Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (37 page)

Ingham lit a cigarette.

And Jensen. Jensen had a character, a background, a history, which Ingham did not know, which he could never know any more than partially. He knew Jensen only enough to like him quite a bit. (And Ingham recalled one night when he
’
d gone along to the coffee-house called Les Arcades, and had come near to taking home a young Arab. The Arab had sat at the table with him, and Ingham had stood him a couple of beers. Ingham had been both sexually excited and lonely that evening, and the only thing that had deterred him, he thought, was that he hadn
’
t been sure what to do in bed with a boy, and he hadn
’
t wanted to feel silly. Hardly a moral reason for chastity.) He was surrounded by a sea of Arabs who were still mysteries to him, with the possible exceptions of Mokta, and the cheerful M
e
lik, a kindly fellow who certainly wasn
’
t a cheat, either.

Ingham realized he must come to a decision about Ina and tell her, preferably before she left for Paris, which she wanted to do in about five days or less. If he turned loose of Ina, would it be stupid? He could see her marrying someone else very quickly, if he did. Then he might be sorry. Or was this a bastardly way to be thinking? He had the awful feeling that in the months he had been here, his own character or principles had collapsed, or disappeared. What was he? Presumably someone with a set of attitudes on which his conduct
was based. They formed a character. But Ingham now felt he couldn
’
t think, if his life depended on it, of one principle by which he lived. Wasn
’
t sleeping with Ina a form of deception now? And he didn
’
t even feel uncomfortable about it. Was his whole past life then a history of phoneyness? Or was all this now the falseness? He was suddenly sweating, and lacked the initiative to get up and pour a bucket of water over himself on the terrace.

He heard a scratching noise, a whimper, down at the door on the street. Jensen must have put out his garbage. Usually it attracted cats. The scratching kept on. Anger got Ingham
out of bed now. He turned on his light and took his flashlight. He went down the four steps, tense, prepared to yell at the cat who was probably trying to dislodge a sardine can from under the door.

The dog looked at him and growled low.

‘
Hasso?
—
Hasso, it
isn’t
!
’

It was. The dog looked awful, but it was Hasso, and Hasso remembered him
—
just enough not to attack him, Ingham could see.

‘
Anders!9
Ingham yelled, his voice cracking wildly.
‘
Anders,
Hasso
’
s
here!
’

The dog crawled up the steps towards Jensen
’
s rooms, its legs limp.

‘
What?
’
Jensen leaned out his window.

Hysterical laughter started in Ingham
’
s throat. Jensen knelt on his top step and embraced the dog. Ingham, for no reason, turned on all the lights he had, and also the terrace lights. He poured a bowl of tinned milk and added a dash of water lest the milk be too rich. He took it upstairs to Jensen.

Jensen was kneeling on his floor, looking the dog over.
‘
Vand
!’

‘
What?
’

‘
Water!
’

Ingham went to Jensen
’
s tap to get it.
‘I’
ve got sardines. Also some frankfurters
.’

‘
Look at him! But he
’
ll live. No bones broken!
’
That was the last thing Jensen said for several minutes that Ingham could understand. The rest was in Danish.

The dog drank water, ate ravenously of a few sardines, then abruptly abandoned the dish. He was too starving to take on much at once. An old brown collar was around his neck, trailing a length of metal chain. Ingham wondered how he had broken or chewed the chain, but the last links were worn so thin and flat, they gave no due. The dog must have walked miles.

‘
He really has no wounds
.’
Ingham said. Isn
’
t that a
miracle?
’
‘Y
es. Except this scar
.’
There was a tiny bald patch in front
of one of Hasso
’
s ears. Jensen thought they had had to knock
the dog out to catch him or to put the collar on him. Jensen
was looking at Hasso
’
s teeth, at his feet which were scabby
and bloody. Some bad-looking patches in his hair were only
mud or grease. Ingham went down to get his Scotch. He brought the rest
of the tinned milk. Jensen had heated some water and was
washing the dog
’
s feet. They sat up talking a long while. The dawn came. The dog
lay down on a blanket Jensen had put down for him, and fell
asleep.
‘
He was even too tired to smile, did you notice?
’
Ingham
said.

And so the time passed with remarks like that, remarks of no consequence, but both Ingham and Jensen were very happy. Jensen speculated as to what had happened. Someone must have taken him miles away and attempted to keep him tied up. They must have had to toss food at him, because he wouldn
’
t have allowed anyone to come near. But how had they captured the dog in the first place? Clubbed him? Used chloroform? Not likely. And Ingham was thinking that it was all cock-eyed, except this, except Hasso
’
s return, which was the most unlikely thing he could have imagined would ever happen. And he knew he would speak to Ina tomorrow, rather today, and tell her that he could not marry her. That was correct, the correct thing to do. And in three more, days, he would finish his book, he was positive. He made this announcement to Jensen, about his book, but he doubted if Jensen took it in.

The whisky put them both, towards 7 a.m., in a relaxed, happy mood. Jensen was positively drunk. They both went to sleep in their respective beds.

At
eleven-twenty that morning, Ingham was walking along the beach, carrying his sneakers, towards t
he Reine de Ham
mamet. The sun poured down, turning the sand white. The sand, if he walked quickly, was bearable between his toes. The sky was a cloudless deep bright blue, like the shutters and doors of Tunisia. He had bought a chicken and a form of leg of beef for Hasso this morning. Jensen
’
s hangover, if any, was totally lost in his concern for Hasso
’
s welfare. The dog, this morning, had been well enough to smile, and he had smiled at Ingham, too.

Now Ingham was thinking, with as usual no success in preparation, of what he was going to say to Ina. The hour to him did not matter. It might as well have been 4 a.m. Ah, destiny! He was convinced that his decision to sever himself from Ina was of a
little
more importance to
hirn
than to her. He imagined her meeting another John Castlewood, or some substitute for himself, in a matter of weeks. He was sure she could more easily find a man she liked than he could find a woman. For this reason, he felt that he was not going to hurt her very much.

He also might not find her in. Ingham was prepared to be told that Miss Pallant had taken an all-day bus-ride somewhere.

Miss Pallant was not in but she was on the beach.

Ingham went back to the beach, and walked on in the direction from Hammamet, because he was sure he had not passed her.

He recognized her chair by her beach robe and a script bound in a blue cover. With his eyes nearly shut against the
glare, he faced the sea and examined the surface of the water. It couldn
’
t be, but it was true: OWL
’
s spear broke the surface with its black arrow, just a hundred yards out
and
a bit to the left. Ina
’
s white-capped head emerged beside it, her face gasping and laughing, and finally OWL
’
s ruddy visage came up behind the spear. Naturally, the spear was empty. Had OWL ever caught anything?

They saw him, and waved. Ingham stood waiting, dry
and
hot, the skin on his face and forearms gently toasting, while they came out of the sea.

A burst of greetings from OWL. Why hadn
’
t he brought his swimming trunks?

·Why aren
’
t you working?
’
Ina wiped her face with
a
towel.
‘
Hasso came home last night. Anders
’
s dog,
’
Ingham said.
‘
My goodness! The one who was lost?
’
OWL was a-goggle with surprise.
‘
Yes, Ina! Did I tell you? Anders
’
s dog disappeared
—
How long ago was it?
’
‘
Six weeks, anyway,
’
Ingham said. Ina was also incredulous and glad about the good news. Adams asked them to his bungalow for a beer, to cool off, but Ingham said:
‘
Thanks, Francis, can I take a raincheck?
’
Adams understood. He understood, anyway, that Ingham wanted to talk to Ina.

Ingham and Ina walked towards the hotel. Ina paused to shower under the bare, outdoor tap where Ingham had seen the Americans who he had thought were Germans. In silence, they went direc
tl
y to her room. Ina again removed her bathing suit in the bathroom, and came out in a terry-cloth
robe
like his own, but white.

‘
I know what you
’
re going to say, so you don
’
t
have
to say it
.’
Ina said.

Ingham had sat down in the one big chair.
Ina leaned
across him, one hand braced on the arm of the chair,
and she
kissed his cheek, then briefly his lips.

I can
’
t get married,
Ingham thought. What should he say? Thank you?

‘
Would you like a Scotch, darling?
’

‘
No, thanks.
—
It was a strange night last night
.’
he said, stuttering slightly. 1 was awake, and I heard Anders
’
s dog scratching at the door. Only I didn
’
t know it was the dog. So I went down
—
and it was unbelievable, to see this dog after so many weeks. Skinny, of course. He looks awful, but he
’
ll live. It
’
s a miracle, isn
’
t it?
’

‘
Yes. Six weeks, did you say?
’
She was sitting on her bed, f
ac
ing him, with a deadly air of politeness.

‘
Six weeks maybe, I haven
’
t counted them.
’

Their eyes met briefly.

Ingham had a mad impulse to push her back on the bed and make love to her. Or if he did, would he find himself incapable?
‘I’m
sorry I dragged you here.
’

‘
You didn
’
t!
’

He could predict the next exchanges. It was awful. They came, and at last he was saying, as he had hoped not to,
‘
Why should I put you in a trap? I suppose I don
’
t love anyone. I suppose I can
’
t.
’

And she obliged with,
‘
Oh, you have your work. Writers think about so many sides of things, they never choose any one thing.
I’
m not blaming you. I understand.
’

How many times had Ingham heard that in the years before Lotte? Little did the girls know. But one thing was true, they were jealous of his work. It isn
’
t that,
’
Ingham said, feeling stupid.

‘
What do you mean, it isn
’
t that?
’

She was supposed to cut through all this underbrush with a clear rapier brain, Ingham thought. He didn
’
t know what to say. She
did
blame him, and it might have been a lot better if she were angry. It isn
’
t enough to get married on,
’
he said.

‘
Oh, that
’
s obvious.
’
Her hand moved in a limp, hopeless gesture.