Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery Read Free Page B

Tunisia. John Castlewood — the cameraman — knows Tunisia quite well. He lived a few months here with a family in Tunis. ’
    ‘ So you ’ re a film writer. ’ Adams was putting on a colourful short-sleeved shirt.
    ‘ No, just a writer. Fiction. But my friend John wanted me to do his film with him. ’ Ingham detested the conversation.
    ‘ What books have you written? ’
    Ingham stood up. He knew more questions were coming, so he said, ‘ Four. One of them was The Game of “ If ” . You probably haven ’ t heard of it. ’ Adams hadn ’ t, so Ingham said, ‘ Another book was called The Gathering Swine. Not so suc cesful. ’
    ‘ The Gadarene Swine? Adams asked, as Ingham had thought he would.
    ‘ Gathering, ’ Ingham said. ‘ I meant it to sound like Gadarene, you see. ’ His face felt warm with a kind of shame, or boredom.
    ‘ You make enough to live on? ’
    ‘ Yes, with television work now and then in New York .’ He thought suddenly of Ina, and the thought caused a throb in his body, making Ina strangely more real than she had been since he got to Europe, or Africa. He could see Ina in her office in New York now. It would be noonish. She would be reaching for a pencil, or a sheet of typewriter paper. If she had a lunch date, she would be a little late for it.
    ‘ You ’ re probably famous and I don ’ t realize it, ’ Adams said, smiling. ‘ I don ’ t read much fiction. Now and then, something that ’ s condensed. Like in the Reader ’ s Digest, you know. If you ’ ve got one of your books here, I ’ d like to read it .’
    Ingham smiled. ‘ Sorry. I don ’ t travel with them. ’
    ‘ When ’ s your friend due? ’ Adams stood up. ‘ Can ’ t I freshen that? How about a Scotch now? ’
    Ingham agreed to the Scotch. ‘ He ’ s due Tuesday. ’ Ingham caught a glimpse of his own face in a mirror on the wall. His face was pink from the sun and starting to tan. His mouth looked severe and a little grumpy. A sudden loud voice, shouting in Arabic just outside the shuttered windows, made him flinch, but he continued staring at himself. This is what Adams saw, he thought, what the Arabs saw, an ordinary American face with blue eyes that looked too sharply at everything, above a mouth not exactly friendly. Three creases undulated across his forehead, and the beginnings of wrinkles showed under his eyes. Maybe not a very friendly face, but it was impossible to change one ’ s expression without being phoney. Lotte had done a little damage. The best he could do, Ingham thought out of nowhere, the proper thing was to be neutral, neither chummy nor standoffish. Play it cool.
    He turned as Adams came in with his drink.
    ‘ What do you think about the war? ’ Adams asked, smiling as usual. ‘ The Israelis have got it won. ’
    ‘ Can you get the news? By radio? ’ Ingham was interested. He must buy a transistor, he thought.
    ‘ I can get Paris, London, Marseilles, Voice of America, practically anything .’ Adams said, gesturing towards a door, which presumably led to a bedroom. ‘ Just scattered reports now, but the Arabs are finished .’
    ‘ Since America is pro-Israel, I suppose there ’ ll be some anti-American demonstrations ? ’
    ‘ A few, no doubt .’ said Adams, as cheerfully as if he were talking about flowers pushing up in a garden. ‘ A pity the Arabs can ’ t see a yard in front of their noses .’
    Ingham smiled. ‘ I thought you might well be pro-Arab .’
    ‘ Why? ’
    ‘ Living here. Liking them, I thought .’ On the other hand, he read the Reader ’ s Digest, which was always anti-Communist On the other hand, what was the other hand?
    ‘ I like the Arabs. I like all peoples. I think the Arabs ought to do more with their own land. What ’ s done is done, the creation of Israel, right or wrong. The Arabs ought to do more with their own desert and stop complaining. Too many Arabs sit around doing nothing. ’
    That was true, Ingham thought, but since Adams