The Two Faces of January

by Patricia Highsmith

  Niko was sitting on one of the wooden benches in the bleak terminal building, his sneakered feet splayed on the floor. His musing smile became a grin when he saw Rydal. He lifted a hand in greeting, and stood up. Rydal nodded, pleased that he had come. It meant he had the passports. Rydal beckoned him towards the door that opened onto the field.

  “You got them?” Rydal asked.

  “Got them.” Niko nodded.

  They strolled along the edge of the field, exchanging comments on the weather, slowly passed an American Air Force bus that stood waiting, empty except for its driver. Rydal lit a cigarette, offered one to Niko, then lit his for him, too.

  “How are the ages on them? On the passports?” Rydal said, unable to wait any longer to find out this important point.

  “Ages?” Niko shrugged. “I forgot. Okay, I think.”

  A fat lot Niko cared, Rydal thought, and sighed. Niko’s hands itched for his money, he itched to be off again to Athens with his thousand dollars American. Rydal slowed to a stop. “Well, let’s see them.”

  They were standing in an empty corner of the field under the wide, windy blue sky.

  Niko reached into his khaki jacket, undid a shirt button, and pulled them out. They were faintly, disgustingly warm from his skin. Niko stepped between the passports and the terminal building at his back, and watched eagerly.

  William James Chamberlain, Rydal read. Wife, Mary Ellen Forster Chamberlain. Minors XXX. Height 5 ft 10 in. Hair brown, eyes grey. (The first bad thing, Chester’s were pale blue.) Visible marks XXX. Birthplace Denver City, Colorado. Birth date Aug. 15, 1922. And the signature.

  “Used to be Chambers,” Niko said, pointing with a dirty-nailed linger at the signature. “Frank changed. Changed passport number also.”

  Rydal nodded. He flipped the other open, and looked for the coloring. Blue eyes, thank God, and felt his heart give a dip of relief. The birth date would make her twenty-nine now, and she’d said last night that she was twenty-five, but that wasn’t bad. He looked at her photograph, which he hadn’t seen before, and thought, my God, she’s giving the same, direct, come-to-me look even to the man who made the photograph! He saw that the stamped-in photograph attached department of state passport agency new york that spread over the bottom part of the photograph, and the page fitted neatly, and checked the same thing on Chester’s photograph, and found it good, if a bit worn-looking. Both passports were soiled, as if they had been stepped on a few times. Rydal wondered how many filthy hands they had passed through before they had come to his? He flipped them shut and put them into his overcoat pocket.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Rydal said. Then, thinking of something, he pulled them out again. He scanned the last stamped pages in both of them. Good. There was no Greek exodos stamp on them, only an eizodos, both dated in December of last month. That meant that the former possessors of the passports had entered but not left Greece, at least not with these passports. “Let’s walk on,” he said, and began walking back towards the terminal building, hands in his trousers pockets. His left hand felt the crisp, folded five-hundred-dollar bills that Chester had given him that morning for Niko. The five thousand dollars was buttoned into the back pocket of his trousers. Carrying such a sum made Rydal a bit nervous, just on principle, he thought, if one could be nervous on principle. If he’d lost it, Chester wouldn’t feel it. He remembered Chester this morning, dragging the big brown suitcase, which Rydal had fetched for him from the seaside restaurant, behind the curtain that concealed the hole-in-the-floor W.C. of the café. Chester felt he had to hide, when he went into his cash.

  “You got the money?” Niko asked anxiously.

  Rydal pulled his left hand out. “Here’s yours.”

  Niko glanced at it and stuffed it away somewhere, like a squirrel.

  Rydal turned around. They were not being watched, as far as he could see. He unbuttoned his back pocket, and got the other money. “You don’t have to count it. It’s ten five hundreds.” He saw Niko’s hand tremble as he took it.

  Niko smiled. “Fine. Zank you.”

  Rydal smiled. He turned again, back towards the terminal.

  “What they give you?” Niko asked.

  “Oh-h, I don’t know yet,” said Rydal.

  “He kill a man, no? I see in this morning’s paper.”

  “An accident,” Rydal said.

  “Sure, but . . . he kill.”

  Ergo, gouge him plenty, Niko might have added. “We’ll see,” Rydal said vaguely.

  “When you coming back to Athens?” Niko looked up at him, smiling, showing the lead-framed tooth, like an absurd miniature picture frame setting off that masterpiece of bad diet and neglect, Niko’s yellow incisor.

  Rydal thought of Colette’s white teeth, her fresh lips. “I don’t know that, either. Have to do a little sightseeing first. I’ve never been to Crete before.”

  Niko stuck his underlip out, looked around him at this thing called Crete, nodded and seemed about to make some disparaging yet important remark, but said nothing. Then he giggled. “I never been before, either.”

  After a moment, Rydal said, “There’s your plane loading, I think.”

  Niko jumped, started towards it as if it were a street-car he was about to miss, checked himself and grinned self-consciously. He was a few yards away from Rydal now. “Hey! Frank say he want to make a date with . . . with the girl!” Niko gestured towards Rydal with a finger.

  It took Rydal an instant to know he meant Colette. Rydal put his head back and laughed, and waved good-bye. “My love to Anna!” Then he trotted towards the terminal.

  He had missed the bus to Iraklion, so he took a taxi. In the taxi, he closed his eyes and let his head rest against the comfortless seat back. His eyes smarted from lack of sleep.

  He found Chester and Colette in the place they had appointed, a modest little restaurant by a round fountain, some six blocks up the main street from the sea. Chester had managed to shave with his battery razor, in some men’s room probably, and he looked better than he had when Rydal left him, though his eyes were still pink and squinty from fatigue. They both looked at him anxiously as he approached their table, and Rydal smiled and nodded to reassure them. They had finished lunch, apparently. Their empty coffee cups were on the table, and also a large cloudy glass of ouzo at Chester’s place.

  “Greetings,” Rydal said, pulling out a chair for himself.

  “You got them?” Chester asked.

  “Yep.” Rydal looked up at a solemn, tired waiter who had come to the table. “Just a coffee, please,” he said in Greek. When the man went away, Rydal looked to see if the mild interest his arrival had caused in the place had died down—it had—then coolly lit a cigarette and unbuttoned his overcoat. There were only three customers in the restaurant, a fat man reading a newspaper at a table in the rear, and two Greeks who had also finished their lunches and were talking pugnaciously at a table some fifteen feet away. Rydal pulled the passports out of his overcoat pocket and passed them under the table onto Chester’s thigh.

  Chester glanced over his shoulder nervously, then opened one of the passports, looking at it below the level of the table. His face relaxed. He smiled. He looked into the other passport. Then he nodded. “It’s good, isn’t it? They look fine.”

  Rydal nodded. “I think so.”

  “Want to see, honey?” Chester asked Colette.

  “Well . . . not here. I’ll take your word. What I’m interested in is a hotel.”

  “If you’d like to go on now,” Rydal said, “don’t wait for me to have my coffee. Bring my suitcase with yours, if you will. The man’s already been tipped.” Their suitcases were still with the proprietor of the fish restaurant, except for Chester’s canvas suitcase with his money in it. They had decided to stay at the Hotel Astir, which appeared to be the best in town.

/>   But Chester and Colette said they would wait—“What’s ten more minutes now?” asked Chester, but he was smiling—so they waited, livened and cheered by the passports and the prospect of a hot bath. When Rydal had finished his coffee, Chester paid the bill and they left, Rydal and Chester going down the street for their luggage, while Colette waited for them in the lobby of the Astir.

  “It might be well for you to practise Mr. Chamberlain’s signature as soon as possible,” Rydal said. “The hotel will make you sign a registration card, you know.”

  “Yes. You’re quite right. I’ll do it now,” Chester said, and he looked rather nervous, but he sat down on the low cement parapet beside the sea, pulled out the passport and a small spiral-bound notebook, opened the passport to its second page, and began to copy the signature of William James Chamberlain. He wrote hastily, scratched out with impatience his first two efforts, and surveyed the third at arm’s length. He made a fourth and fifth try.

  Rydal moved closer. Even seen upside down, Chester’s imitation of the signature appeared quite good in his last attempts, much better reproductions than the average person could have made of somebody else’s handwriting. But then Chester was no tyro, Rydal supposed.

  Chester glanced up at him with an amused smile. Obviously he was proud of his talent.

  “Not difficult?” Rydal asked.

  “No, not this. It’s tall and slim. Scrawls are hard for me. I’ll do fine with this.”

  He was very sure of himself. Rydal kept his mouth shut, and in fact he had nothing to say. It was Chester’s risk, not his. Chester tore out the notebook page, stood up and snapped his pen shut and pocketed the passport and the notebook. He flicked the wadded piece of paper over the parapet out towards the sea, and they walked on towards the fish restaurant.

  They were at the Hotel Astir with their luggage in a taxi within five minutes. The tall bellboy in the beige uniform helped them out with it. Rydal and Chester asked for rooms at the desk, taking no trouble to hide the fact they were friends; and no doubt, Rydal thought, the whole town knew it by now. It was a good-sized town, but it had a small town’s atmosphere, perhaps due to the absence of tall buildings. And there were few tourists at this time of year. That was bad. Rydal wondered if they were going to be challenged today or tomorrow by some wiseacre who wanted to know if Chester were Chester MacFarland? If they’d have to drag out Chester’s passport and show his name to shake him off? Rydal wasn’t afraid of a plain citizen, but if a policeman asked any questions—

  “Sir? With bath, did you say?” The clerk had been trying to get his attention.

  “Oh, yes. Please. With bath.”

  Chester’s and Colette’s room was 414 on the fourth floor, and Rydal’s 408 on the same floor. They all agreed that they would simply clean up and take a nap for the rest of the afternoon.

  The bath was delicious to Rydal, the water hot, the tub big and white. Then he put on pajamas, the better to relax and possibly sleep, shaved, and sent his dirty shirt away via the maid to be washed. He got into bed and propped himself up against the pillows and read the newspaper for a while. He re-read the item on Chester. “. . . believed to be still within the country.” But they didn’t say where in the country they were looking. Maybe all over it. It occurred to Rydal that it might be wiser if they went to a smaller town in Crete. It would be wiser, too, if Chester and also Colette acquired some cheaper and less fashionable clothes. And it would be wise for him, Rydal thought, to clear out of the MacFarland, now Chamberlain, ensemble while he could. There was probably a boat to Athens tomorrow morning. Rydal had bought a one-way plane ticket. A lot would be wiser, a lot that he wasn’t yet doing, he supposed. He put the paper down, closed his eyes, and wriggled farther down into the welcome softness of the bed.

  There was a light knock on the door. Rydal lifted his head. He did not know how long he had slept. It seemed about fifteen minutes. He got up, fuzzy-headed, and went to the door. “Who is it?” he said through the door. Then he repeated it in Greek.

  “Colette,” came the whispered answer.

  Rydal glanced down to see if his pajamas were properly buttoned—he had no robe—then opened the door.

  “Oh. I disturbed you,” she said, coming in. She had her mink stole and her hat on, but she took off her hat and tossed it into the armchair. “Chester’s snoring away and I didn’t want to disturb him, somehow. He needs it, you know.”

  “Um-m. Where’ve you been?” Rydal sat down carefully on the bed, conscious of his bare feet, but Colette wasn’t looking at his feet.

  “Out for a walk. I had a bath, but I didn’t feel like sleeping, so I explored this church next door. You know, the one with the arches and the stained glass?”

  Rydal nodded. He vaguely remembered a church to the left of the hotel.

  “So.” She smiled at him, then went to a window and looked out. “What an interesting old building. Looks Italian, doesn’t it, with those balconies?”

  Rydal turned his head. The building’s roof came midway up his window. He saw an iron balcony that looked about to fall out of its anchorage in the pink stone. He said nothing.

  She sat down on the bed, not beside him, but on the opposite side, half turned towards him. Then she lay back, so her head was near his hip.

  “Tired? You should take a nap,” Rydal said somewhat irritably. “In your room,” he added.

  Her hand moved down his arm to his wrist, and pulled him towards her. Rydal hesitated—two starts and stops—then he swung his legs up on the bed, embraced her and kissed her. Her arms circled him like a delicious cloud. Her breath was warm and fragrant with American toothpaste, probably Colgate’s, and trembling with passion which inflamed him, too; but even as he felt it, he was thinking, pay no attention, it’s only because it’s been quite a while—a month? two months?—since you’ve had a girl, and this is only a continuation of last night, the kiss she was leading up to last night that you never took.

  “Rydal!” she whispered, as if she had just discovered him.

  He drew back from her, smiling a little, his heart pounding. It was over.

  “Come back,” she said, her arms out again.

  And as she kicked off her shoes and pushed herself back towards the pillows, Rydal fell on her again. They lay side by side, tight and close, kissing, their eyes closed. It was like it had been with Agnes, always, with Agnes. The wild, blissful kisses like this ten times a day in the house, stolen, and then at night Agnes waiting for him in her bed, waiting for more than kisses. His body remembered. So did his mind. This is MacFarland’s wife, you ass.

  She was opening her blouse with her free hand. Her other hand pressed the back of his head, holding his lips against hers. Well, the blouse was all right, he supposed, but not the skirt, not the rest of it. His hand hurried for her warm breast, then caressed it slowly. She took his hand and pushed his fingers inside her brassière. After a few seconds of this, Rydal withdrew his hand, and pressed himself up with his right arm, lifting her part way with him.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked. Her lips looked even fuller now, with her lipstick gone.

  Rydal wiped his own lips with the back of his hand. “Thought I’d better stop,” he said.

  She smiled, amused, the lavender eyes narrowed. “Come on-n. We’re young. We’re both only twenty-five,” she said softly. “We want to. Why not?” She was unfastening the top of her skirt, her eyes still half closed.

  Rydal watched her. Why not? His door had an automatic lock and it was locked now. Chester would sleep a long time, probably. Why not? Now. Then Rydal realized he was looking at her with dazed, wide eyes, like a man drunk—which in a way he was. He blinked and said, “No. Thanks.”

  Colette stopped what she was doing with her skirt. She looked at him with her eyes open now. “Dar-rling—”

  That was for Chester, Rydal thought, that w
ord.

  “I didn’t really mean go to bed. I just meant lie down with me. Come back.” She held out her arms.

  And he started to, but of what use was any more of that? He stood up and walked to the window, then turned around and looked at her. She hadn’t moved, except that her head was turned to him, her arms down at her sides. There was a soft curve below the waist of her black skirt. Her body was rather like Agnes’s, he had to admit, with the minor differences that would have to exist between the body of a fifteen-year-old girl and a twenty-five-year-old woman. Colette was waiting for him to make the next move. And she was tense, Rydal saw.

  “You didn’t mean go to bed with me?” he asked, moving towards her. He sat down and took her by the shoulders. “Why not?”

  “Rydal, don’t,” she said, smiling, but now she wanted free.

  Rydal had had no plan when he recrossed the room, but suddenly he wanted her. “All right. Take off the skirt,” he said, zipping it down.

  She slid up, away from him, and caught her right shoulder as if he had hurt it. “No, I didn’t mean that,” she whispered, smiling, enunciating it clearly. “I really didn’t.”

  Rydal gave it up. But now he wanted her. Now he would have. He stood looking down at her as she put her blouse back on, and he knew that she knew it, too.

  She put lipstick on again, and chatted with him as if nothing had happened. Rydal replied to what she said, she stayed perhaps five minutes more, and then she was gone, and he hadn’t any idea of what they had said in the last minutes to each other. It was as if someone had taken his head and with a twist of the hand started it spinning. It was still spinning. He flung himself on the bed and closed his eyes. Her scent was on his pillow.

  She’d finally refused. Thus did dreary life repeat what had already taken place in his imagination, and not surprise him at all.