Read Online Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery by Patricia Highsmith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Highsmith
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about working, because if I hadn ’ t that, I think I ’ d go to pieces. On the other hand, that ’ s just in the last week, since hearing about John. Before that, the days were sort of empty here, thanks to no news at all from John (or from you for that matter) but since his death, the bottom has fallen out — of what? Tunisia, maybe. Not me. Of course I ’ ll leave soon, after cruising around the country a bit, since I ’ m here.
Last night I had dinner with a Danish painter who turned out to be a faggot and made a mild pass. He is lonely, too, poor guy, but I am sure he can find a lot of bed-companions among the boys here. Homosexuality is not against their religion, but alcohol is, and some towns are dry. Stealing is apparently okay, too. One old bastard swiped my canvas jacket and a towel last night from the back seat of my car while I was visiting the Dane — to look at his paintings, ha! I detest this particular Arab, and I know I shouldn ’ t. Why detest anyone? One doesn ’ t, one just focuses a lot of emotions of a nasty kind on one person, and there you are, hating something or somebody. Darling Ina, I have focused the opposite kind of emotions on you, you are everything tangible that I like and love, so why do you make me suffer now with this ghastly long silence? The days may flit by for you, but they drag here. I can see I ’ m going to post this off today express, even if I don ’ t hear from you….
Since he did not hear from Ina in the morning post, he sent the letter express from the post office at 4 p.m. There was nothing from Ina in the afternoon post, either.
He had dinner with Adams in a fishing town called La Goulette, near Tunis. The town bore a funny similarity to Coney Island, not that it had amusements or hot-dog stands, but it was the elongated shape of the town, the lowness of its houses, the atmosphere of the sea. It also looked rather crummy and cheap and unspoilt. Ingham ’ s first thought was to inquire about hotels here, but the barman at the bar they visited told him there were none. The waiter and the proprietor of the restaurant where they had dinner assured Ingham of the same thing. The waiter knew of a place where they let rooms, but this sounded too sketchy to bother investigating, at least at that hour.
That evening, Adams bored Ingham to a degree. Adams was launched again on the virtues of democracy for everyone, Christian morals for everyone. ( ‘ Everyone ?’ Ingham interrupted once, so loudly that the next table turned to look at him.) He thought of the happy pagans, Christless, maybe syphilis-less, too, blissful. But in fact, where were they these days? Christianity and atom-bomb testing had spread themselves just about everywhere. I swear if h e gets on to Vietnam, I’ll burst a vein, Ingham said to himself. But realising the absurdity of his emotions against this absurd little man, Ingham controlled himself, remembered that he had enjoyed Adams ’ s company many times, and reminded himself that he would feel like a fool to make an enemy of Adams, whom he encountered once or twice a day on the hotel grounds or on the beach. His anger was only frustration, Ingham realized, frustration in every aspect of his life just now — except perhaps in his novel-in-progress.
‘ You can see it in their faces, the men who have turned their back on God, ’ Adams droned on.
Where was God, that one could turn one ’ s back on him?
Adams ’ s pouches became pouchier. He was smiling and chewing contentedly at once.
‘ Drug addicts, alcoholics, homosexuals, criminals — and even the ordinary man in the street, if he ’ s forgotten the Right Way — they ’ re all wretched. But they can be shown the Right Way …’
My God, Ingram thought, was Adams cracked? And why throw in the homosexuals?
‘ Oh, I come to the garden alone,
When the dew is still on the roses.
And the voice I hear,
Falling on my ear,
Is my Saviour ’ s, my Saviour ’ s alone.
Last night I had dinner with a Danish painter who turned out to be a faggot and made a mild pass. He is lonely, too, poor guy, but I am sure he can find a lot of bed-companions among the boys here. Homosexuality is not against their religion, but alcohol is, and some towns are dry. Stealing is apparently okay, too. One old bastard swiped my canvas jacket and a towel last night from the back seat of my car while I was visiting the Dane — to look at his paintings, ha! I detest this particular Arab, and I know I shouldn ’ t. Why detest anyone? One doesn ’ t, one just focuses a lot of emotions of a nasty kind on one person, and there you are, hating something or somebody. Darling Ina, I have focused the opposite kind of emotions on you, you are everything tangible that I like and love, so why do you make me suffer now with this ghastly long silence? The days may flit by for you, but they drag here. I can see I ’ m going to post this off today express, even if I don ’ t hear from you….
Since he did not hear from Ina in the morning post, he sent the letter express from the post office at 4 p.m. There was nothing from Ina in the afternoon post, either.
He had dinner with Adams in a fishing town called La Goulette, near Tunis. The town bore a funny similarity to Coney Island, not that it had amusements or hot-dog stands, but it was the elongated shape of the town, the lowness of its houses, the atmosphere of the sea. It also looked rather crummy and cheap and unspoilt. Ingham ’ s first thought was to inquire about hotels here, but the barman at the bar they visited told him there were none. The waiter and the proprietor of the restaurant where they had dinner assured Ingham of the same thing. The waiter knew of a place where they let rooms, but this sounded too sketchy to bother investigating, at least at that hour.
That evening, Adams bored Ingham to a degree. Adams was launched again on the virtues of democracy for everyone, Christian morals for everyone. ( ‘ Everyone ?’ Ingham interrupted once, so loudly that the next table turned to look at him.) He thought of the happy pagans, Christless, maybe syphilis-less, too, blissful. But in fact, where were they these days? Christianity and atom-bomb testing had spread themselves just about everywhere. I swear if h e gets on to Vietnam, I’ll burst a vein, Ingham said to himself. But realising the absurdity of his emotions against this absurd little man, Ingham controlled himself, remembered that he had enjoyed Adams ’ s company many times, and reminded himself that he would feel like a fool to make an enemy of Adams, whom he encountered once or twice a day on the hotel grounds or on the beach. His anger was only frustration, Ingham realized, frustration in every aspect of his life just now — except perhaps in his novel-in-progress.
‘ You can see it in their faces, the men who have turned their back on God, ’ Adams droned on.
Where was God, that one could turn one ’ s back on him?
Adams ’ s pouches became pouchier. He was smiling and chewing contentedly at once.
‘ Drug addicts, alcoholics, homosexuals, criminals — and even the ordinary man in the street, if he ’ s forgotten the Right Way — they ’ re all wretched. But they can be shown the Right Way …’
My God, Ingram thought, was Adams cracked? And why throw in the homosexuals?
‘ Oh, I come to the garden alone,
When the dew is still on the roses.
And the voice I hear,
Falling on my ear,
Is my Saviour ’ s, my Saviour ’ s alone.
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