The Tremor of Forgery Page 11

  ‘Really! Is that so?—In his apartment, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ingham hadn’t told Adams that it had happened in his own apartment. Just as well.

  ‘She’s not coming over?’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s a long way. I should be getting back in a week or so. Back to New York.’

  ‘Why so soon?’

  ‘I can’t stand the heat very well.—Didn’t you say you had something to show me?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Something for you to listen to. It’s short!’ Adams said, holding up a finger. ‘But I think it’s interesting. Come in the bedroom.’

  Another blasted tape, Ingham thought. He had hoped that Adams might have found an ancient amphora on the sea bottom, or speared a rare fish. No such luck.

  Once more the suitcase on the bed, the reverently handled recording machine. ‘My latest.’ Adams said softly. ‘Scheduled for Wednesday next.’

  The tape hissed, and began:

  ‘Good evening, friends, everywhere. This is Robin Good-fellow, bringing you a message from America, land ot the.. .’ Adams raced the tape, explained that it was his usual introduction. The tape chattered and squeaked, then slowed down to ‘… what we might call democracy. It is true the Israelis have achieved a crushing victory. They are to be congratulated from a military point of view for having won over superior numbers. Two million seven hundred thousand Jews against an Arab population of one hundred and ten million. But who in fact struck the first blow? —I leave this, friends, to your governments to tell you. If they are honest, governments, they will say that Israel did.’ (Long pause. The tape floated expectantly.) ‘This is an historic fact. It is not damning, not fatal to Israel’s prestige, it is not going to’—apparently groping for a word, though Ingham was sure he had the whole thing written and rewritten before he began—‘blacken Israel, at least not in the eyes of pro-Israel countries. But I Not content with mere triumph and the displacement of thousands of Arabs, the seizure of Arab territory, the Israelis now show signs of the arrogant nationalism which was the hallmark of Nazi Germany, and for which Nazi Germany at last went to her doom. I say, much as Israel was provoked by threats to her homeland, her womenfolk, and by border incidents—and there were and are incidents to the discredit of Israel that might be cited—it would be well for Israel to be magnanimous in her hour of victory, and above all—to guard against that overweening pride and chauvinism which has been the downfall of greater countries than she…

  ‘Or should I have said “her”?’ Adams whispered.

  Ingham suppressed a crazy mirth. ‘I think both are okay.’

  ‘… should not be forgotten that half the population of Israel speaks Arabic as a native tongue. This is not to say that they are always Arabs per se. The Israelis boast of having broadcast wrong directions in Arabic to Jordanian planes and tanks, implying some mental achievement. They boast of having become great farmers, now that there is no law saying they have no profession but money-lending. There is no law against their becoming farmers in the United States, but very few are. The Israeli Jews are mainly of different origin from the American Jews, who are considerably less eastern, less Arabic. The rankling Arab-Israeli antipathy shows signs of becoming one long, merciless struggle of Arab against near-Arab, fierceness against fierceness. Sanity must prevail. Magnanimity must prevail… (Adams skipped again.) ‘… must sit down as brothers and discuss …’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Adams said, clicking it off. ‘The rest is wind-up, recapitulation. What do you think?’

  Ingham finally said, ‘I suppose the Russians will approve, since they’re anti-Israel.’

  ‘The Russian Government is anti-American? Adams said, as if he were informing Ingham of something he did not know.

  ‘Yes, but—’ Ingham’s mind boggled again. Were the Russians so anti-American, except for the Vietnam thing? “The Israeli arrogance may be only temporary, you know. After all, they’ve got a right to a little crowing, after what they did.’

  Adams gesticulated, more vigorously than Ingham had yet seen. ‘Temporary or not, it’s dangerous while it’s there, it’s dangerous at any time. It’s a dangerous sign.’

  Ingham hesitated, but could not refrain from saying, ‘Don’t you think America’s just a bit arrogant in supposing that her way of life is the only one in the world, the very best for everybody? Furthermore, killing people daily to foist it on them, whether they like it or not? Is that arrogance, or isn’t it?’ Ingham put out a half-finished cigarette, and swore to himself not to say another word on the subject. It was ludicrous, maddening, stupid.

  Adams said, ‘America attempts to sweep away dictatorships in order to give people the freedom to vote.’

  Ingham did not reply. He continued to stab his cigarette gently into the ashtray. Adams was upset. This could be the end of their friendship, Ingham thought, or the end of any real liking between them. Ingham didn’t care. He did not feel like saying anything mitigating. The awful thing was, there was just a grain of truth in what Adams said about Israeli nationalism. The very countries on whom Israel was dependent had suggested she give back some of the territory she had just taken, and Israel was refusing. Both people were irritating, the Israelis and the Arabs. The only thing for any non-Jew or non-Arab to do was keep his mouth shut. If one said anything pro-Israel or pro-Arab, one ran the risk of being pounced on. It wasn’t worth it. Hie problem was not his. He had no influence.

  ‘I don’t know what to do with the damned Arabs,’ Ingham said. ‘Why the hell don’t they work more? Pardon my language.—But if a poor country’s ever going to pull itself up—it shouldn’t have all these hundreds of young men sitting in cafés from early morning until midnight, doing bloody nothing.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve got something there,’ Adams said, warming, smiling now.

  ‘So between the two countries, I’m bound to say the Westerner admires the Jews more, because they’re not always on their asses. Maybe not ever, from what I hear.’

  ‘It’s the climate here, it’s the religion,’ Adams chanted, eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘The religion, maybe. Norman Douglas concludes his book on Tunisia with a wonderful statement. He says people think the desert made the Arab what he is. Douglas says the Arab made the desert. He let the land go to hell. When the Romans were in Tunisia, there were wells, aquaducts, forests, there was the beginning of agriculture.’ Ingham could have gone on. His own passion surprised him. ‘Another thing.’ he said as Adams was putting away his equipment. ‘Oh, thank you for letting me hear the tape. I know it’s possible to find the Arabs interesting, to study their fatalistic religion, admire their mosques and all that, but it all seems such whimsy, even tourist whimsy, compared to the important fact they’re holding themselves back with all this nonsense. What’s the use of swooning over an embroidered—house-shoe or whatever, or admiring their resignation to fate, if lots of them are begging or stealing, and from us?’

  ‘I agree completely,’ Adams said, locking his closet. ‘And, as you say, if they depend on fate, why beg from Western tourists who don’t believe in fate, but simply in working, in trying? Ah, some religions —’ Adams abandoned his sentence in disgust. ‘Let me freshen your drink. Yes, and the French and American money pouring in!’

  ‘A half, please,’ Ingham said. He followed Adams into the pleasant living-room, the stainless-steel kitchen. ‘As to funny religions, don’t you think our charming West is guilty, too? Look at all the kids who come into the world entirely because the Catholic church doesn’t permit sufficient birth control. The Catholic church ought to be entirely responsible for the welfare of these kids, but no, they say, let the State do it.’ Ingham laughed. ‘The Pope’s nose! I wish somebody would rub it in some of the things that are going on in Ireland!’

  Adams handed Ingham his drink, scrupulously one-half. ‘All true!—There’s one thing I didn’t put into my tape, because it isn’t very pertinent to the people behind the Iron Curtain. Or is it? I had a letter from a Jewish friend in the States just now.
Now he’s very much a Jew, suddenly. Before he was a Russian, or an American of Russian descent. This is what I mean by chauvinism. Let’s go in and sit.’

  They sat down in the living-room in their usual places.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ Adams said.

  Ingham saw, and he hated it. He hated it because he knew it was true. Ingham might have remarked that the Russians had quite a reputation for anti-Semitism, but that, presumably, was the attitude of the Russian Government, not the Russian or Communist-controlled people whom Adams was concerned with.

  ‘What about the young lady at the Fourati?’ Adams asked. ‘Is she nice?’

  Adams’s question sounded studiedly polite and casual, almost like a spy’s, Ingham thought. He answered equally carefully, ‘Yes, I saw her last evening for dinner. She’s from Pennsylvania. She’s leaving on Wednesday.’

  They had scrambled eggs with fried salami and a green salad, which Adams made in his kitchen. Adams put on his radio, and they had background music of a concert from Marseilles, background music, too, of a yelled conversation from the boys at the bungalow headquarters. Adams said it was nothing unusual. It was a quiet evening. But Ingham was a little on guard with Adams now. He did not like Adams’s speculative eyes on him. He did not want Adams to know that his typewriter was being repaired, because Adams might guess that he had thrown it at the Arab. Ingham thought he could manage to be polite and still not invite Adams to his bungalow for the next week. Or if Adams came, he could say that he was taking a few days off from work. And presumably the typewriter would be in the closet.

  12

  INGHAM awakened early the next morning, Sunday, to the prospect of a day without typewriter, without post, without even the consolation of a good newspaper. The Sunday papers (English, not American) arrived Tuesday or Wednesday at the main building of the hotel, a couple of copies each of the Sunday Telegraphy Observer, and the Sunday Times which were maddeningly sometimes appropriated by the guests and taken up to their rooms.

  There was, of course, his novel, the comforting stack of nearly a hundred pages on his desk. But he didn’t care to think about it any further today, because he knew where he was going when he got his typewriter back.

  And there was also Ina’s letter to answer. Ingham had decided on a calm, thoughtful reply (basic tone being kindly, without reproach) which would say that he agreed with her, their feelings for each other were perhaps too vague or cool to be called love (whatever that was), and that the fact she had been so taken with John for a time proved the point. He intended to say he did not resent anything, and that he would certainly like to see her again when he returned to the States.

  This mentally written letter, however, was simply diplomatic and cautious, face-saving, Ingham realized. He had been nastily stung by Ina’s little affair with John. He was simply too proud to let Ina know that. And he reckoned he had nothing to lose by writing a diplomatic letter, and that he could keep his pride by doing so.

  But he didn’t care to spend an hour of the relatively cool morning writing it in longhand. After his breakfast—served by Mokta—Ingham drove into Hammamet.

  Again, having parked his car near Melik’s, Ingham looked around for the old Arab, who was always drifting about on a Sunday morning. But not this morning. Ingham stopped for a cold rosé in the Plage. He was alert for any staring at him, but he did not think there was any. The possibility of retaliation had occurred to him, in case a few Arabs learned that he had hit, or killed, the old man. That news could certainly spread via the hotel boys. But Ingham saw and sensed nothing that suggested animosity. The retaliation might take the form of a slashed car tyre, a broken windscreen. He didn’t anticipate a personal attack.

  He went next door to the wineshop, where he bought a bottle of boukhah, then he walked through the alley towards Jensen’s house. He looked at the road where he had seen the man with the cut throat. The sun was shining full on it in a bright strip, but Ingham saw no sign of blood. Then just as he was about to look away, he did see a darkish patch in the hard soil, nearly obscured by the drifting dust. That was it. But no one, not knowing, would have taken the spot for blood, he thought. Or was he wrong? Had someone dropped a bottle of wine there a couple of days ago? He went on to Jensen’s.

  Jensen was in, but it took some time for him to answer Ingham’s knock because, he said, he had been asleep. He had wakened early, worked, then gone back to bed. He was glad to see the boukhah, but the gloom of the missing Hasso still hung about him. Jensen looked thinner. He had evidently not shaved in a couple of days. They poured the boukhah.

  Ingham sat on Jensen’s tousled bed. There were no sheets on it, only a thin blanket in which Jensen evidently slept.

  ‘Still no news of Hasso?’ Ingham asked.

  ‘Nope.’ Jensen was stooped, washing his face in a white metal basin on the floor. Then he combed his hair.

  There was no sign of his leaving, packing up, Ingham saw. He did not want to ask Jensen about that. ‘Can I have a glass of water with this?’ Ingham asked. ‘Stuff’s pretty fiery.’

  Jensen smiled his shy, naive smile, which always came at nothing in particular. ‘And to think it is distilled from the sweet fig,’ he said sourly. He went out and reappeared with a tumbler of water. The glass was not clean, but the water looked all right. Ingham was in no mood to care.

  ‘My typewriter’s being repaired till next Saturday,’ Ingham said. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to go on a trip with me somewhere. Maybe Gabes. Three hundred and ninety-four kilometres—that is, from Tunis. In my car, I mean.’

  Jensen looked blank and surprised.

  ‘I thought we might stay away two nights. More if we feel like it.’

  ‘Yes.—I think that sounds very nice.’

  ‘We might try a camel trip somewhere. Hire a guide, maybe—that’s on me—and sleep out on the desert. Gabes is an oasis, you know, even though it’s on the sea. I thought a change of scene might pick you up. I know I need it.’

  In the next half-hour, on two or three more boukbabs, Jensen slowly brightened like a windblown candle given the shelter of a hand. ‘I can contribute blankets and a little cooking-stove. Thermos, torch — What else do we need?’

  ‘We’ll be driving through Sfax, which looks pretty big on the map, and we can buy things there. I’d like to go to Tozour, but it looks rather far. Do you know it?’ (Jensen didn’t know Tozour.) ‘It’s a famous old oasis inland, past the Chott. My map has an airport marking at Tozour.’ Ingham, inspired by the boukhah, was about to propose flying there, but restrained himself.

  Jensen showed Ingham his latest painting, a canvas four feet high, tacked on to pieces of wood Jensen had probably found. The picture shocked Ingham. Maybe it was shockingly good, Ingham thought. It was of a disembowelled Arab, split like a steer in a butcher’s shop. The Arab was screaming, not at all dead, and the red and white bowels hung down to the bottom of the canvas.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ingham murmured involuntarily.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I do like it,’ Ingham said,

  They decided to take off the next morning. Ingham would call for Jensen between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock. Jensen was happily tight now, but at least happy for the nonce.

  ‘Have you got some toothpaste?’ Ingham asked. Jensen had some. Ingham rinsed his mouth with the remainder of his glass of water, and at Jensen’s insistence spat it out of the window which gave on the little court below where the toilet was. The boukhah left a powerful taste, and Ingham felt it could be smelt six feet away.

  Ingham drove to the Fourati. He thought he should invite Miss Kathryn Darby for dinner tonight, and if she was not free, he would at least have been polite. She was leaving on Wednesday, and he expected to be away Wednesday, Miss Darby was not in, but Ingham left a message that he would call for her at seven-thirty to go to dinner, but if she was not free, perhaps she could leave a message for him at the Reine by five o’clock.

  Then Ingham went back to his bung
alow, took a swim, had a bite of lunch from his refrigerator, and slept.

  When he woke up, feeling no ill-effects from the boukhah, he took his smaller suitcase from his closet and began in a happy, leisurely way to pack for the jaunt to the south. It would be even hotter, that was definite.

  Mokta knocked on his door at a quarter to five. Miss Darby was not free tonight. Ingham gave Mokta a tip.

  ‘Oh, merci, m’sieur!’ His face broke into his attractive smile that made him look more European than Arab to Ingham.

  ‘I’m going away for three days,’ Ingham said. ‘I’d like you to keep an eye on the bungalow. ‘I’ll lock everything—also the closets.’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur. You are going on an interesting trip? Maybe to Djerba?’

  ‘Maybe. I thought I would drive to Gabes.’

  ‘Ah, Gabes!’ he said as if he knew it. 1 have never been there. Big oasis.’ Mokta shifted on his feet, he smiled, his willing arms swung, but there was nothing for him to do.’ What time will you leave? I will help you with your suitcases.’

  ‘Thanks, it’s not necessary. Only one suitcase.—Have you heard anything more about the man who was prowling Friday night?’

  Mokta’s face went blank, and his mouth hung slightly open. ‘There was no man, m’sieur.’

  ‘Oh—M’sieur Adams told me Hassim said there was. The boys took him away—somewhere. I was told it was near my bungalow.’ Ingham was ashamed of his dishonesty, but Mokta was equally dishonest in denying the whole thing.

  Mokta’s hands fluttered. ‘The boys talk, m’sieur. They make up stories.’

  Ingham did not think it proper to quiz him any further. ‘I see. Well—let’s hope there are no prowlers when Fm away.’

  “Ah, I hope, m’sieur! Merci, au revoir, m’sieur.’ The smile again, a bow, and he went.

  Ingham would never see Miss Darby again, he supposed, which mattered neither to her nor to him. He was reminded of a passage in the Norman Douglas book which he had liked, and he picked up the book and looked for it. Douglas was talking about an old Italian gardener he had met by accident somewhere in Tunisia. The passage Ingham had marked went: