Kitabı oku: «The Talented Mr Ripley / Талантливый мистер Рипли», sayfa 2

Tom put on his own shoes again. He went down stone steps, past shops and houses, down more steps, and finally he came to a broad sidewalk where there were cafes and a restaurant with outdoor tables. Some bronzed Italian boys inspected him carefully as he walked by. He felt shame at the big brown shoes on his feet and at his ghost-white skin. He had not been to a beach all summer. He hated beaches.

There was a wooden walk that led to the beach, which Tom knew must be hot as hell to walk on, but he took his shoes off anyway and stood for a moment on the hot wood, inspecting the groups of people near him. None of the people looked like Richard. Then he took a deep breath, ran down across the hot sand to the cool water at the sea's edge.

Tom saw him from a distance – no doubt it was Dickie with a dark brown skin and his blond hair looked lighter than Tom remembered it. He was with Marge.

'Dickie Greenleaf?' Tom asked, smiling.

Dickie looked up. 'Yes?'

'I'm Tom Ripley. I met you in the States several years ago. Remember?.. I think your father said he was going to write you about me.'

'Oh, yes!' Dickie said, touching his forehead as if it was stupid of him to have forgotten. He stood up. 'Tom what is it?'

'Ripley.'

'This is Marge Sherwood,' he said. 'Marge, Tom Ripley.'

'How do you do?' Tom said.

'How do you do?'

'How long are you here for?' Dickie asked.

'I don't know yet,' Tom said. 'I just got here. I'll have to look the place over.'

'Taking a house?' asked Dickie.

'I don't know,' Tom said as if in a doubt.

'It's a good time to get a house, if you're looking for one for the winter,' the girl said. 'The summer tourists have all gone.'

Dickie said nothing. Tom felt that he was waiting for him to say good-bye and leave. Tom took his pack of cigarettes from his jacket, and offered it to Dickie and the girl.

'You don't seem to remember me from New York,' Tom said.

'I can't really say I do,' Dickie said. 'Where did I meet you? My memory's very bad for America these days.'

'It certainly is,' Marge said. 'It's getting worse and worse. When did you get here, Tom?'

'Just about an hour ago. I've just parked my suitcases at the post office.' He laughed.

'Don't you want to sit down?' She offered a white towel beside her on the sand.

'I'm going in for a swim,' Dickie said, getting up.

'Me too!' Marge said. 'Coming in, Tom?'

Tom followed them. Dickie and the girl swam out very far – both seemed to be excellent swimmers – and Tom stayed near the shore.

When Dickie and the girl came back to the towels, Dickie said, as if he was instructed by the girl, 'We're leaving. Would you like to come up to the house and have lunch with us?'

'Why, yes. Thanks very much.'

Tom thought they would never get there. The sun was burning, his shoulders were already pink, he felt awful.

Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in a comfortable chair on Dickie's terrace after a cool shower with a martini in his hand. The table on the terrace had been set for three while he was in the shower, and Marge was in the kitchen now, talking in Italian to the maid. Tom wondered if Marge lived here. The house was certainly big enough. There was not much furniture – a pleasant mixture of Italian and American style. He could see two original Picasso¹⁸ drawings in the hall.

Marge came out on the terrace with her martini. 'That's my house over there.' She pointed. 'See it?'

Tom pretended he saw it. 'Have you been here long?'

'A year. All last winter it was raining all the time. Rain every day except one for three months!'

'Really!'

'Um-hm.' Marge was drinking her martini and looking out at her little village with satisfaction. She was back in her bathing suit with a shirt over it. She wasn't bad-looking, Tom supposed, and she even had a good figure, if one liked the rather strong type. Tom didn't, himself.

'I understand Dickie has a boat,' Tom said.

'Yes, the Pipi. Short for Pipistrello. Want to see it?'

She pointed at something down at the little pier that they could see from the corner of the terrace. The boats looked very much alike, but Marge said Dickie's boat was larger than most of them and had two masts.

Dickie came out with a cocktail. 'Sorry there's no ice. I haven't got a refrigerator.'

Tom smiled. 'I brought a bathrobe for you. Your mother said you had asked for one. Also some socks.'

'Do you know my mother?'

'I met your father just before I left New York, and he asked me to dinner at his house.'

'Oh? How was my mother?'

'She was well that evening. But I'd say she gets tired easily.'

'I had a letter this week saying she was a little better. At least there's no crisis, is there?'

'I don't think so. I think your father was more worried a few weeks ago.' Tom hesitated. 'He's also a little worried because you won't come home.'

'Herbert's always worried about something,' Dickie said.

Marge and the maid came out of the kitchen carrying spaghetti, salad, and bread. Dickie and Marge began to talk about the restaurant down on the beach. The owner was widening the terrace so there would be room for people to dance. They discussed it in detail, slowly, like people in a small town who take an interest in their neighbours. There was nothing Tom could say about it.

He spent the time examining Dickie's rings. He liked them both: a large green stone in gold on the third finger of his right hand, and a large signet ring on the little finger of the other. Dickie had long, bony hands, like his own hands, Tom thought.

'What hotel are you staying at?' Marge asked Tom.

Tom smiled. 'I haven't found one yet. What do you recommend?'

'The Miramare's the best. '

'In that case, I'll try the Miramare,' Tom said, standing up. 'I must be going.'

Neither of them asked him to stay. Dickie walked with him to the front gate. Marge was staying on. Tom wondered if Dickie and Marge were having a love affair. Marge was in love with Dickie, Tom thought, but Dickie was as indifferent to her as if she were the fifty-year-old Italian maid.

'I'd like to see some of your paintings sometimes,' Tom said to Dickie.

'Fine. Well, I suppose we'll see you again,' and Tom thought he added it only because he remembered that he had brought him the bathrobe and the socks.

'I enjoyed the lunch. Good-bye, Dickie.'

The gate closed.

3

Tom took a room at the Miramare. It was four o'clock by the time he got his suitcases up from the post office, and he was so tired that he fell down on the bed. What was he doing here? He had no friends here and he didn't speak the language. Suppose he got sick? Who would take care of him?

He fell asleep and when he woke up still weak, the sun was shining and it was five-thirty. He went to a window and looked out, trying to find Dickie's big house among the pink and white houses in front of him. He saw the red terrace. Was Marge still there? Were they talking about him?

And then he saw Dickie and Marge as they crossed a space between houses on the main road. They turned a corner, and Tom went to his side window for a better view. Dickie and Marge came down to the little wooden pier just below his window. Dickie talked with an Italian, gave him some money, and the Italian touched his cap, then untied the boat from the pier.Tom watched Dickie help Marge into the boat. The white sail began to climb. Behind them, to the left, the orange sun was sinking into the water. Tom could hear Marge's laugh, and a shout from Dickie in Italian toward the pier. Tom understood he was watching them on a typical day – a siesta¹⁹ after the late lunch, probably, then the sail in Dickie's boat at sundown. Then some drinks at one of the cafes on the beach. They were enjoying an absolutely ordinary day, as if he did not exist. Why should Dickie want to come back to New York, to subways and taxis and a nine-to-five job? Or even vacations in Florida and Miami?²⁰ It wasn't much fun. Here Dickie could sail a boat in old clothes, he had his own house with a kind maid who probably took care of everything for him. And money besides, to take trips if he wanted to. Tom envied him with envy and self-pity that was breaking his heart. Tom thought that Dickie was against him because of his father' letter. It would be better if they met in one of the cafes down at the beach as if by chance. He probably could persuade Dickie to come home, if it all began like that, but this way it was useless.

Tom decided to let a few days go by. The first step, anyway, was to make Dickie like him. He wanted that more than anything else in the world.

* * *

Tom let three days go by. Then he went down to the beach on the fourth morning, and found Dickie alone, in the same place.

'Morning!' Tom called. 'Where's Marge?'

'Good morning. She's probably working a little late. She'll come soon.'

'Working?'

'She's a writer.'

'Oh… Can I invite you for a drink at the hotel before you go up to your house?' Tom asked Dickie. 'And Marge, too, if she comes. I wanted to give you your bathrobe and socks, you know.'

'Oh yes. Thanks very much. I'd like to have a drink.' He went back to his Italian newspaper.

'Doesn't look as if Marge is coming down,' Dickie said. 'I think I'll be going.'

Tom got up. They walked up to the Miramare, saying practically nothing to each other, except that Tom invited Dickie to lunch with him, and Dickie refused because the maid had his lunch ready at the house, he said. They went up to Tom's room, and Dickie tried on the bathrobe and the socks. Both the bathrobe and the socks were the right size, and, as Tom had expected, Dickie was extremely pleased with the bathrobe.

Now Dickie had everything, Tom thought, everything he had to offer. He was going to refuse the invitation for a drink, too, Tom knew. Tom followed him toward the door. 'You know, your father's very worried about you. He asked me to talk to you. Of course, I won't, but I'll still have to tell him something. I promised to write him.'

Dickie stopped at the door.

'I don't know what my father thinks I'm doing over here – drinking myself to death or what. I'll probably fly home this winter for a few days, but I don't want to stay over there. I'm happier here. I think it's my business how I spend my life. Thanks, anyway, Tom, for the message and the clothes. It was very nice of you.' Dickie offered his hand.

Tom hesitated to take the hand. This was failure, failure with Mr Greenleaf's message, and failure with Dickie.

'I think I should tell you something else,' Tom said with a smile. 'Your father sent me over here especially to ask you to come home.'

'What do you mean?' Dickie frowned. 'Paid your way?'

'Yes.' It was his last chance. Dickie might laugh at it or go out in disgust. But the smile was coming, the way Tom remembered Dickie's smile.

'Paid your way! What do you know!²¹ He's very serious, isn't he?' Dickie closed the door again.

'He came up to me in a bar in New York,' Tom said. 'I told him I wasn't a close friend of yours, but he insisted I could help if I came here. I told him I'd try.'

They laughed.

'I don't want you to think I'm someone who tried to use your father,' Tom said. 'I expect to find a job somewhere in Europe soon, and I'll be able to pay him. He bought me a round-trip ticket.'

'Oh, don't bother! It goes on the Greenleaf expense account.

I can just see how Dad talks to you in a bar! '

They had a drink downstairs in the hotel bar. They drank to Herbert Richard Greenleaf.

'Oh, it's Sunday today,' Dickie remembered. 'Marge went to church. Could you come up and have lunch with us? We always have chicken on Sunday. You know it's an old American custom, chicken on Sunday.'

Dickie wanted to go past Marge's house to see if she was still there. Her house was a one-storey building with a garden. Through an open window, Tom saw a table in disorder with a typewriter on it.

'Hi!' she said, opening the door. 'Hello, Tom! Where've you been all this time?'

She offered them a drink, but discovered that her bottle of gin was almost empty.

'It doesn't matter, we're going to my house,' Dickie said. 'Tom has something funny to tell you,' he said. 'Tell her, Tom.'

Tom took a breath and began. He made it very funny and Marge laughed like someone who didn't have anything funny to laugh at in years. 'When I saw him coming in Raoul's after me, I was ready to climb out of a back window!'

His reputation was going up with Dickie and Marge. He could see it in their faces.

The way up the hill to Dickie's house didn't seem so long as before. When they got there, they showered and then had a drink, just like the first time, but the atmosphere now was completely changed.

Dickie sat down in a chair. 'Tell me more,' he said, smiling. 'What kind of work do you do? You said you might take a job.'

'Why? Do you have a job for me?'

'Can't say that I have.'

'Oh, I can do a number of things – being a servant, baby-sitting, accounting – I've got an unfortunate talent for calculation. No matter how drunk I get, I can always tell when a waiter's cheating me on a bill. I can forge a signature, fly a helicopter, imitate practically anybody, cook – and do a one-man show in a nightclub. Shall I go on?'

'What kind of a one-man show?' Dickie asked.

'Well – ' Tom jumped up. 'This for example. This is a lady trying the American subway. She's never even been in the underground in London, but she wants to take back some American experiences.' Tom did it all in pantomime, – here Marge came out, and Dickie told her it was an Englishwoman in the subway, but Marge didn't seem to understand it and asked, 'What?'

'Wonderful!' Dickie shouted, clapping.

Marge wasn't laughing. She stood there looking a little confused. Neither of them bothered to explain it to her. She didn't look as if she had that kind of sense of humour, anyway, Tom thought.

Dickie stood up. 'Come on in, Tom, I'll show you some of my paintings.' Dickie led the way into the big room.

'This is one of Marge I'm working on now.' He pointed at one of the pictures.

'Oh,' Tom said with interest. It wasn't good in his opinion, probably in anybody's opinion.

'And these – a lot of landscapes,' Dickie said with an apologizing laugh, though obviously he wanted Tom to say something complimentary about them, because obviously he was proud of them.

Tom felt almost a personal shame. 'Yes, I like that,' Tom said. Mr Greenleaf had been right. Yet it gave Dickie something to do, kept him out of trouble, Tom supposed. He was only sorry that Dickie fell into this category as a painter, because he wanted Dickie to be much more.

'Yes,' Tom wanted to forget all about the paintings and forget that Dickie painted. 'Can I see the rest of the house?'

'Absolutely! You haven't seen the salon, have you?'

Dickie opened a door in the hall that led into a very large room with a fireplace, sofas, bookshelves, and three doors – to the terrace, to the land on the other side of the house, and to the front garden. Dickie said that in summer he did not use the room, because he liked to save it as a change of scene for the winter. It surprised him.

'What's upstairs?' Tom asked.

The upstairs was disappointing: Dickie's bedroom in the corner of the house above the terrace was almost empty – a bed, – a narrow bed, hardly wider than a single bed. There was certainly no sign of Marge anywhere, least of all in Dickie's bedroom.

'How about going to Naples with me sometime?' Tom asked. 'I didn't have much of a chance to see it on my way down.'

'All right,' Dickie said. 'Marge and I are going Saturday afternoon. We have dinner there nearly every Saturday night. Come along. I suppose we could go tomorrow, if you feel like it.'

'Fine,' Tom said, hoping to avoid Marge in the trip. 'I had the idea she was in love with you.' He added as they went down the stairs.

'With me? Don't be silly!'

The dinner was ready when they went out on the terrace. Tom hoped Marge would leave after the coffee, but she didn't. When she left the terrace for a moment Tom said, 'Can I invite you for dinner at my hotel tonight?'

'Thank you. At what time?'

'Seven-thirty? So we'll have a little time for cocktails? – After all, it's your father's money,' Tom added with a smile.

Dickie laughed. 'All right, cocktails and a good bottle of wine, Marge!' Marge was just coming back. 'We're dining tonight at the Miramare.

So Marge was coming, too, and there was nothing Tom could do about it. After all, it was Dickie's father's money.

The dinner that evening was pleasant, but Marge's presence kept Tom from talking easily.

'How long are you going to be here?' Dickie asked.

'Oh, at least a week, I'd say,' Tom replied.

'Because – ' Dickie's face went red a little over the cheekbones. The wine had put him into a good mood. 'If you're going to be here a little longer, why don't you stay with me? There's no use staying in a hotel, unless you really prefer it.'

'Thank you very much,' Tom said. 'I'm sure I'd like to. By the way, your father gave me six hundred dollars for expenses, and I've still got about five hundred of it. I think we both ought to have a little fun on it, don't you?'

The next morning he moved in.

'Are we still going to Naples?' Tom asked.

'Certainly.' Dickie looked at his watch. 'It's only a quarter to twelve. We can make the twelve o'clock bus.'

They took nothing with them but their jackets and Tom's book of traveller's cheques. The bus was just arriving as they reached the post office. Tom and Dickie stood by the door, then Dickie pulled himself up, right into the face of a young man with red hair and a sports shirt, an American.

'Dickie!'

'Freddie!' Dickie shouted. 'What're you doing here?'

'Came to see you! And my Italian friends. They've invited me to stay with them for a few days.'

'Fine! I'm off to Naples with a friend. Tom?' Dickie pointed at Tom over and introduced them.

The American's name was Freddie Miles. Tom thought he was disgusting. Tom hated red hair, especially this kind of carrot-red hair with white skin and freckles. Tom turned away from him, waiting for Dickie to finish his conversation. Dickie and Freddie were talking about skiing, making a date for some time in December in a town Tom had never heard of.

'There'll be about fifteen of us at Cortina²² by the second,' Freddie said. 'A real first-class party like last year! Three weeks, if our money holds out!'

'If we hold out!²³' Dickie said. 'See you tonight, Fred!'

The bus took them to a big square in Naples.

'I know a good place for lunch,' Dickie said. 'A real Neapolitan pizzeria. Do you like pizza?'

'Yes.'

The pizzeria was up a street too narrow for cars. They sat there until five o'clock, when Dickie said it was time to move on to the Galleria.²⁴ Dickie apologised for not taking him to the art museum, which had original da Vincis and El Grecos²⁵, he said, but they could see that at another time. Dickie had spent most of the afternoon talking about Freddie Miles, and Tom had found it as uninteresting as Freddie's face. Freddie was the son of an American hotel-chain owner, and a playwright – a false one, Tom thought, because he had written only two plays, and neither had seen Broadway²⁶.

'This is what I like,' Dickie said frankly in the Galleria, 'sitting at a table and watching the people go by. It does something to your idea of life. The Anglo-Saxons make a great mistake not staring at people from a sidewalk table.'

Tom nodded. He had heard it before. He was waiting for something wise and original from Dickie. Dickie was handsome. He looked unusual with his long, finely cut face, his quick, intelligent eyes, the proud way he carried himself, no matter what he was wearing.

A well-dressed Italian greeted Dickie with a warm handshake and sat down at the table with them. Tom listened to their conversation in Italian, but could understand only some words. He was beginning to feel tired.

'Want to go to Rome?' Dickie asked him suddenly.

'Sure,' Tom said. 'Now?' He stood up and paid for their coffee.

The Italian had a long grey Cadillac. They reached Rome in about two hours. The Italian left them in the middle of a street in Rome and said good-bye.

'He's in a hurry,' Dickie said. 'Got to see his girl friend and get away before the husband comes home at eleven. There's the music hall I was looking for. Come on!

They bought tickets for the music-hall show that evening. Tom got very little out of the music-hall show, but he tried his very best.

Dickie suggested leaving before the show was over. Then they caught a horse carriage and drove around the city, past fountain after fountain, through the Forum and around the Colloseum²⁷. The moon came out. Tom was still a little sleepy, but excited at being in Rome for the first time. They were sitting in the carriage in the same pose with a sandalled foot on a knee, and it seemed to Tom that he was looking in a mirror when he looked at Dickie. They were the same height, and very much the same weight, Dickie perhaps a bit heavier, and they wore the same size bathrobe, socks, and probably shirts.

They were in finer mood at one o'clock in the morning, after a bottle and a half of wine. They walked with their arms around each other's shoulders, singing, and around a dark corner they saw a girl and knocked her down. They lifted her up, apologising, and offered to accompany her home. She protested, they insisted. Dickie got a taxi. They helped the girl out in a little street that looked like Naples again, and she said, 'Grazie tante!'²⁸ and shook hands with both of them, then disappeared in a black doorway.

'Did you hear that?' Dickie said. 'She said we were the nicest Americans she'd ever met!' He turned around and asked, 'Now where are we?'

They didn't know.

'When the dawn comes up, we can see where we are,' Dickie said cheerfully. 'It's because we got a nice girl home, isn't it?'

'Sure it is. I like girls,' Tom said protestingly. 'But it's a good thing Marge isn't here tonight. We never could go with that girl with Marge with us.'

'That's right!' Dickie put an arm around his shoulder.

Tom opened his eyes and looked into the face of a policeman. He sat up. They were in a park. It was dawn. Dickie was sitting on the grass beside him, talking to the policeman in Italian.

'Passaporti!' the policeman demanded.

Tom knew exactly what Dickie was saying. He was saying that they were Americans, and they didn't have their passports because they had only gone out for a little walk to look at the stars. Tom had an impulse to laugh. He stood up. Dickie was up, too, and they began to walk away, though the policeman was still crying at them. Dickie said something back to him in a polite, explanatory tone. At least the policeman was not following them.

'We look dirty,' Dickie said. They began to laugh. They were still drunk.

By eleven o'clock they were in Naples, just in time to catch the bus for Mongibello. It was wonderful to think of lying on the beach at Mongibello this afternoon, but they never got to the beach. They had showers at Dickie's house, then fell down on their beds and slept until Marge woke them up around four.

Marge was annoyed because Dickie hadn't sent her a telegram saying he was spending the night in Rome.

'I don't mind if you spend the night, but I thought you were in Naples and anything can happen in Naples.'

'Oh-h,' Dickie exchanged glances with Tom. He was making cocktails for all of them.

Tom kept his mouth shut. He wasn't going to tell Marge anything they had done. Let her imagine what she pleased. Dickie made it clear that they had had a very good time. Tom noticed that she looked at Dickie with blame for his hangover. There was something in Marge's eyes when she was very serious that made her look wise and old. Or was it jealousy?

After a few moments she seemed relaxed. Dickie left him with Marge on the terrace. Tom asked her about the book she was writing. It was a book about Mongibello, she said, with her own photographs. He tried to be pleasant to her. He walked with her to the gate, and they said a friendly good-bye to each other, but both didn't say anything about their all getting together later that day or tomorrow. There was no doubt about it, Marge was a little angry with Dickie.