Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery (8 page)

Since he did not hear from Ina in the morning post, he sent the letter express from the post office at 4 p.m. There was nothing from Ina in the afternoon post, either.

He had dinner with Adams in a fishing town called La
Goulette, near Tunis. The town bore a funny similarity to Coney Island, not that it had amusements or hot-dog stands, but it was the elongated shape of the town, the lowness of its houses, the atmosphere of the sea. It also looked rather crummy and cheap and unspoilt. Ingham
’
s first thought was to inquire about hotels here, but the barman at the bar they visited told him there were none. The waiter and the proprietor of the restaurant where they had dinner assured Ingham of the same thing. The waiter knew of a place where they let rooms, but this sounded too sketchy to bother investigating, at least at that hour.

That evening, Adams bored Ingham to a degree. Adams was launched again on the virtues of democracy for everyone, Christian morals for everyone.
(
‘
Everyone
?’
Ingham interrupted once, so loudly that the next table turned to look at him.) He thought of the happy pagans, Christless, maybe syphilis-less, too, blissful. But in fact, where were they these days? Christianity and atom-bomb testing had spread themselves just about everywhere.
I swear if
h
e
gets on to Vietnam,
I’ll
burst a vein,
Ingham said to himself. But realising the absurdity of his emotions against this absurd little man, Ingham controlled himself, remembered that he had enjoyed Adams
’
s company many times, and reminded himself that he would feel like a fool to make an enemy of Adams, whom he encountered once or twice a day on the hotel grounds or on the beach. His anger was only frustration, Ingham realized, frustration in every aspect of his life just now
—
except perhaps in his novel-in-progress.

‘
You can see it in their faces, the men who have turned their back on God,
’
Adams droned on.

Where was God, that one could turn one
’
s back on him?

Adams
’
s pouches became pouchier. He was smiling and chewing contentedly at once.

‘
Drug addicts, alcoholics, homosexuals, criminals
—
and even the ordinary man in the street,
if
he
’
s forgotten the
Right Way
—
they
’
re all wretched. But they can be
shown
the
Right Way
…’

My God, Ingram thought, was Adams cracked? And why throw in the homosexuals?

‘
Oh, I come to the garden alone,

When the dew is still on the roses.

And the voice I hear,

Falling on my ear,

Is my Saviour
’
s, my Saviour
’
s alone.
’

Falling on your
ear?
Can
’
t you come to the garden
sober?
The remembered schoolboy joke brought irrepressible laughter, which Ingham gulped down, though tears stood in his eyes. Fortunately, Adams didn
’
t take his smile amiss, because Ingham could not possibly have explained it. Adams was still smiling complaisan
tl
y himself.

‘I’m
sure you
’
re right,
’
Ingham said forcefully, hoping to wind it up. One might be
friendly
, but one did not make
friends
with people like Adams, Ingham was thinking. They were dangerous.

A few minutes later, as Adams was tapering off, though still on the subject of Our Way of life, Ingham asked,
‘
What about some of the things normal people do in bed? Heterosexuals. Do you disapprove of those things?
’

‘
What things do you mean?
’
Adams asked attentively, and Ingham thought very likely Adams really didn
’
t know about them.

“
Well
—
various things. Matter of fact, the same things homosexuals do. The very same things.
’

‘
Oh. Well, they
’
re still male and female. Man and wife,
’
Adams said cheerfully, tolerantly.

Yes, if they happened to be married, Ingham thought.
“
That
’
s true,
’
Ingham said. If OWL preached tolerance, Ingham would not be outdone. But Ingham sensed his mind beginning to boggle, as it so often did with Adams, his own unassailable arguments seeming to turn to sand. That was
what happened in brainwashing, Ingham thought. It was odd.

‘
Have you ever written anything,
’
Ingham asked,
‘
on these subjects ?
’

Adams
’
s smile became a little sly.

Ingham could see that he had, or wanted to, or was writing something now.

‘
You
’
re a man of letters who I think I can trust
.’
Adams said.
‘
I do write, in a way, yes. Come to my b
ungalow when we get home and I’ll
show you
.’

Ingham paid for their inexpensive dinner, because he felt he had been a little rude to Adams, and because Adams had driven him here in his Cadillac. Ingham was glad Adams had driven, because half an hour after his dinner, he began to have waves of gripes in his lower abdomen, in fact all over his abdomen, up to the ribs. In Hammamet, back at the bungalows, Ingham excused himself under pretext of getting another pack of cigarettes, and went to the toilet.
Diarrhea
, and pretty bad. He swallowed a couple of Entero-Vioform tablets, then went over to Adams
’
s.

Adams showed Ingham into his bedroom. Ingham had never been in the room before. It had a double bed with a very pretty red, white and blue counterpane, which Adams must have bought. There were a few shelves of books, more pictures
—
all photographs
—
a cosy, lighted nook within reach of the head of the bed, which contained a few books, a notebook, pen, ashtray, matches.

Adams opened a tall closet with a key, and pulled out a handsome black leather suitcase, which he unlocked with a small key on his
key ring
. Adams opened the suitcase on the bed. There was a radio of some sort, a tape machine, and two thick stacks of manuscript, all neatly arranged in the suitcase.

‘
This is what
I
write,
’
Adams said, gesturing towards the typewritten stacks of papers at one side of the suitcase.
‘
In fact, I broadcast it, as you see. Every Wednesday night
’
Adams chuckled.

‘
Really?
’
So that was what Adams did on Wednesdays.
‘
That
’
s very interesting,
’
Ingham said.
‘
You broadcast in English?
’

‘
In American. It goes behind the Iron Curtain. In fact, exclusively behind the Iron Curtain
.’

‘
You
’
re employed then. By the Government. The Voice of America?
’

Adams shook his head quickly.
‘
If you
’
ll swear not to tell anyone —
’

‘
I swear,
’
Ingham said.

Adams relaxed slightly and spoke more
softly
.
‘
I
’
m employed by a small group of anti-Communists behind the Iron Curtain. Matter of fact, they
’
re not a small group by any means. They don
’
t pay me much, because they haven
’
t got it. The money comes via Switzerland, and that
’
s complicated enough, I understand. I know only one man in the group. I broadcast pro-American, pro-Western
—
what shall I call it? Philosophy. Pep talks.
’
Adams chuckled.

‘
Very interesting,
’
Ingham said.
‘
How long
’
ve you been doing this?
’

‘
Almost a year now.
’

‘
How did they contact you?
’

1 met a man on a ship. About a year ago. We were on the same ship going from Venice to Yugoslavia. He was a great card-player on the ship.
’
Adams smiled reminiscently.
‘
Not dishonest, just a brilliant bridge-player. Poker, too. He
’
s a journalist, lives in Moscow. But of course he
’
s not allowed to write what he thinks. He sticks strictly to the party line when he writes for the Moscow papers. But he
’
s an important man in the underground organization. He got this equipment for me in Dubrovnik and gave it to me.
’
Adams gestured with a proud flourish at his tape recorder and sender.

Ingham looked down with, he felt, a dazed respect at the suitcase. He wondered just how much they paid Adams. And why, when Radio Free Europe and the Voice of America
were booming the same kind of thing into Russia free?
‘
Have you a special wavelength or something that the Russians can
’
t jam?
’

‘
Yes, so I was told. I can shift the wavelength, depending on the orders I have. The orders come in code to me here from Switzerland
—
Italy sometimes. Would you like to hear a tape?
’

‘
I would indeed
.’
Ingham said.

Adams lifted the tape recorder from the suitcase. From a metal box in the suitcase he took a roll of tape.
‘
March-April inclusive. We
’
ll try this.
’
He fixed it in the machine and pushed a button.
‘
I won
’
t play it loud.
’

Ingham sat down on the other side of the bed.

The machine hissed, then Adams
’
s voice came on.

‘
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, Russians and non-Russians, brothers everywhere, friends of democracy and of America. This is Robin Goodfellow, an ordinary American citizen, just as many of you, listening, are ordinary citizens of your own…
’

Adams had winked at Ingham at the name
‘
Robin Good-fellow
’
. He advanced the tape a bit.

‘
… what many of you thought of the news that came from Vietnam today. Five American planes shot down by the Viet-cong, say the Americans. Seventeen American planes shot down, say the Vietcong. The Vietcong say they lost one plane. The Americans say the Vietcong lost nine. Someone is lying. Who? Who do you think? What country discloses her failures as well as her successes when it comes to rocket take-offs? When it comes even to the
poverty
in its land
—
which the Americans are fighting just as hard to erase as they are fighting lies, tyranny, poverty, illiteracy and Communism in Vietnam? The answer is America. All of you…
’

Adams pushed a button which advanced the tape in jerks.
‘
Sort of a dull section.
’
The muted tape screamed, hiccuped, and Adams spoke again. Ingham was aware of Adams
’
s tense, self-satisfied smile as he sat perched on the other side
of the bed, though Ingham could not look at him, but kept his eyes on the tape machine. His abdomen was contracting, getting ready for another wave of pain.

‘
… comfort to us all. The
new
American soldier is a crusader, bringing not only peace- eventually-but a happier, healthier, more
profitable
way of life to whatever country he sets foot in. And unfortunately, so often that setting foot
’
(Adams
’
s voice had dropped dramatically to a hushed tone and stopped)
—
‘
that setting foot means the death of that soldier, the telegram of bad news to his family back home,
tragedy
to his young wife or sweetheart, bereavement to his children..
.’

‘
Again not too exciting
.’
Adams said, though he looked very excited himself. More squeaks and gulps from the tape machine, a couple of samples which did not please Adams, then:

‘
… the voice of God will prevail at last. The men who put
people
before all else will triumph. The men who put
‘
the
State
’
first, in defiance of human values, will perish. America fights to preserve
human
values. America fights not only to preserve herself but all others who would follow in her path
—
in our blessed way of life. Good night, my friends
.’

Click.
Adams turned the machine off.

Our Blessed Way of Life. OBWL. Not pronounceable. Ingham hesitated, then said,
‘
That
’
s very impressive
.’

‘
You like it. Good
.’
Adams began briskly putting his equipment away, back into the closet which he again locked.

If it was all true, Ingham was thinking,
.’.’
”
Adams was paid by the Russians, he was paid because it was so absurd, it was really rather good anti-American propaganda.
‘
I wonder how many people it reaches? How many listen?
’

‘
Upwards of six million
.’
Adams replied.
‘
So my friends say. I call them my friends, although I don
’
t even know their names, except the one man I told you about. A price is on their heads, if they
’
re found out. And they
’
re gaining recruits all the time, of course.
’

Ingham nodded.
‘
What
’
s their final plan? I mean about
—
changing their government
’
s policy and all that?
’

“
It
’
s not so much a final plan as a war of attrition
.’
Adams said with his confident, pouchy smile, and from the happy sparkle in his eyes, Ingham knew that this was where his heart lay, his
raison d’être
,
in these weekly broadcasts that carried the American Way of Life behind the Iron Curtain.
“
The results may not even be seen in my lifetime. But if people listen, and they do, I make my effect
.’

Ingham felt blank for a moment.
‘
How long are your talks?
’

‘
Fifteen minutes.
—
You mustn
’
t tell anyone here. Not even another American. Matter of fact, you
’
re the first American I
’
ve told about it. I don
’
t even tell my daughter, just in case it might leak out. You understand?
’

‘
Of course,
’
Ingham said. It was late, after midnight. He wanted to leave. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like claustrophobia.

‘I’m
not paid much, but to tell you the truth, I
’
d do it for nothing,
’
Adams said.
‘
Let
’
s go in the other room
.’

Ingham declined Adams
’
s offer of a coffee or a nightcap, and managed to leave in five minutes, and gracefully. But as he walked in the dark back towards his own bungalow, he felt somehow shaky. Ingham went to bed, but after a moment, his insides began churning, and he was up and in the bathroom. This time he vomited, as well. That was good, Ingham thought, in case the trouble had been the
poisson-complet
—
the fried fish with fried egg
—
at the restaurant in La Goulette. He took more Entero-Vioform.