Патриция Хайсмит – The Talented Mr Ripley / Талантливый мистер Рипли (страница 4)

He arrived in Naples late that afternoon, and there was no bus to Mongibello until tomorrow morning at eleven. Tom had dinner that evening at a restaurant down on the water, which was recommended to him by the English-speaking manager of the hotel. He had a difficult time ordering, the first course was miniature octopuses, and it tasted terrible. The second course was also a mistake, fried fish of various kinds. The third course – which was a kind of dessert – was a couple of small reddish fish. Ah, Naples! The food didn't matter. He was enjoying the wine.

He boarded the bus the next morning at eleven. The road followed the shore and went through little towns where they made brief stops – Tom listened to the names of the towns that the driver called out, when he finally heard: 'Mongibello!'

Tom was alone at the side of the road, his suitcases at his feet. There were houses above him, up the mountain, and houses below, against the blue sea. Keeping an eye on his suitcases, Tom went into a little house across the road marked POSTA, and asked the man behind the window where Richard Greenleaf's house was. Without thinking, he spoke in English, but the man seemed to understand, because he came out and pointed from the door up the road, and gave in Italian what seemed to be clear directions how to get there.

Tom thanked him, and asked if he could leave his two suitcases in the post, and the man seemed to understand this, too, and helped Tom carry them into the post office.

He had to ask two more people where Richard Greenleaf's house was, but everybody seemed to know it, and the third person was able to point it out to him – a large two-storey house with an iron gate on the road. Tom rang the metal bell beside the gate. An Italian woman came out of the house.

'Mr Greenleaf?' Tom asked hopefully. The woman gave him a long, smiling answer in Italian and pointed towards the sea.

Should he go down to the beach as he was, or be more casual about it and get into a bathing suit? Or should he wait until the tea or cocktail hour? Or should he try to telephone him first? He hadn't brought a bathing suit with him, and he certainly needed to have one here. Tom went into one of the little shops near the post office that had shirts and bathing shorts in its small front window, and after trying on several pairs of shorts that did not fit him he bought a black-and-yellow thing and started out of the door barefoot. The stones were hot as coals. 'Shoes? Sandals?' he asked the man in the shop. The man didn't sell shoes.

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 Picasso[18] 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