Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery Read Free Page A

I have a friend coming .’
    ‘ Oh. Another American? ’
    ‘ Yes .’ Ingham looked at the spear Adams was carrying, a sort of dart five feet long without apparent means of projection.
    ‘ I ’ m on my way back to my bungalow. Want to come along and have a cooling drink? ’
    Ingham at once thought of Coca-Cola. ‘ All right. Thank you. What do you do with that spear? ’
    ‘ Oh, I aim at fish and never catch them .’ A chuckle. ‘ Actually sometimes I snare up shells I couldn ’ t reach if I were just swimming. You know, in water six or eight feet deep .’
    The sand became hot inland, but still bearable. Ingham was carrying his beach shoes. Adams had none.
    ‘ Here we are, ’ said Adams suddenly, and turned on to a paved but gritty walk which led to his blue-and-white bungalow. The bungalow ’ s roof was domed for coolness, in Arabian style.
    Ingham glanced over his shoulder at a building he had not noticed before, a service building of some sort where several adolescent boys, waiters and clean-up boys of the hotel, he supposed, leaned against the wall chatting.
    ‘ Not much, but it ’ s home just now .’ said Adams, opening his door with a key he had fished from somewhere in the top of his swimming trunks.
    The inside of the bungalow was cool, the shutters dosed, and it seemed dark after the sunlight. Adams evidently had an air-conditioner. He turned on a light.
    ‘ Sit ye down. What can I get you? A Scotch? Beer? Coke? ’
    ‘ A Coke, thanks .’
    They had stomped their feet carefully on the bare tiles outside the door. Adams walked briskly and squeakily across the tile floor into a short hall that led to a kitchen.
    Ingham looked around. It looked like home, indeed. There were seashells, books, stacks of papers, a writing-table that was obviously much used, with ink bottles , pens, a stamp box, a pencil sharpener, an open dictionary. A Reader ’ s Digest. Also a Bible. Was Adams a writer? The dictionary was English-Russian, neatly covered in brown paper. Was Adams a spy? Ingham smiled at the thought. Above the desk hung a framed photograph of an American country house that looked like New England, a white farmhouse surrounded at a generous distance by a three-railed white fence. There were elm trees, a collie, but no person in the picture.
    Ingham turned as Adams entered with a small tray.
    Adams had a Scotch and soda. ‘ You a teetotaller? ’ he asked, smiling his paunchy little smile.
    ‘ No, I just felt like a Coke. How long ’ ve you been here? ’
    ‘ A year .’ Adams said, beaming, bouncing on his toes.
    Adams had high arches, high insteps and rather small feet. There was something disgusting about Adams ’ s feet , and having looked at them once, Ingham did not look again.
    ‘ Your wife isn ’ t here? ’ Ingham asked. He had seen a woman ’ s photograph on the chest of drawers behind Adams, a woman in her forties, sedately smiling, sedately dressed.
    ‘ My wife died five years ago. Cancer. ’
    ‘ Oh. — What do you do to pass the time here? ’
    ‘ I don ’ t feel too lonely. I keep busy. ’ Again the squirrel - like smile. ‘ Once in a while someone interesting turns up at the hotel, we make acquaintances, they go on somewhere else. I consider myself an unofficial ambassador for America. I spread goodwill—I hope — and the American way of life. Our way of life. ’
    What the hell did that mean, Ingham wondered, the Vietnam War springing at once to his mind. ‘ How do you mean? ’
    ‘ I have my ways. — But tell me about yourself, Mr Ingham. Sit down somewhere. You ’ re here on vacation? ’
    Ingham sat down in a large scooped leather chair that creaked. Adams sat on the sofa. ‘I’m a writer, ’ Ingham said. ‘I’m waiting for an American friend who wants to do a film here. He ’ s going to be cameraman and director. The producer is in New York. It ’ s all rather informal. ’
    ‘ Interesting! A film on what subject? ’
    CA story about young people in