17

The Tunis air terminal presented a confused picture. Vital direction signs vied with aspirin advertisements, the ‘Information’ desk had no one at it, and several transistors carried by people walking about, warred with louder music from the restaurant’s radio on the balcony, absolutely defeating the occasional voice of a female announcer, presumably giving planes’ arrival and departure times. Ingham could not even tell if the announcer was speaking in French, Arabic or English, The first three uniformed (more or less) people he asked about flight 807 from New York referred him to the bulletin board where flights were announced in lights, but ten minutes after Ina’s plane was due, nothing had been said about it. It wasn’t like Ina to have made a mistake, Ingham thought as he lit his third cigarette, and just then 807 flashed on: from New York, arriving at eleven-ten. A bit late.

Ingham had a café—cognac standing up at the bar counter of the balcony restaurant. There were some thirty white-clothed tables and a buffet-table of cold cuts near the big windows which gave on the airfield. Ingham was amused to see two clusters of waiters, four in each group, chatting in corners of the room, while irate people half rose from their untended tables, clamouring for service. Ina was going to be entertained, no doubt of that I

He saw her through a half-glass fence or wall which he was not allowed to pass. Ingham raised an arm quickly. She saw him. She was in a loose white coat, white shoes, carrying a big colourful pocket-book and a sack which looked like two bottles of something. There was a passport check at booths on the left. She was only ten feet from him.

Then she rushed into his arms, he kissed her on both cheeks, then lightly on her lips. He recognized the perfume that he had forgotten.

‘Did you have a good trip?’

‘Yes. All right. It’s funny to see the sun so high.’

‘You haven’t seen any sun till you see this one.’

‘You look so brown! And thinner.’

‘Where’s your luggage? Let’s get that settled.’

In less than ten minutes, they were in Ingham’s car, the two suitcases stowed in the back

‘Since we’re in Tunis—practically,’ Ingham said, ‘I thought we’d have lunch there.’

‘Isn’t it early? They fed us —

‘Then we’ll go and have a drink somewhere. Some air-conditioned place. Do you think it’s awfully hot?’

They went to the air-conditioned Hotel Tunisia Palace and had a drink in the plushy red bar-room.

Ina looked well, but Ingham thought there were some new lines under her eyes. She had probably lost sleep in the last days. Ingham knew what it would be like, winding up her office work, plus her tasks in the Brooklyn Heights household, which were formidable. He watched her small, strong hands opening the pack of Pall Malls, lighting one with the strange-looking matchbook from New York, dark red with an Italian restaurant’s name printed on it in black.

‘So you like it here?’ she asked.

1 dunno. It’s interesting. I’ve never seen a country like it.—Don’t judge by this bar. It might as well be Madison Avenue.’

I’m eager to see it.’

But her eyes looked eager only for him, only curious about him, and Ingham looked down at the matchbook in his fingers. Then he faced her eyes again. She had blue eyes with flecks of grey in them. Her cheekbones were a trifle broad, her jaw small, her lips well-shaped, determined, humorous, intelligent, all at once. 1 took a hotel room for you in Hammamet,’ he said. ‘On the beach. Where I was first, the Reine de Hammamet. It’s very pretty.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘Your place isn’t big enough? Or are you living alone, by the way?’ she added through a laugh that sounded more like her.

‘Hal Am I alone? What else? My place is small and definitely on the primitive side, as I told you. Well, you’ll see.’

They spoke of Joey. Joey was about the same. There was a girl called Louise, whom Ingham had never met, who came to see Joey a couple of times a week. Louise and Joey were in love, in a crazy, frightened way, Ingham gathered. It was very sad. Joey would never marry the girl, though Ina said Louise would be willing. Ina had told Ingham about Louise before. She was twenty-four, and this had been going on for two years. Now Ina only touched lightly on it, to Ingham’s relief. He could not have embarked now on sympathetic remarks about Joey and Louise.

He took her to the restaurant on the other side of the Avenue Bourguiba, where the ceiling fans, and the patio beyond gave a certain sense of coolness.

‘This is one of two restaurants that John recommended,’ Ingham said. ‘His recommendations were very good, all of them.’

‘You must have been flabbergasted at the news,’ Ina said.

‘Yes, I was.’ Ingham looked at her across the table. She had combed her hair in the hotel, and the marks of the comb showed in the dark-blonde, dampened hair at her temples. ‘Not so flabbergasted as you, I suppose—finding him. Good God!’

She said it slowly, like a confession, ‘The most awful moment of my life. I thought he was asleep. Not that I expected to see him there at all. Then —’ She was suddenly unable to speak, but not from tears. Her throat had tightened. She looked into space somewhere beyond Ingham’s shoulder.

He had never seen her like this. Surely part of it was the strain of the trip, he thought. ‘Don’t try to talk about it. I can imagine—Try this Tunisian starter. Turns up on every menu.’

He meant the antipasto of tuna, olives, and tomatoes. Ingham had persuaded her to have scallopine, on the grounds that corneous was all too prevalent in Hammamet.

They took long over lunch, and had two coffees and many cigarettes. Ingham told her about Jensen and a little about Adams.

‘And that’s all the people you’ve met?’

‘I’ve met others. Most of the people here are just tourists, not too interesting. Besides, I’m working.’

‘Did you hear from Miles Gallust, by the way?’

Gallust was the producer, the man who might have been the producer, of Trio. Typical of Ina to remember his name, Ingham thought. ‘I had a letter in early July. He regretted and all that. I only saw him once, you know. Briefly.’

‘So this trip is costing you something. Hiring a car and so forth.’

Ingham shrugged. ‘But it’s educational. John gave me a thousand dollars, you know, and also paid the plane fare.’

1 know,’ said Ina, as if she knew quite well.

‘The country isn’t wildly expensive. Anyway, I’m not broke.’

Ina smiled. ‘That reminds me. You know your story “We Is all”?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘It’s winning a prize. First Prize for the O. Henry Awards. In the yearly prize story thing.’

‘Really? You’re joking!’ The story had appeared in a little quarterly somewhere, after many a rejection.

‘I’m not joking. I have a friend on the committee of judges or whatever it is, and he knows I know you, so he told me on condition I wouldn’t tell anyone—else, that is.’

‘What does that mean? A money prize or what?’

‘Money? I don’t know. Maybe just distinction. It is a good story.’

Yes, it was a good story, based on Ingham’s imagining the life, or the periodic crises, of one of his friends in New York who was schizophrenic. ‘Thank you,’ Ingham said quietly, but his face was warm with pride, with a shyness born of sudden glory.

‘Are you sure my luggage is safe in the car?’

Ingham smiled. ‘Reasonably. But what a sensible question! Let’s take off.’

When they drove off from the restaurant, Ingham stopped and bought some day-old papers and the Saturday-Sunday edition of the Paris Herald-Tribune. Then they drove on towards Hammamet.

‘Are you tired?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. I should be. What is it? Nine in the morning to me, and I’ve been up all night, more or less.’

‘Get some sleep this afternoon. What do you think of this view?’

The blue gulf was on their left, in full sunlight. It spread low and wide, and looked as if it covered half the earth.

‘Quite terrific! And goodness, it’s warm!’ She had removed her white coat. Her blouse was flower-patterned and sleeveless.

At last Ingham said, ‘Here’s Hammamet!’ and realized his joyous tone, as if he were saying, ‘Here’s home!’

They left the wider road—a trio of camels was strolling along the verge, but Ina did not seem to notice them—and rolled on to the dusty asphalt that curved into the village.

‘This doesn’t look like much,’ he said. ‘The town’s mainly a lot of little Arab houses and fancy hotels, but they’re all on the beach, the hotels. Ahead.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘To the left. Just here.’ They were passing his street. Ingham saw Jensen between their alley and the Plage, heading for the Plage, no doubt. Jensen, with his back towards

Ingham and his head down, did not see him. I’m sure you’d like to go to your hotel room before you see my place.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

But they were rounding the curve now towards the beach hotels.

‘What a marvellous castle!’ Ina said.

‘That’s an old fort. Built by the Spanish.’

Then they were at the Reine, going through the broad gates, rolling on to crunchy gravel between tall palms, bougainvillaea, and sturdy little grapefruit and lemon trees. It was rather spectacular! Ingham felt a surge of pride, as if he owned the place.

‘This looks like an old plantation!’ Ina said.

Ingham laughed. ‘Massa’s a Frenchman. Wait till you see the beach.’ Ingham ran directly into Mokta as he was opening the front door. ‘Have you got two minutes, Mokta?’

Mokta was for once empty-handed. ‘Mais oui, m’sieur!’

Ingham introduced him to Mile Pallant, and explained that Mokta worked at the bungalows. Mokta got the key to number eighteen, and helped them with the luggage.

The room was lovely, with a window on the sea, and a door that went on to a good-sized whitewashed terrace with a curving white parapet.

‘It’s really terribly pretty!’ Ina said.

The sun was sinking on their right, into the sea, and looked unnaturally huge.

‘I’m dying for a shower,’ Ina said.

‘Go ahead. Shall I—’

‘Can you wait for me?’ She was unbuttoning her blouse.

‘Sure.’ He had brought the newspapers and wanted to look at them.

‘So you’re picking up Arabic?’

Ingham laughed. ‘You mean what I said to Mokta?”Thank you, see you soon”? I don’t know anything. What’s so irritating is, words are spelled differently in different phrase books.

“Asma” is sometimes “esma”. And “fatma”—’ Ingham laughed. ‘I thought at first it was our cleaning girl’s name, a form of Fatima. Turns out to mean “girl” or “maid”. So just yell “fatma” if you want the maid here.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

A flowery scent of soap drifted out to Ingham, but it was not steamy. No doubt she was taking a cool shower. Ingham stared at the Paris Herald-Tribune.

Ina came out wrapped in a large white towel. ‘You know what I’d like to do?’

‘What?’

‘Go to bed.’

Ingham got up. ‘How nice. You know that was what I was wanting, too?’ He put his arms around the towel and her and kissed her. Then he went and locked the door.

He locked also the tall shutters on to the terrace.

This time it was all right. It was like former times, like all the times with Ina. It erased the silly memory of the girl from Pennsylvania, and made Ingham think that that minor mishap had been due to the fact that he loved only Ina. She adored him. She was a lovely size in bed. Why had he been so insane all these past weeks, Ingham wondered. Why had he thought he didn’t love her? They smoked a cigarette, then embraced each other again. And twenty minutes after that, Ingham could have begun all over again.

Ina laughed at him.

Ingham smiled, breathless and happy. ‘As you see, I’ve been saving myself for you.’

‘I begin to believe you.’

Ingham reached for the telephone. He ordered champagne on ice, in French.

‘Aren’t you going to get dressed?’

‘Partially. The devil with them.’ He got out of bed and put on his trousers. Then his shirt which he did not at once button. He had a malicious desire to ask, ‘Was John any good in bed?’ He repressed it.

Ina looked beautiful, hands behind her head, face sleepily smiling at him, eyes half-dosed, satisfied. Under the sheet she spread her legs and brought them together again.

Ingham drew with contentment on his cigarette. Was this what life was all about, he wondered. Was this the most important thing? Was it even more important than writing a book?

‘What are you thinking?’

Ingham fell down beside her on the bed and embraced her through the sheet. ‘I am thinking—you are the sexiest woman in the world.’

There was a knock on the door.

Ingham got up. He tipped the waiter, then gave him a couple of dinars and a lot of change, which the waiter said would pay for the champagne.

To you.’ Ingham said, as he lifted his glass.

‘To you, darling—and your book. Do you like it?’

CI suppose I like it or I wouldn’t be writing it. It’s a theme that’s been done before, but —’

‘But?’

‘I hope to say something else, something different.—I’m not so much interested in the story as in people’s moral judgements on the hero. Dennison. I mean people in the book. Well, readers, too. And in Dennison’s opinion of himself.’ Ingham shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it now. ‘It’s funny, of all the books I’ve written, you could say this is the least original, yet it interests me as much as any of them have.’

Ina set her glass on the night-table, holding the top of the sheet over her breasts with the other hand. ‘It’s what you put into it. Not how original the theme is.’

That was true. Ingham didn’t say anything. ‘After another glass of this, I’ll leave and let you sleep. We can have dinner as late as nine or so. Do you think you’d like dinner in the hotel or at a crummy—well, Arab place in the town?’

‘An Arab place.’

‘And—would you like to meet Jensen or would you rather be alone?’

Ina smiled. She was on one elbow. She had just the beginning of a double chin, or a fullness, under her jaw, and Ingham thought it charming. 1 wouldn’t mind meeting Jensen.’

Ingham left the Reine in a glow of happiness, on the wings of success. And he had not forgotten the prize, the kudos or whatever it was, coming to him from the O. Henry Award thing.