Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery by Patricia Highsmith Read Free Book Online Page A

whose walls sloped gently back, looked at the huddled, domed white Arab houses behind it, heard the still balmy breeze in his ears, and felt far away from New York, from John and his mysterious reasons, even far away from Ina — because he resented her not having written. He hated his resentment and his small-mindedness for having it. Maybe Ina had good reasons for not having written. But if so, what were they? He was not even close to Adams, Ingham thought with a slight start of fear, or loneliness.
    Where would he go? Look at the Tunisia map tomorrow, Ingham thought. Or get back to work on the book, until Ina ’ s letter or cable came. That was the wisest thing. His bungalow with breakfast cost about six dollars a day, not that he was worried about money. But much of his Tunisian expenses would obviously have to come out of his own pocket now. Anyway, he ought to wait two or three days for a word from Ina, in case she wrote instead of cabled.
    They said good night on the bungalow driveway. ‘ My thoughts are with you .’ Adams said, speaking softly, because people were asleep in the near-by bungalows. ‘ Get some rest. You ’ ve had a shock, Howard. ’

 

     
     

    5
     
     
    Ingham meant to sleep late, but he awakened early. He went for a swim, then came back and made some instant coffee. It was still only half-past seven. He worked until Mokta brought his breakfast at nine o ’ clock.
    ‘ Ah, you work early this morning !’ Mokta said. ‘ Be careful you do not make the head turn. ’ He made a circular motion with one finger near his ear.
    Ingham smiled. He had noticed that Arabs were always worried about overstraining their brains. One young man he had spoken with in Naboul had told him that he was a university student, but had overstrained his brain, so he was on a vacation of several weeks on doctor ’ s orders. ‘ Don ’ t forget to see if I have a letter, will you, Mokta? I shall look around eleven, but a letter may come before then. ’
    ‘ But today is Sunday. ’
    ‘ So it is. ’ Ingham was suddenly depressed. ‘ By the way, I can use a clean towel. Hassim took mine yesterday and forgot to bring a clean one. ’
    ‘ Ah, that Hassim! I am sor r y sir ! I hope there are clean towels today. Yesterday we used them all. ’
    Ingham nodded. Somebody was getting clean towels, anyway.
    ‘ And you know, ’ Mokta said, leaning gracefully against the door jamb, ‘ all the boys go to school for five months to learn hotel work? You would not believe it, would you? ’
    ‘ No. ’ Ingham buttered a piece of toast.
    Ingham slept from twelve until one o ’ clock. He had written nine pages and he was pleased with his work. He took his car and drove to Bir Bou Rekba, a tiny town about seven kilometres away, and had lunch at a simple little restaurant with a couple of tables out on the pavement. The wandering cats were skinnier, ribs showing, and all their tails were broken at a painful angle. Breaking cats ’ or kittens ’ tails was eviden tl y a minor sport in Tunisia. Most of the cats in Hammamet had broken tails, too. Ingham heard no French. He heard nothing that he could understand. It was appropriate, this environment, he thought, as the main character in his book lived half his time in a world unknown to his family and his business associates, a world known only to himself, really, because he couldn ’ t share with anyone the truth that he was appropriating money and forging cheques with three false signatures several times a month. Ingham sat in the sun dreaming, sipping chilled ros é , wishing — but not desperately at this moment — that time would pass a little faster so that he could have a word from Ina. What would her excuse be? Or maybe a letter from her had got lost, or maybe two had. Ingham had telephoned the Hotel du Golfe the day before yesterday, but not yesterday. He was sick of being told there wasn ’ t anything for him. And anyway, the Golfe was apparently forwarding reliably