Free Patricia Highsmith - The Tremor of Forgery by Patricia Highsmith Page A

triumph. The men who put ‘ the State ’ first, in defiance of human values, will perish. America fights to preserve human values. America fights not only to preserve herself but all others who would follow in her path — in our blessed way of life. Good night, my friends .’
    Click. Adams turned the machine off.
    Our Blessed Way of Life. OBWL. Not pronounceable. Ingham hesitated, then said, ‘ That ’ s very impressive .’
    ‘ You like it. Good .’ Adams began briskly putting his equipment away, back into the closet which he again locked.
    If it was all true, Ingham was thinking, .’.’ ” Adams was paid by the Russians, he was paid because it was so absurd, it was really rather good anti-American propaganda. ‘ I wonder how many people it reaches? How many listen? ’
    ‘ Upwards of six million .’ Adams replied. ‘ So my friends say. I call them my friends, although I don ’ t even know their names, except the one man I told you about. A price is on their heads, if they ’ re found out. And they ’ re gaining recruits all the time, of course. ’
    Ingham nodded. ‘ What ’ s their final plan? I mean about — changing their government ’ s policy and all that? ’
    “ It ’ s not so much a final plan as a war of attrition .’ Adams said with his confident, pouchy smile, and from the happy sparkle in his eyes, Ingham knew that this was where his heart lay, his raison d’être , in these weekly broadcasts that carried the American Way of Life behind the Iron Curtain. “ The results may not even be seen in my lifetime. But if people listen, and they do, I make my effect .’
    Ingham felt blank for a moment. ‘ How long are your talks? ’
    ‘ Fifteen minutes. — You mustn ’ t tell anyone here. Not even another American. Matter of fact, you ’ re the first American I ’ ve told about it. I don ’ t even tell my daughter, just in case it might leak out. You understand? ’
    ‘ Of course, ’ Ingham said. It was late, after midnight. He wanted to leave. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like claustrophobia.
    ‘I’m not paid much, but to tell you the truth, I ’ d do it for nothing, ’ Adams said. ‘ Let ’ s go in the other room .’
    Ingham declined Adams ’ s offer of a coffee or a nightcap, and managed to leave in five minutes, and gracefully. But as he walked in the dark back towards his own bungalow, he felt somehow shaky. Ingham went to bed, but after a moment, his insides began churning, and he was up and in the bathroom. This time he vomited, as well. That was good, Ingham thought, in case the trouble had been the poisson-complet — the fried fish with fried egg — at the restaurant in La Goulette. He took more Entero-Vioform.
    It became 3 a.m. Ingham tried to rest between seizures. He sweated. A cold towel on his forehead made him too cold, a sensation he had not had in a long time. He vomited again. He wondered if he should try to get a doctor — it didn ’ t seem reasonable to endure this much discomfort for another six hours — but there was no telephone in the bungalow, and Ingham could not face, even though he had a flashlight now, trudging across the sand to the main building, where in fact he might find no one to open the door at this hour. Call Mokta? Wake him at the bungalow headquarters? Ingham could not bring himself to do that. He sweated it out until daylight. He had thrown up and brushed his teeth three or four times.
    At six-thirty or seven o ’ clock, people were up at the bungalow headquarters. Ingham thought vaguely of trying for a doctor, of asking for some kind of medicine more effective than Entero-Vioform. Ingham put on his robe over bis pyjamas, and walked in sandals to the bungalow headquarters. He was chilly and exhausted. Before he quite reached the building, he saw Adams prancing on his little arched feet out of his bungalow, briskly locking his door, briskly turning.
    Adams hailed him. ‘ Hello! W hat’s up? ’
    Somewhat feebly, Ingham