19

Ingham and Ina went to Sousse the next day, looked at the American battleship at the dock, and drank cold beer (it was frightfully hot) at the caft where Ingham had once sat alone. Ina was fascinated by the souk. She wanted to buy some straw mats, but said she couldn’t take them on the plane. Ingham said he would post them, so they bought four of varying sizes and design.

‘Meanwhile.’ Ina said, ‘you can use them on your floors. Hang one on a wall. It’ll improve the place!’ She bought a big glazed earthenware vase for him and a couple of ashtrays, and for herself a white fez.

The fez was extremely becoming.

‘I won’t wear it here. I’ll wait till New York. Imagine! A good-looking hat for a dollar and ten cents I’

Ina’s enthusiasm changed the country for Ingham. Now he enjoyed the toothy grins of the Arab shopkeepers, and the bright eyes of the kids who begged millimes from them. Ingham suddenly wished he were married to Ina. It could be, he realized. It was only for him to ask, he thought. Ina hadn’t changed. John Castlewood might as well not have been.

‘We could go to Djerba tomorrow,’ Ingham said during their lunch. He had taken her to the best restaurant he could find, as she had said she didn’t want to eat at a hotel, no matter how good the food might be.

‘Your friend Adams is taking me somewhere tomorrow. Tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh? He made a date last night?’

‘He rang me up this morning just before ten.’

‘Oh.’ Ingham smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll work tomorrow then.’

‘I wish you had a telephone.’

‘Ican always ring you. From Melik’s or the Plage.’

‘Yes—but I like to talk with you at night.’

Ina had rung him a few times late at night from her house in Brooklyn. It had not always been easy, because the telephone was in the living-room in Brooklyn. ‘I could be there in person.—Can I, tonight?’

‘All night? You don’t want to be there for breakfast, do you?’

Ingham said no more. He knew he would go back to her room with her tonight. And not stay for breakfast.

The day went on like a pleasant dream. There was no hurry about anything. They did not have to meet anyone. They went to the Fourati for dinner, and danced a little afterward Ina was a good dancer, but not very fond of dancing. Two Arab men, in neat Western clothes, asked Ina to dance, but she declined them both.

It was quite dark at their table on the open terrace. The only light came from the half-moon. Ingham felt happy and secure. He could sense Ina’s question, ‘Is it really the same as before? Have you really got no resentments?’ and yet Ingham thought it wasn’t the right thing for him to make a speech about it.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked. ‘About your book?’

‘I was thinking I love you as much out of bed as in.’

She laughed softly, only a nearly silent breath, or a gasp. ‘Let’s go home. Well—to the hotel.’

While Ingham was trying to catch the waiter’s eyes, she said:

‘I must get you some more cuff-links. Do you think they have any good ones here? I’d like to buy Joey some, too.’

When he left Ina that night at a little after one o’clock, Ingham wished that he was sharing her room with her. He wished there might be a second room where he could work in the daytime, of course. Then he thought of his primitive two rooms awaiting him in the Rue El Hout tonight and tomorrow, and he was glad he had those. There was time, he thought He realized he was a little giddy with fatigue and happiness.

He worked fairly well the next day and produced eight pages. But in his short breaks from the typewriter, he did not go on thinking about his book, but about things like, ‘Would Ina stay on the two or three weeks she had, or would she take off for Paris after a week?’ and ‘Ought he to pack up and go back to the States when she did? If not, why not?’ Or If he brought up the subject of marriage, just when should he do it?’ and ‘Shouldn’t they have a more serious conversation (matter of fact, they’d had none) about John Castlewood, or was it wiser never to mention Castlewood?’ He came to a conclusion only about the last question: he thought it wasn’t for him to bring up, but for Ina, and if she didn’t he shouldn’t.

He rang her hotel from the post office at four-thirty, and she was not in. Ingham left a message that he would call for her at seven-thirty. She should be back by then, he thought.

‘You’re going out tonight?’ Jensen asked when Ingham got back. Jensen was washing in the court.

‘Yes. Unless OWL keeps her all evening. Want to join us, Anders? I thought we might go to Tunis for a change.’

Jensen hesitated as usual. ‘No, thanks, I —’

‘Come on, what’s stopping you? Let’s find a crazy place in Tunis.’

Jensen was persuaded.

Ingham went off at seven-fifteen to find Ina, He had a funny fen letter to show her which had come that day. A man in Washington State had written him about The Game of ‘If’, which he said he had borrowed from his local lending library, and he praised the book highly, but offered suggestions as to how the ending could have been improved, and his ideas utterly demolished the theme of the book.

Ina was in. She asked him to come up.

She was dressed, putting on make-up in front of the mirror. He kissed her on the cheek.

1 asked Jensen tonight. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘No.—He’s awfully quiet.’ She said it like a criticism.

‘Not always. I’ll try to make him talk tonight. He’s very funny sometimes.—There was a royal wedding somewhere, I think in his own country, and he got fed up with the papers being full of it and said, “Other people’s sexual intercourse is always interesting to the public, but it’s absolutely fascinating if the sheets have royal monograms.”‘ Ingham laughed.

Ina laughed slightly, still leaning towards the mirror.

‘It’s the dry way he says it I can’t do it.’

‘He’s queer, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. I told you.—Is it so obvious? I didn’t think so.’

‘Oh, women can always tell.’

Because homosexuals showed no interest in them, Ingham supposed. ‘What’d you do with OWL today?’

‘Who?’

‘OWL. Our Way of Life Adams.’

‘Oh. We went to Carthage. Took a look at Sidi — What is it?’

‘Sidi Bou Said.’

‘Yes.’ She turned from the mirror, smiling. ‘He certainly knows a lot. About history and things. And the coffee-house in Sidi is fascinating! The one up the steps.’

‘Yes. Where they’re all lounging on mats like Greeks. I hope OWL doesn’t scoop me on everything there is to show you.’

‘Don’t be silly. I didn’t come here for tourism. I came to see you.’ She looked at him, not rushing into his arms, but it was more important to Ingham than if she had kissed him.

She was the woman he was going to marry, Ingham thought, and live with for the rest of his life. Ingham was about to break the spell—which he felt intolerably full of ‘destiny’—by whipping out the fan letter, when she said:

‘By the way, is that story about Abdullah true? That he got killed in the hotel grounds here?’

‘I don’t know. Nobody’s got the facts, as far as I know.’

‘But you heard him scream, Francis said. He said it was on your terrace.’

Had OWL mentioned the slamming door? Probably. Adams had perhaps told her about the French hearing something fall, too, the clatter. ‘Yes, I heard it. But it was two in the morning. Dark.’

‘You didn’t look out?’

‘No.’

She was looking at him questioningly. It’s interesting, because it seems the Arab disappeared since that night.—Do you think another Arab killed him?’

‘Who knows ?—Abdullah wasn’t liked by the other Arabs. I’m sure they’re great at grudge fights.’ He thought of telling her about the Arab with the cut throat, but decided against it, because it was a sensational story and nothing more. ‘I saw something odd one night by the CafS de la Plage. One Arab was a bit drunk. They pushed him out of the door. He stood on the sand a long while, just staring back at the door, with such a look of determination—as if he’d get the guy sometime, whoever it was. I’ll never forget the way he looked.’

Ina’s silence after a few seconds bothered him. He thought, suppose she finds out the truth, from Jensen, for instance? Then he would be a liar, and a coward also, in her eyes. Ingham had an impulse to tell her the truth before another half-minute went by. Was it so bad?

‘You look worried.’

‘No,’ he said.

‘How’d your work go today?’

‘All right, thanks. I love the new mats.’

‘No use living like an ascetic.—You know, darling, if that Arab was hacked to pieces or something, don’t be afraid I’ll faint. I’ve heard of atrocities before, mutilations and all that. Was that what happened to him?’

‘I never saw the guy that night, Ina. And the hotel boys won’t say what they did with him.—Maybe Adams knows something that I don’t.’ A vague idea that he was sparing her a nasty story sustained him a little. ‘Let’s go. I said I’d pick Anders up.’

At his and Jensen’s street, Ingham jumped out of the car and ran towards the house. He was some ten minutes late, though he knew Jensen wouldn’t mind, and probably hadn’t noticed. Ingham shouted from the court, and Jensen came down at once.

‘Ina thinks you don’t talk enough, so try to talk a little more tonight,’ Ingham said.

They went to the Plage, where Scotch was available, too. Jensen had his boukhah. Ina had tried it and did not like it. Ingham thought he was stared at more than usual that evening. Or was it because he was with a pretty woman? Jensen did not seem to notice the staring. Only the plump young barman was smiling. By now he knew Ingham.

‘You enjoy your visit, madame?… Are you here for a long time?’ the barman asked Ina in French. ‘Not too hot?’

They were standing at the bar.

Ina seemed to appreciate his friendliness.

During dinner at Melik’s, Jensen made an effort and asked Ina about her life in New York, and this got Ina on to the subject of her family. She mentioned her two cosy aunts, one widowed, one who had never married, who lived together and came to dinner on Sundays. She told him about her brother Joey, didn’t dwell on his illness, but talked mainly about his painting.

‘I shall remember his name,’ said Jensen.

Ina promised to send Jensen a catalogue from his last exhibition, and Jensen wrote his Copenhagen address for Ina, in case he was no longer in Hammamet when she sent it.

‘My parents’ address, but I have no flat just now,’ said Jensen, ‘I’ll be in touch with Howard, in case I leave.’

‘I hope so.’ Ingham said quickly. ‘I’ll leave before you, no doubt.’

Ingham did not like the idea of parting company with Jensen. Ingham looked at Ina, who was watching diem both. Ingham thought she was in a rather strange mood tonight. The single Scotch had not helped her to relax.

‘Do you go back to a job in Copenhagen?’ Ina asked.

‘I paint scenery sometimes for the theatres. I get along. But Fm lucky, my family give me a little every month.’ He shrugged indifferently. ‘Well, they don’t give it, it’s mine from an inheritance. No hardship to anybody.’ He smiled at Ingham. ‘I shall soon see what fresh blood has flowed into our bustling little port.’

Ingham smiled. He realized that with Ina gone, with Jensen gone, and with his book finished except for polishing and retyping, he would be insufferably lonely. Yet he did not want to set a date when he would leave. Unless, of course, he arranged something specific with Ina, made plans to be with her in New York. They might marry, might look for an apartment together. (His wasn’t big enough for two.) It wasn’t necessary for her to live for ever in the Brooklyn Heights house in order to take care of Joey, Ingham thought. Something could be arranged there.

‘Would you like to visit the fortress tomorrow morning?’ Jensen asked Ina. ‘If you would like a walk along the beach, it is not far from the hotel, especially if we break the walk with a swim.’

Jensen arranged to call for her at eleven o’clock. He left after coffee.

Ingham thought Jensen had done quite well that evening, and waited for Ina to say something favourable, but she did not. ‘Want to take a walk along the beach?’ he asked. ‘What kind of shoes are you wearing?’ He looked under the table.

‘I’ll go barefoot.—Yes, I’d like that.’

Ingham paid the bill. Jensen had left eight hundred millimes.

The sand on the beach was pleasantly warm. Ingham carried Ina’s shoes and his own. There was no moon. They held hands, as much to stay together in the darkness as for pleasure, Ingham thought.

‘You’re a little triste tonight.’ Ingham said. ‘Does Anders depress you?’

‘Well, he’s not the soul of mirth, is he?—No, I was thinking about Joey.’

‘How is he—really?’ It gave Ingham a twinge of pain to ask it, and yet he felt the question sounded heartless.

‘He has times when he’s so uncomfortable, he can’t sleep. I don’t mean he’s any worse.’ Ina spoke quickly, then was silent a few seconds. ‘I think he should marry. But he won’t.’

‘I understand. He’s thinking of Louise.—Is she really intelligent?’

‘Yes. And she knows all about the disease.’ Ina’s steps grew more plodding in the sand, then she stopped and flexed the toes of one foot. ‘The funny thing—the awful thing is, he thinks he loves me.’

Her grip on his hand was light, no grip at all. Ingham pressed her fingers. ‘How do you mean?’ They were almost whispering.

‘Just that. I don’t know about sexually. That’s ridiculous. But it seems to force anybody else out of his—affections or life or whatever. He should marry Louise. It isn’t impossible that he could have children, you know.’

I’m sure.’ said Ingham, though he hadn’t been sure.

Ina looked down at her feet. ‘It doesn’t exactly give me the creeps, but it worries me.’

‘Oh, darling!’ Ingham put his arm around her. ‘What—what does he say to you?’

‘He says—oh, that he can’t ever feel for another woman what he feels for me. Things like that. He’s not always mopey about it. Just the opposite. He’s cheerful when he says it. The thing is, I know it’s true.’

‘You ought to get out of that house, darling.—You know, the house is big enough for you to get someone to live in, if Joey needs—’

‘Oh, Mom could take care of him.’ Ina said, interrupting him. ‘Anything he needs—and it’s really only making his bed. Matter of fact, he’s done that several times. He can even get in and out of the tub.’ She laughed tensely.

Yes. Joey had his own quarters on the ground floor, Ingham remembered. ‘You should still get out, Ina.—Darling, I didn’t know what was troubling you tonight, but I knew something was.’

She faced him. ‘I’ll tell you something funny, Howard. I’ve started going to church. Just the last two or three months.’

‘Well—I don’t suppose it’s funny,’ Ingham said, though he was thoroughly surprised.

‘It is, because I don’t believe in any of it. But it gives me comfort to see all those—greyheads, mostly, listening and singing away and getting some kind of comfort from it. You know what I mean? And it’s just for an hour, every Sunday.’ Her voice was uncertain with tears now.

‘Oh, darling? Ingham held her close for a minute. A great unspeakable emotion rose in him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. 1 have never,’ he said softly, ‘felt such a tenderness for anyone as I do for you—this minute.’

She gave one sob against his shoulder, then pushed herself back, swept the hair back from her forehead. ‘Let’s go back.’

They began walking towards the town, towards the palely floodlit fortress—monument of some battle plainly lost, at some time, or else the Spaniards would be there.

Ingham said, ‘I wish you’d talk to me more about it. About everything. Whenever you feel like it. Now or anytime.’

But she was silent now.

She must get out of that house, Ingham thought. It was a cheerful-looking house, nothing gloomy or clinging-to-the-past about it, but to Ingham it was now a most unhealthy house. It was now that he should propose something positive, he thought. But it was not the moment to ask if she would marry him. He said suddenly, stubbornly, ‘I wish we lived together somewhere in New York.’

Rather to his surprise and disappointment, she made no answer at all.

Only near his car, she said, ‘I’m not much good tonight. Can you take me back to the hotel, darling?’

‘But of course.’

At the hotel, he kissed her good night, and said he would find her somewhere after her tour of the fortress with Jensen. When he got home, Jensen’s light was off, and Ingham hesitated in the court, wanting very much to waken him and speak with him. Then Jensen’s light came on, as Ingham was staring at his window.

‘It’s me,’ Ingham said.

Jensen leaned on the sill. CI wasn’t asleep. What time is it?’ he asked through a yawn.

‘About midnight. Can I see you for a minute? I’ll come up.’

Jensen merely pushed himself back from the sill, sleepily. Ingham ran up the outside stairs.

Jensen was in his levi shorts, which fitted his thin frame loosely. ‘Something happen?’

‘No. I just wanted to say—or to ask—I hope you won’t say anything tomorrow to Ina about Abdullah. You see, I told her the story I told Adams, that I didn’t even open my door.’

‘No. Well, all right.’

‘I think it might shock her,’ Ingham said. ‘And just now she has problems of her own. Her brother—the one she was talking about who’s a cripple. It’s depressing for her.’

Jensen lit a cigarette. ‘All right. I understand.’

‘You didn’t tell her anything already, did you?’

‘What do you mean?’

It was always so vague to Jensen and so clear to Ingham. “That I threw the thing that killed him—my typewriter.’

‘No, I didn’t say that. Not at all.’

‘Then don’t please.’

‘All right. You don’t have to worry.’

In spite of Jensen’s casualness, Ingham knew he could count on him, because when Jensen had said, ‘It just—doesn’t—matter,’ he meant it. ‘The fact is—and I admit it—I’m ashamed of having done it.’

‘Ashamed? Nonsense. Catholic nonsense. Rather, Protestant.’ Jensen leaned back on his bed and swung his brown legs up on the blanket.

‘But I’m not particularly a Protestant. I’m not anything.’

‘Ashamed yourself—or of what other people might think of you?’

There was a hint of contempt in ‘other people’. ‘What other people might think,’ Ingham answered. The other people were only Adams and Ina, Ingham was thinking. He expected Jensen to point this out, but Jensen was silent.

‘You can count on me. I won’t say anything. Don’t take it so seriously.’ Jensen put his feet on the floor in order to reach an ashtray.

Ingham left Jensen’s room with the awful feeling that he had gone down in Jensen’s estimation because of his weakness, his cowardice. He’d been truthful with Jensen, beginning with their talk on the desert. But it was funny how guilty he felt, how shaky with Jensen, though he knew he could trust Jensen even with a few drinks in him. Jensen was not weak. Ingham suddenly thought of the scared-looking, but flirtatious and seductive Arab boy who was sometimes loitering in the alley near the house, who always said something in Arabic to Jensen. Twice Ingham had seen Jensen dismiss him with an annoyed wave of the hand. Jensen had used to go to bed with him occasionally, Jensen had said. The boy looked revolting to Ingham, mushy, unreliable, sick. Despite all that, Jensen was not weak.