The Tremor of Forgery Page 16

  ‘Did you hear from Miles Gallust, by the way?’

  Gallust was the producer, the man who might have been the producer, of Trio. Typical of Ina to remember his name, Ingham thought. ‘I had a letter in early July. He regretted and all that. I only saw him once, you know. Briefly.’

  ‘So this trip is costing you something. Hiring a car and so forth.’

  Ingham shrugged. ‘But it’s educational. John gave me a thousand dollars, you know, and also paid the plane fare.’

  1 know,’ said Ina, as if she knew quite well.

  ‘The country isn’t wildly expensive. Anyway, I’m not broke.’

  Ina smiled. ‘That reminds me. You know your story “We Is all”?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘It’s winning a prize. First Prize for the O. Henry Awards. In the yearly prize story thing.’

  ‘Really? You’re joking!’ The story had appeared in a little quarterly somewhere, after many a rejection.

  ‘I’m not joking. I have a friend on the committee of judges or whatever it is, and he knows I know you, so he told me on condition I wouldn’t tell anyone—else, that is.’

  ‘What does that mean? A money prize or what?’

  ‘Money? I don’t know. Maybe just distinction. It is a good story.’

  Yes, it was a good story, based on Ingham’s imagining the life, or the periodic crises, of one of his friends in New York who was schizophrenic. ‘Thank you,’ Ingham said quietly, but his face was warm with pride, with a shyness born of sudden glory.

  ‘Are you sure my luggage is safe in the car?’

  Ingham smiled. ‘Reasonably. But what a sensible question! Let’s take off.’

  When they drove off from the restaurant, Ingham stopped and bought some day-old papers and the Saturday-Sunday edition of the Paris Herald-Tribune. Then they drove on towards Hammamet.

  ‘Are you tired?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I should be. What is it? Nine in the morning to me, and I’ve been up all night, more or less.’

  ‘Get some sleep this afternoon. What do you think of this view?’

  The blue gulf was on their left, in full sunlight. It spread low and wide, and looked as if it covered half the earth.

  ‘Quite terrific! And goodness, it’s warm!’ She had removed her white coat. Her blouse was flower-patterned and sleeveless.

  At last Ingham said, ‘Here’s Hammamet!’ and realized his joyous tone, as if he were saying, ‘Here’s home!’

  They left the wider road—a trio of camels was strolling along the verge, but Ina did not seem to notice them—and rolled on to the dusty asphalt that curved into the village.

  ‘This doesn’t look like much,’ he said. ‘The town’s mainly a lot of little Arab houses and fancy hotels, but they’re all on the beach, the hotels. Ahead.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘To the left. Just here.’ They were passing his street. Ingham saw Jensen between their alley and the Plage, heading for the Plage, no doubt. Jensen, with his back towards

  Ingham and his head down, did not see him. I’m sure you’d like to go to your hotel room before you see my place.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  But they were rounding the curve now towards the beach hotels.

  ‘What a marvellous castle!’ Ina said.

  ‘That’s an old fort. Built by the Spanish.’

  Then they were at the Reine, going through the broad gates, rolling on to crunchy gravel between tall palms, bougainvillaea, and sturdy little grapefruit and lemon trees. It was rather spectacular! Ingham felt a surge of pride, as if he owned the place.

  ‘This looks like an old plantation!’ Ina said.

  Ingham laughed. ‘Massa’s a Frenchman. Wait till you see the beach.’ Ingham ran directly into Mokta as he was opening the front door. ‘Have you got two minutes, Mokta?’

  Mokta was for once empty-handed. ‘Mais oui, m’sieur!’

  Ingham introduced him to Mile Pallant, and explained that Mokta worked at the bungalows. Mokta got the key to number eighteen, and helped them with the luggage.

  The room was lovely, with a window on the sea, and a door that went on to a good-sized whitewashed terrace with a curving white parapet.

  ‘It’s really terribly pretty!’ Ina said.

  The sun was sinking on their right, into the sea, and looked unnaturally huge.

  ‘I’m dying for a shower,’ Ina said.

  ‘Go ahead. Shall I—’

  ‘Can you wait for me?’ She was unbuttoning her blouse.

  ‘Sure.’ He had brought the newspapers and wanted to look at them.

  ‘So you’re picking up Arabic?’

  Ingham laughed. ‘You mean what I said to Mokta?”Thank you, see you soon”? I don’t know anything. What’s so irritating is, words are spelled differently in different phrase books.

  “Asma” is sometimes “esma”. And “fatma”—’ Ingham laughed. ‘I thought at first it was our cleaning girl’s name, a form of Fatima. Turns out to mean “girl” or “maid”. So just yell “fatma” if you want the maid here.’

  ‘I’ll remember that.’

  A flowery scent of soap drifted out to Ingham, but it was not steamy. No doubt she was taking a cool shower. Ingham stared at the Paris Herald-Tribune.

  Ina came out wrapped in a large white towel. ‘You know what I’d like to do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to bed.’

  Ingham got up. ‘How nice. You know that was what I was wanting, too?’ He put his arms around the towel and her and kissed her. Then he went and locked the door.

  He locked also the tall shutters on to the terrace.

  This time it was all right. It was like former times, like all the times with Ina. It erased the silly memory of the girl from Pennsylvania, and made Ingham think that that minor mishap had been due to the fact that he loved only Ina. She adored him. She was a lovely size in bed. Why had he been so insane all these past weeks, Ingham wondered. Why had he thought he didn’t love her? They smoked a cigarette, then embraced each other again. And twenty minutes after that, Ingham could have begun all over again.

  Ina laughed at him.

  Ingham smiled, breathless and happy. ‘As you see, I’ve been saving myself for you.’

  ‘I begin to believe you.’

  Ingham reached for the telephone. He ordered champagne on ice, in French.

  ‘Aren’t you going to get dressed?’

  ‘Partially. The devil with them.’ He got out of bed and put on his trousers. Then his shirt which he did not at once button. He had a malicious desire to ask, ‘Was John any good in bed?’ He repressed it.

  Ina looked beautiful, hands behind her head, face sleepily smiling at him, eyes half-dosed, satisfied. Under the sheet she spread her legs and brought them together again.

  Ingham drew with contentment on his cigarette. Was this what life was all about, he wondered. Was this the most important thing? Was it even more important than writing a book?

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  Ingham fell down beside her on the bed and embraced her through the sheet. ‘I am thinking—you are the sexiest woman in the world.’

  There was a knock on the door.

  Ingham got up. He tipped the waiter, then gave him a couple of dinars and a lot of change, which the waiter said would pay for the champagne.

  To you.’ Ingham said, as he lifted his glass.

  ‘To you, darling—and your book. Do you like it?’

  CI suppose I like it or I wouldn’t be writing it. It’s a theme that’s been done before, but —’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I hope to say something else, something different.—I’m not so much interested in the story as in people’s moral judgements on the hero. Dennison. I mean people in the book. Well, readers, too. And in Dennison’s opinion of himself.’ Ingham shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it now. ‘It’s funny, of all the books I’ve written, you could say this is the least orig
inal, yet it interests me as much as any of them have.’

  Ina set her glass on the night-table, holding the top of the sheet over her breasts with the other hand. ‘It’s what you put into it. Not how original the theme is.’

  That was true. Ingham didn’t say anything. ‘After another glass of this, I’ll leave and let you sleep. We can have dinner as late as nine or so. Do you think you’d like dinner in the hotel or at a crummy—well, Arab place in the town?’

  ‘An Arab place.’

  ‘And—would you like to meet Jensen or would you rather be alone?’

  Ina smiled. She was on one elbow. She had just the beginning of a double chin, or a fullness, under her jaw, and Ingham thought it charming. 1 wouldn’t mind meeting Jensen.’

  Ingham left the Reine in a glow of happiness, on the wings of success. And he had not forgotten the prize, the kudos or whatever it was, coming to him from the O. Henry Award thing.

  18

  JENSEN was out when Ingham got home at five-thirty. He was either at the Plage or taking a walk along the beach, Ingham thought. Ingham straightened up his rooms a little, gave them a sweep, then went out with the double purpose of finding Jensen and buying some flowers. Flowers in a vase, even if the vase was a glass, would look nice on the table, he thought, and he reproached himself for not having had flowers in Ina’s room awaiting her. But how could he have known that the afternoon would turn out as well as it had?

  Ingham was about to go into the Plage, when he saw Jensen walking slowly up from the beach, barefoot, carrying something that at first Ingham thought was a child: a long dark object which he held in both arms. Jensen plodded forward, blond and thin, like some starving Viking landed after a shipwreck. Ingham saw that what he carried was a big piece of wood.

  ‘Hey!’ Ingham called, approaching him.

  Jensen lifted his head a little in acknowledgement. His mouth was open with his effort.

  “What’s that?’

  “A log.’ Jensen said. ‘Maybe for a statue. I don’t know.’ He gasped and set it down. It was water-logged.

  Ingham had an impulse to help him, but he was in a good shirt, and his mind was on flowers.

  ‘Not very often one finds a nice piece of wood like this. I had to go into the water for it.’ The legs of Jensen’s levis were damp.

  ‘I’m bringing my friend over at eight. I hope you can join us for dinner. Can you?’

  ‘Okay. Sure. Do I have to get dressed up?’

  ‘No. I thought we’d go to Melik’s.—Do you know where I can pick up some flowers? Just a few cut flowers?’

  ‘You can try the souk. Or maybe the jasmine guy’s at the Plage.’ Jensen smiled.

  Ingham pulled his fist back as if to hit him. ‘I’ll be home in a few minutes,’ he said and walked off to the left, in hopes of seeing a flower vendor sitting on the pavement between here and the little Hammamet bank. Ingham couldn’t find any flowers, and gave it up after ten minutes. He twisted off a couple of pine twigs from the trunk of a tree by the beach, and at home stuck them in a glass of water. They looked insanely nordic. Once more, he put his typewriter and papers on the floor. Then he took off his shirt and trousers and flung himself on his bed and slept.

  He awakened feeling happier than when he had left the Reine, though a little dopey in the head from the heat. He took a bucket shower in the court He was now expert at saving the right amount of water to get the soap off. He might introduce the revolutionary idea of two buckets, since the one bucket was often overflowing. He had been correct, the tap didn’t come on any further, but he could always draw water from the kitchen sink.

  Ingham went to Melik’s and reserved a table for between quarter to nine and nine o’clock. Then he drove on to pick up Ina. Ina was downstairs in the Reine’s lobby, sitting on a big sofa, smoking a cigarette. She was in a pink sleeveless dress with a big, cool-looking green flower printed on the dress above one breast.

  ‘I’m not late, am I?’ Ingham asked.

  ‘No. I’m just looking over the people.’ She got up.

  ‘Did you have a nap?’

  ‘I had a swim and a nap. The beach is divine!’

  1 forgot to say, you can get demi-pension here if you prefer. You might like lunch or dinner here, I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t want to be pinned down just yet.’

  Ingham stopped the car in the usual place near Melik’s, and asked Ina to wait a minute. He ran up the steps to the terrace. He had arranged to pick up ice. Then Ingham went back to Ina with the ice-tray, locked his car, and they walked into the first narrow alley.

  Ina looked around, fascinated, at everything. And the Arabs, what few there were in the alley, or leaning in doorways, looked back at her, wide-eyed and faintly smiling.

  Ingham stopped at his door, a door like many others, except that his was closed and most were open.

  ‘I must say it looks like the real McCoy!’ Ina said.

  Ingham was glad the toilet door was not open. ‘This is where I work. And also sleep,’ Ingham said, letting her precede him into his room.

  ‘Really?’ said Ina, in a tone that sounded amazed.

  ‘A little Robinson Crusoe, maybe, but actually I don’t need any more than this.’ His mind was on getting her to sit down in the most comfortable place—the bed. He now had a dark red pillow that one could lean against, but only if one slumped, as the bed was rather wide.

  Ina wanted to see the kitchen. ‘Reasonably neat,’ she said, still smiling, and Ingham felt that his tidying had been worthwhile. ‘And I suppose it’s dirt cheap.’

  ‘Two dollars a day,’ Ingham said, coping with the ice now.

  ‘And the John?’

  ‘Well, that’s just an outside thing. In the court. I have to wash here.’ The ice fell into the sink and at the same time he cut his thumb slightly on the metal grill of the tray. ‘Scotch and water? I have soda.’

  ‘Water’s fine. Whose paintings are these?’

  ‘Oh, those are Anders’s. Do you like them?’

  ‘I like the abstract. I’m not so fond of the little boy.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him you liked painting.’ Ingham smiled, happy that Ina and Jensen would have something to talk about. ‘Here, darling.’

  She took her drink and sat down on the door-bed. ‘Oof!’ she said, bouncing a little, or trying to. ‘Not exactly springy.’

  ‘The Arabs aren’t much for beds. They sleep on mats on the floor.’

  Ina wore pale green earrings. Her hair was shorter. It waved naturally, and she wore it without a parting. ‘A strange people. And just a little frightening. By the way, were there any repercussions here after the war? Or during it?’

  ‘Yes, quite a few. Cars overturned in Tunis, windows of the American Information Service library busted right in the middle of town. I didn’t —’

  Jensen appeared in the doorway, and knocked. He was in his green trousers, a clean white shirt.

  ‘Anders Jensen, Miss Pallant. Ina.’

  ‘How do you do,’ Ina said, looking him over, smiling, not extending a hand.

  Jensen made an abortive bow. ‘How do you do, Miss—Ina.’ He could sometimes look like an awkward, well-meaning sixteen-year-old.

  ‘Fix you a stone,’ Ingham said, going to the kitchen. Jensen was amused by the adjective ‘stoned’, and he often called a drink a stone. Ingham heard Ina ask:

  ‘Have you been here a long time?’

  Ingham brought Jensen his drink, a good big one.

  They talked about Jensen’s paintings. Jensen was pleased that she had noticed them, and that she liked the orange abstract. Ina did not mention her brother. Jensen said he was working now on a sand picture, inspired by the trip he and Ingham had made to Gabes.

  ‘We slept out on the sand,’ Jensen said. ‘There wasn’t any storm as in my picture, but one gets a very close view with one’s eyes—at sand level.’

  The conversation rolled on pleasantly. Ina’s quick eyes took in everything, Ingham felt, Jensen’s
white leather shoes, their uppers perforated, his thin hands (yellow paint under one thumbnail), his profoundly troubled face that could look tragic and merry and tragic again in a matter of seconds. Ina’s forehead grew shiny with perspiration, Ingham hoped there was a breeze on Melik’s terrace. She fished a gnat out of her second, iceless, drink.

  “The insects here are alcoholic.’ Jensen said, and Ina laughed.

  At Melik’s, it was couscous, of course. Ina thought the place charming. The canary was in good voice. There was also a flute, not too loud, and a breeze, faint but still a breeze.

  ‘Are women allowed here?’ Ina asked softly and Ingham laughed. ‘They have such funny laws. Where are the women?’

  ‘Home cooking their own dinner.’ Jensen said. ‘And these men—they’ve probably spent the afternoon with their girl friends, and after dinner they will visit other girl friends and finally go home—where their wives are also pregnant.’

  This amused Ina. ‘You mean, it doesn’t cost much to have a lot of girl friends? These fellows don’t look exactly affluent.’

  ‘I think Arab women dare not say no. I dunno. Don’t ask me.’ said Jensen with a languid wave of a hand. He looked into space.

  ‘Not wearing your cuff-links?’ Ina said to Ingham.

  Ingham was wearing very ordinary cuff-links he had bought in Tunis. ‘I thought I wrote you. I had a slight robbery at the Reine. In my bungalow. They took my stud box with everything I had like that—all my cuff-links, a tiepin, a couple of rings.’ The robbery had included his gold wedding ring, Ingham suddenly realized.

  ‘No, you didn’t mention it.’ Ina said.

  ‘Also a pair of shoes.’ Ingham said. 1 was sorry about those cuff-links. I loved them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’

  ‘You’d better—Well, it’s perhaps safer in the hotel where you are.’ Ingham said, ‘but if you have anything valuable, you might as well put it in one of your suitcases and lock it.’

  Jensen listened, expressionless.

  ‘Thanks for the tip.’ Ina said. ‘I’m pretty lucky, usually. But then I’ve never been in old Araby before. They’re not famous for —’ She smiled and looked at Jensen. ‘What’s the opposite of thievery?’ She turned to Ingham. ‘You mentioned a canvas jacket you’d lost. I know you’re fond of old clothes, darling, but that thing — I remember it.’