Yours sincerely,
Peter Langland
John Castlewood had killed himself. Ingham walked to the window with the letter in his hand. The blue shutters were closed against the augmenting morning sun, but he stared at the shutters as if he could see through them. This was the end of the Tunisia expedition. How had John done it? A gun? Sleeping pills most likely. What a hell of a thing, Ingham thought. And why ? Well, he hadn’t known John well enough to guess. He remembered John’s face—always lively, usually smiling or grinning, pale below the neat, straight black hair. Maybe a trifle weak, that face. Or was that an after-thought? A weak beard, anyway, soft, pale skin. John hadn’t looked in the least depressed when Ingham had last seen him, at that last dinner in New York with Ina in a restaurant south of the Square. It had been the evening before the day Ingham caught the plane. ‘You know where to go in Tunis for the car rental?’ John had asked, making sure of the practical things as usual, and he had asked again if Ingham had packed the street map of Tunis and the Guide Bleu for Tunisia, both of which John had lent or given him.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Ingham muttered. He walked up and down his room, and felt shattered. An anecdote of Adams’s drifted into his mind: Adams fishing on a small river (Connecticut? Indiana?) when he was ten years old, and bringing his line up with a human skull on the end of it, a skull so old ‘it didn’t matter’, Adams had said, so he had never told his parents, who he had feared wouldn’t believe him, anyway. Adams had buried the skull, out of fear. Suddenly Ingham wanted the comfort of Adams’s presence. He thought of going over now to tell Adams the news. He decided against it.
‘Good God.’ Ingham said, and went to his kitchen to pour himself a Scotch. The drink did not taste good at that hour, but it was a kind of rite, in Castlewood’s honour.
He’d have to think now about starting home. Tell the hotel. See about a plane from Tunis to New York.
Surely he’d hear from Ina today. Ingham looked at the calendar. The weekend Peter meant was the 10th and 11th of June. What the hell was happening over in the great, fast Western world? It was beginning to seem slower than Tunisia.
Ingham went out and walked in the now empty driveway that curved towards the bar-caf6-mail-office-supply-depart-ment of the bungalows. The sand under his tennis shoes was powdery. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his shorts, and when he encountered a huge woman talking in French to her tiny son, who looked like a wisp beside her, Ingham turned aimlessly back. He was trying to think what he should do next. Cable Ina again, perhaps. He might stay on a day or so to get a letter from her—if she had written. Suddenly, everything seemed so doubtful, so vague.
He went back to his bungalow-which he had left unlocked against the advice of Adams who told him to lock it if he were away even one minute—took his billfold and set out, having locked the door this time, for the main building of the hotel. He would cable Ina, and take a look at the newspapers on the tables in the lobby. Sometimes the papers were several days old. There might be something about John in a Paris Herald-Tribune. He should look for a Monday June 12th paper, he thought. Or possibly a Tuesday paper, the 13th.
A series of broad, shallow steps led from the beach up to the rear entrance of the hotel. There was an open shower for swimmers at the foot of the steps, and some corpulent Germans, a man and a woman, were yelling and screaming as they de-sanded each other’s backs under the water. On going closer to them, Ingham was irked to hear that they were speaking very American American. At the hotel desk, Ingham sent a cable to Ina:
HEARD ABOUT JOHN FROM LANGLAND. WRITE
OR CABLE AT ONCE. BAFFLED. LOVE. HOWARD.
He sent it to Ina’s house in Brooklyn, because she would surely get it there, whatever was happening, and she just might not be at work if her brother Joey was having a bad spell and she had to look after him. Neither on the low tables nor on the shelves at the back of the lobby could Ingham find a paper of weekend June 10th–11th, nor a paper in English or French for June 12th or 13th.
‘If you please,’ Ingham said in careful French to the young Arab clerk at the desk, handing him a five-hundred-millime bill, ‘would you see that any letter that comes for me today is delivered at once to my bungalow? Number three. It is very important.’ He had printed his name on a piece of paper.
He thought of having a drink at the bar, and decided not to’ He did not know what he wanted to do. Oddly enough, he felt he could work on his novel this afternoon. But logically he should make plans about leaving, speak to the hotel now. He didn’t.
Ingham went back to his bungalow, put on swimming trunks, and went for a swim. He saw Adams at some distance, bearing his spear, but managed to avoid Adams’s seeing him. Adams always went for a swim before lunch, he said.
That afternoon, Ingham found he could write only one paragraph. He was too anxious for a word from Ina, which he felt positive would come in the afternoon post that arrived at any time between four-thirty and six-thirty. But nothing came except something from the U.S. Internal Revenue Department in a windowed envelope, forwarded by Ina. The government wanted three hundred and twenty-eight dollars more. Ingham’s accountant had made a slight mistake, apparently. Ingham wrote the cheque and put it in an airmail envelope.
To satisfy himself, Ingham looked first in the bungalow headquarters’ office—eight unclaimed letters, but none for him—then walked to the main building. Nothing there for him, either. He walked back barefoot, carrying his sandals, letting the little waves break against his ankles. The declining sun was behind him. He stared at the wet sand at his feet.
‘Howard! Where’ve you been?’ Adams stood a few yards away, his nose shiny and brown. Now he reminded Ingham of a rabbit. ‘Come and have a drink chez moi!’
“Thanks very much.’ Ingham said, hesitated, then asked, “When did you mean?’
“Now. I was just on my way home.’
“Did you have a good day?’ Ingham asked, making an effort.
They were walking along.
“Very fine, thanks. And you?’
“Not too good, thanks.’
“Oh? What happened?’
Ingham gestured towards Adams’s house, a vague forward gesture which he had, in fact, picked up from Adams.
They walked on over the gritty cement path, past the bungalow headquarters, Adams on neat bare feet, Ingham with his heel-less sandals on now, because of the heat of the sand. He felt sloppy in sandals or slippers without heels, but they were certainly the coolest footgear.
Adams hospitably set to work making Scotches with ice. The air-conditioning felt wonderful to Ingham. He stepped outside the door and carefully knocked the sand from his slippers, then came in again.
“Try this.’ Adams said, handing Ingham his drink. “And what’s your news?’ Ingham took the drink. ‘The man who was supposed to join me killed himself in New York about ten days ago.’
‘What?—Good heavens! When did you hear?’
‘This morning. I had a letter from a friend of his.’
‘John, you mean.—Why did he do it? Something wrong with a love affair? Something financial?’
Ingham felt grateful for every predictable question. ‘I don’t think because of a love affair. But I don’t know. Maybe there’s no reason at all—except anxiety, something like that.’
‘Was he a nervous fellow? Neurotic?’
‘In a way. I didn’t think this neurotic.’
‘How did he do it?’
‘I dunno. Sleeping pills, I suppose.’
‘He was twenty-six, you told me.’ Adams’s face was full of concern. ‘Worried about money?’
Ingham shrugged. ‘He wasn’t rolling, but he had enough for this project. We had a producer, Miles Gallust. We were advanced a few thousand dollars.—What’s the use wondering? There’re probably a lot of reasons why he did it, reasons I don’t know.’
‘Sit down.’
Adams sat down on the sofa with his drink, and Ingham took the squeaky leather chair. The
closed shutters made the light in the room a pleasant dusk. A few thin bars of sun came in near the ceiling above Adams’s head.
‘Well,’ Adams said, ‘I suppose without John you’ll be thinking of leaving here—going back to the States?’
Ingham heard a gloominess in Adam’s tone. ‘Yes, no doubt. In a few days.’
‘Any news from your girl?’ Adams asked.
Ingham disliked the term ‘your girl’. ‘Not yet. I cabled her today.’
Adams nodded thoughtfully. ‘When did this happen?’
‘The weekend of June tenth and eleventh. I’m sorry I didn’t see any papers then. I think the Paris Herald-Tribune might have mentioned it.’
‘I can understand that it’s a blow.’ Adams said sympathetically. ‘How well did you know John?’
Platitudes.
Adams made them both a second drink. Then Ingham went to his bungalow to put on some trousers for dinner. He had fatuously hoped for a cable from Ina to be lying on the corner of his work-table when he walked into his bungalow. The table was empty of messages as usual.
Melik’s was lively that evening. There were two tables with wind instruments, and one guitar somewhere else. A man at another table had a well-behaved German police dog who put his ears back at the noise, but did not bark. It was too noisy to talk comfortably, and that was just as well, Ingham thought. The man with the dog was tall and slender and looked like an American. He wore levis and a blue denim shirt. Adams sat with his pouchy smile, giving an occasional tolerant shake of his head. Ingham felt like a small silent room—maybe an empty room—within a larger room where all this din came from. The American led his dog away.
Adams shouted, for the second time, ‘I said, you ought to see more of this country before you take off!’
Ingham nodded his emphatic agreement.
The moon was almost full. They walked a little on the beach, and Ingham looked at the beige, floodlit fortress 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 sorry 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 evidently 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 rosé, 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 to the Reine. The sun made his face throb, and he felt as if he were being gently broiled. He had never known the sun so close and big. People farther north didn’t know what the sun was like, he thought. This was the true sun, the ancient fire that seemed to reduce one’s lifespan to a second and one’s personal problems to a minuscule absurdity.
The dramas people invent I Ingham thought. He felt a detached disgust for the whole human race.
A scruffy, emaciated cat looked at him pleadingly, but they had taken away Ingham’s plate of fish-with-fried-egg. Ingham tossed the inside of some bread on to the dusty cement. It was all he had. But the cat ate it, chewing patiently with its head turned sideways.
That afternoon, he worked again, and produced five pages.
Monday and Tuesday came and went without a letter from Ina. Ingham worked. He avoided Adams. Ingham felt morose, and knew he would be bad company. In such a mood, he was apt to say something bitter. On Wednesday, when he would have liked to have dinner with Adams, he remembered that Adams had said he always spent Wednesday evenings alone. It seemed to be a law Adams had made for himself. Ingham ate in the hotel dining-room. The cruising American was still here, dining with a man tonight. Ingham nodded a greeting. He realized that he hadn’t answered Peter Langland’s letter. He wrote a letter that evening.
June 28, 19—
Dear Peter,
I thank you very much for your letter. I had not heard the news, as you know from my first letter, and matter of fact Ina hasn’t written me as yet. I was very sorry to hear about John, as I had thought like everyone else that he was doing well. I didn’t know him well, as you may know—for the past year, but not well. I had no idea he was in any kind of crisis.
In the next week, I’ll probably leave and go back to the States. This is undoubtedly the strangest expedition of my life. Not a word, either, from Miles Gallust, who was to be our producer.
Forgive this inadequate letter. I am frankly still dazed by the news.
Yours,
Howard Ingham
Peter Langland lived on Jane Street. Ingham sealed the envelope. He had no stamps left. He would take the letter into Hammamet tomorrow morning.
In the bungalow fifteen feet behind Ingham’s, beyond some lemon trees, some French were saying good night. Ingham could hear them distinctly through his open window.
‘We’ll b
e in Paris in three days, you know. Give us a telephone call.’
‘But of course! Jacques! Come along! — He’s falling asleep standing up!’
‘Good night, sleep well!’
‘Sleep well!’
It seemed very dark beyond his window. There was no moon.
The next day passed like the one before, and Ingham did eight pages. He knocked on Adams’s door at 5 p.m. to invite him for a drink, but Adams was not in. Ingham did not bother to look for him on the beach.
On the morning of 30th June, a Friday, a letter from Ina arrived in a CBS envelope. Mokta brought it. Ingham tore it open, in too much of a hurry to tip Mokta.
The letter was dated June 25th, and it said:
Howard dear,
I am sorry I have not written before. Peter Langland said he wrote you, in case you hadn’t heard about John, but it was in the Times (London) and the Trib in Paris, so we supposed you’d seen it in Tunisia. I am still so bouleversed, I can’t write just now, really. But I will in a day or so, I hope tomorrow. That’s a promise. Please forgive me. I hope you are all right.
Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery Page 4