanced at the man after his first long view of him, and did not know if he was thirty years old or sixty.

Ingham worked well that afternoon. He had done four pages in the morning. He did five or six in the afternoon.

A
little
after five o
’
clock, OWL came round and asked him to his bungalow for a drink.

‘
I can
’
t tonight, thanks
.’
Ingham said.
‘
A date
with a
young lady at the Fourati. How about tomorrow here?
’

‘
A young lady. Well! That
’
s nice!
’
OWL turned into a beaming squirrel at once.
‘
Have a good time. Yes, tomorrow would be fine. Six-thirty?
’

At seven-thirty, in a white jacket which he had had Mokta take to be washed and returned that afternoon, Ingham rang up Miss Darby from the desk at the Fourati. They sat at one of
the
tables in the garden and drank Tom Collinses.

She worked for her uncle in a law firm. She was a secretary, and learning a great deal about law, which she would never
use, she said, because she had no intention of taking a degree. There was a warmth, a kindness
—
or maybe it was merely openness
—
about her for which Ingham was athirst. There was a
naivet
é
, too, and a certain decorum. He was sure she didn
’
t have affairs with just anybody, or very often, but he assumed she did sometimes, and if she happened to like him, that was his good luck, because she was very pretty.

They had dinner at the Fourati.

Ingham said, It
’
s a pleasure to be with you. I
’
ve been lonely here in the last month. I don
’
t try to meet people, because I have to work. It doesn
’
t keep me from being lonely now and then.
’

She asked some questions about his work. Within a few minutes, Ingham told her that the man with whom he had intended to make a film had not come. Ingham also told her he had committed suicide, though he avoided mentioning John
’
s name. He said he had decided to stay on a few weeks and to work on his own novel.

Kathryn (she had told him how to spell it) was certainly sympathetic, and it touched Ingham in a way that Adams
’
s equally genuine sympathy had not.
‘
What a shock it must have been. Even
i
f
you
didn
’
t
know him well
!’

Ingham changed the subject by asking her if she had seen other towns in Tunisia. She had, and she enjoyed talking about them and about the things she had bought to send and to take back home. She was on vacation alone, but had flown to Tunisia with some English friends who had been in America, and who yesterday had flown back to London.

Vague thoughts of accompanying her back to Paris, of spending a few days with her, danced in Ingham
’
s mind. He realized they were absurd. He asked if she would like to come to his bungalow for a nightcap and a coffee. She accepted. She did not accept the nightcap, but Ingham made small, strong cups of coffee. She was pleased also at his proposal of a swim-she wearing one of his shirts. The beach was deserted. There was a half-moon.

Back in his bungalow, as she sat wrapped in a large white towel, he said,
‘I’d
like it very much if you stayed with me Would you?
’

1 would like it, too
.’
she replied.

It had been simple after all.

Ingham gave her his terry-cloth robe. She disappeared into the bathroom.

Then she got into bed, naked, and Ingham slipped in beside her. There were lovely, toothpaste-flavoured kisses. Ingham was more interested in her breasts. He lay gently on top of her. But after five minutes, he realized that he was not becoming excited enough to make love to her. He put this out of his mind for a moment or so, as he continued to kiss her neck, but then the realization came back. And perhaps thinking about it was fatal. She even touched him briefly, perhaps by accident. There were things he might have asked her to do, but he couldn
’
t. Emphatically, not this girl. At last, he lay on his side, and she facing him, both locked in a tight embrace. But nothing happened. Nothing was going to, Ingham realized. It was embarrassing. It was funny. It had never happened to him before, not if he actually wished and intended to make love, as he had. Ina
—
she had even called him exhausting, and Ingham had been rather proud of that. He said little to Kathryn, a few compliments, which, however, he meant. He felt lost, too lost perhaps to suffer the sense of inadequacy that he should. What was the matter? The bungalow itself? He thought not.

‘
You
’
re a nice lover,
’
she said.

He almost laughed.
‘
You
’
re very attractive.
’

Her hand on the back of his neck was pleasant, reassuring, but only vaguely exciting, and he wondered how much she minded, how much he had let her down.

Suddenly she sneezed.

‘
You
’
re cold!
’

It
’
s that swim.
’

He got out of bed and poured a Scotch in the kitchen,
came in and struggled into his robe, still holding the glass.
‘
Do you want it neat?
’

She did.

Twenty minutes later, he was driving her towards the Fourati. He had asked if she would like to stay the night, but she had said no. There was no change in her attitude towards him
—
alas, not as much as there might have been if he had made love to her.

‘
Shall we have dinner tomorrow night?
’
Ingham asked.
‘
If you felt like it, we could cook something at my place. Just for a change
.’

‘
Tomorrow night I promised someone here.
—
Lunch tomorrow?
’

‘
I don
’
t make lunch dates when I
’
m working.
’

They agreed on the evening after tomorrow, again at
seven-thirty.

Ingham went home and got at once into pyjama pants. He sat on
the
edge of his bed. He felt utterly depressed. He
could
not see the bottom of his depression without actually going down there, he thought. He realized he had changed a great deal in the past month. And just how? He would know in the next few days, he thought. It was not the kind of question Ingham could answer by thinking about it.

Kathryn Darby was brighter than Lotte, Ingham thought out of nowhere. Which was not to say that anyone had to have an intellect to be brighter than Lotte. Lotte had been a mistake, a strong and powerful, long-lasting mistake. Lotte had left him for another man, because she had been bored with him. The man was one who had come to their parties many times in New York, an advertising executive, witty, extrovert, the kind women always liked, Ingham had supposed, and never took seriously. Then the next thing he knew, Thomas Jeffrey had been asking for her hand, or whatever, and moreover Lotte had wanted to give it to him. Never had anything in Ingham
’
s life, of equal importance, happened so quickly. He
’
d not had time even to fight, he felt.

“
The only time you pay attention to me is in bed
.’
Lotte had said, more than once. It was true. She hadn
’
t been interested in his writing, or in anyone else
’
s books, and she had a way, which at times had been funny, of demolishing an interesting remark by him or someone else, with a platitudinous remark of her own quite off the subject, yet well meant. Yes, he had often smiled. Though not unkindly. He had worshipped Lotte, and never had any woman had such a physical hold over him. But that was obviously not enough to keep a woman happy. No, he couldn
’
t blame her. She had come of a wealthy family, was badly educated, spoilt, and had really no interests at all, except tennis, which she had slowly given up, perhaps out of laziness.

Or could he somehow do better, if he had another chance with Lotte? But Lotte was married now. And did he want another chance with her? Of course not. Why had he thought of it?

Ingham went to bed, still depressed, but unbothered, unconcerned even, by Kathryn Darby
’
s scent which still lingered on his pillow.