The Talented Mr. Ripley

  Tom made a lunge for the control lever, but the boat swerved at the same time in a crazy arc. For an instant he saw water underneath him and his own hand outstretched toward it, because he had been trying to grab the gunwale and the gunwale was no longer there.

  He was in the water.

  He gasped, contracting his body in an upward leap, grabbing at the boat. He missed. The boat had gone into a spin. Tom leapt again, then sank lower, so low the water closed over his head again with a deadly, fatal slowness, yet too fast for him to get a breath, and he inhaled a noseful of water just as his eyes sank below the surface. The boat was farther away. He had seen such spins before: they never stopped until somebody climbed in and stopped the motor, and now in the deadly emptiness of the water he suffered in advance the sensations of dying, sank threshing below the surface again, and the crazy motor faded as the water thugged into his ears, blotting out all sound except the frantic sounds that he made inside himself, breathing, struggling, the desperate pounding of his blood. He was up again and fighting automatically toward the boat, because it was the only thing that floated, though it was spinning and impossible to touch, and its sharp prow whipped past him twice, three times, four, while he caught one breath of air.

  He shouted for help. He got nothing but a mouthful of water. His hand touched the boat beneath the water and was pushed aside by the animal-like thrust of the prow. He reached out wildly for the end of the boat, heedless of the propeller’s blades. His fingers felt the rudder. He ducked, but not in time. The keel hit the top of his head, passing over him. Now the stern was close again, and he tried for it, fingers slipping down off the rudder. His other hand caught the stern gunwale. He kept an arm straight, holding his body away from the propeller. With an unpremeditated energy, he hurled himself toward a stern corner, and caught an arm over the side. Then he reached up and touched the lever.

  The motor began to slow.

  Tom clung to the gunwale with both hands, and his mind went blank with relief, with disbelief, until he became aware of the flaming ache in his throat, the stab in his chest with every breath. He rested for what could have been two or ten minutes, thinking of nothing at all but the gathering of strength enough to haul himself into the boat, and finally he made slow jumps up and down in the water and threw his weight over and lay face down in the boat, his feet dangling over the gunwale. He rested, faintly conscious of the slipperiness of Dickie’s blood under his fingers, a wetness mingled with the water that ran out of his own nose and mouth. He began to think before he could move, about the boat that was all bloody and could not be returned, about the motor that he would have to get up and start in a moment. About the direction.

  About Dickie’s rings. He felt for them in his jacket pocket. They were still there, and after all what could have happened to them? He had a fit of coughing, and tears blurred his vision as he tried to look all around him to see if any boat was near, or coming toward him. He rubbed his eyes. There was no boat except the gay little motorboat in the distance, still dashing around in wide arcs, oblivious of him. Tom looked at the boat bottom. Could he wash it all out? But blood was hell to get out, he had always heard. He had been going to return the boat, and say, if he were asked by the boatkeeper where his friend was, that he had set him ashore at some other point. Now that couldn’t be.

  Tom moved the lever cautiously. The idling motor picked up and he was afraid even of that, but the motor seemed more human and manageable than the sea, and therefore less frightening. He headed obliquely toward the shore, north of San Remo. Maybe he could find some place, some little deserted cove in the shore where he could beach the boat and get out. But if they found the boat? The problem seemed immense. He tried to reason himself back to coolness. His mind seemed blocked as to how to get rid of the boat.

  Now he could see pine trees, a dry empty-looking stretch of tan beach and the green fuzz of a field of olive trees. Tom cruised slowly to right and left of the place, looking for people. There were none. He headed in for the shallow, short beach, handling the throttle respectfully, because he was not sure it wouldn’t flare up again. Then he felt the scrape and jolt of earth under the prow. He turned the lever to ferma, and moved another lever that cut the motor. He got out cautiously into about ten inches of water, pulled the boat up as far as he could, then transferred the two jackets, his sandals, and Marge’s cologne box from the boat to the beach. The little cove where he was—not more than fifteen feet wide—gave him a feeling of safety and privacy. There was not a sign anywhere that a human foot had ever touched the place. Tom decided to try to scuttle the boat.

  He began to gather stones, all about the size of a human head because that was all he had the strength to carry, and to drop them one by one into the boat, but finally he had to use smaller stones because there were no more big ones near enough by. He worked without a halt, afraid that he would drop in a faint of exhaustion if he allowed himself to relax even for an instant, and that he might lie there until he was found by somebody. When the stones were nearly level with the gunwale, he shoved the boat off and rocked it, more and more, until water slopped in at the sides. As the boat began to sink, he gave it a shove toward deeper water, shoved and walked with it until the water was up to his waist, and the boat sank below his reach. Then he plowed his way back to the shore and lay down for a while, face down on the sand. He began to plan his return to the hotel, and his story, and his next moves: leaving San Remo before nightfall, getting back to Mongibello. And the story there.

  13

  At sundown, just the hour when the Italians and everybody else in the village had gathered at the sidewalk tables of the cafés, freshly showered and dressed, staring at everybody and everything that passed by, eager for whatever entertainment the town could offer, Tom walked into the village wearing only his swimming shorts and sandals and Dickie’s corduroy jacket, and carrying his slightly bloodstained trousers and jacket under his arm. He walked with a languid casualness because he was exhausted, though he kept his head up for the benefit of the hundreds of people who stared at him as he walked past the cafés, the only route to his beachfront hotel. He had fortified himself with five espressos full of sugar and three brandies at a bar on the road just outside San Remo. Now he was playing the role of an athletic young man who had spent the afternoon in and out of the water because it was his peculiar taste, being a good swimmer and impervious to cold, to swim until late afternoon on a chilly day. He made it to the hotel, collected the key at the desk, went up to his room and collapsed on the bed. He would allow himself an hour to rest, he thought, but he must not fall asleep lest he sleep longer. He rested, and when he felt himself falling asleep, got up and went to the basin and wet his face, took a wet towel back to his bed simply to waggle in his hand to keep from falling asleep.

  Finally he got up and went to work on the blood smear on one leg of his corduroy trousers. He scrubbed it over and over with soap and a nailbrush, got tired and stopped for a while to pack the suitcase. He packed Dickie’s things just as Dickie had always packed them, toothpaste and toothbrush in the back left pocket. Then he went back to finish the trouser leg. His own jacket had too much blood on it ever to be worn again, and he would have to get rid of it, but he could wear Dickie’s jacket, because it was the same beige color and almost identical in size. Tom had had his suit copied from Dickie’s, and it had been made by the same tailor in Mongibello. He put his own jacket into the suitcase. Then he went down with the suitcase and asked for his bill.

  The man behind the desk asked where his friend was, and Tom said he was meeting him at the railroad station. The clerk was pleasant and smiling, and wished Tom “Buon viaggio.”

  Tom stopped in at a restaurant two streets away and forced himself to eat a bowl of minestrone for the strength it would give him. He kept an eye out for the Italian who owned the boats. The main thing, he thought, was to leave San Remo tonight, take a taxi to the next town, if there was no train or bus.

  There was a train south at te
n twenty-four, Tom learned at the railroad station. A sleeper. Wake up tomorrow in Rome, and change trains for Naples. It seemed absurdly simple and easy suddenly, and in a burst of self-assurance he thought of going to Paris for a few days.

  “’Spetta un momento,” he said to the clerk who was ready to hand him his ticket. Tom walked around his suitcase, thinking of Paris. Overnight. Just to see it, for two days, for instance. It wouldn’t matter whether he told Marge or not. He decided abruptly against Paris. He wouldn’t be able to relax. He was too eager to get to Mongibello and see about Dickie’s belongings.

  The white, taut sheets of his berth on the train seemed the most wonderful luxury he had ever known. He caressed them with his hands before he turned the light out. And the clean blue-gray blankets, the spanking efficiency of the little black net over his head—Tom had an ecstatic moment when he thought of all the pleasures that lay before him now with Dickie’s money, other beds, tables, seas, ships, suitcases, shirts, years of freedom, years of pleasure. Then he turned the light out and put his head down and almost at once fell asleep, happy, content, and utterly, utterly confident, as he had never been before in his life.

  In Naples he stopped in the men’s room of the railway station and removed Dickie’s toothbrush and hairbrush from the suitcase, and rolled them up in Dickie’s raincoat together with his own corduroy jacket and Dickie’s blood-spotted trousers. He took the bundle across the street from the station and pressed it into a huge burlap bag of garbage that leaned against an alley wall. Then he breakfasted on caffe latte and a sweet roll at a café on the bus-stop square, and boarded the old eleven o’clock bus for Mongibello.

  He stepped off the bus almost squarely in front of Marge, who was in her bathing suit and the loose white jacket she always wore to the beach.

  “Where’s Dickie?” she asked.

  “He’s in Rome.” Tom smiled easily, absolutely prepared. “He’s staying up there for a few days. I came down to get some of his stuff to take up to him.”

  “Is he staying with somebody?”

  “No, just in a hotel.” With another smile that was half a good-bye, Tom started up the hill with his suitcase. A moment later he heard Marge’s cork-soled sandals trotting after him. Tom waited. “How’s everything been in our home sweet home?” he asked.

  “Oh, dull. As usual.” Marge smiled. She was ill at ease with him. But she followed him into the house—the gate was unlocked, and Tom got the big iron key to the terrace door from its usual place, back of a rotting wooden tub that held earth and a half-dead shrub—and they went on to the terrace together. The table had been moved a little. There was a book on the glider. Marge had been here since they left, Tom thought. He had been gone only three days and nights. It seemed to him that he had been away for a month.

  “How’s Skippy?” Tom asked brightly, opening the refrigerator, getting out an ice tray. Skippy was a stray dog Marge had acquired a few days ago, an ugly black-and-white bastard that Marge pampered and fed like a doting old maid.

  “He went off. I didn’t expect him to stay.”

  “Oh.”

  “You look like you’ve had a good time,” Marge said, a little wistfully.

  “We did.” Tom smiled. “Can I fix you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. How long do you think Dickie’s going to be away?”

  “Well—” Tom frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t really know. He says he wants to see a lot of art shows up there. I think he’s just enjoying a change of scene.” Tom poured himself a generous gin and added soda and a lemon slice. “I suppose he’ll be back in a week. By the way!” Tom reached for the suitcase and took out the box of cologne. He had removed the shop’s wrapping paper, because it had had blood smears on it. “Your Stradivari. We got it in San Remo.”

  “Oh, thanks—very much.” Marge took it, smiling, and began to open it, carefully, dreamily.

  Tom strolled tensely around the terrace with his drink, not saying a word to Marge, waiting for her to go.

  “Well—” Marge said finally, coming out on the terrace. “How long are you staying?”

  “Where.”

  “Here.”

  “Just overnight. I’ll be going up to Rome tomorrow. Probably in the afternoon,” he added, because he couldn’t get the mail tomorrow until perhaps after two.

  “I don’t suppose I’ll see you again, unless you’re at the beach,” Marge said with an effort at friendliness. “Have a good time in case I don’t see you. And tell Dickie to write a postcard. What hotel is he staying at?”

  “Oh—uh—what’s the name of it? Near the Piazza di Spagna?”

  “The Inghilterra?”

  “That’s it. But I think he said to use the American Express as a mailing address.” She wouldn’t try to telephone Dickie, Tom thought. And he could be at the hotel tomorrow to pick up a letter if she wrote. “I’ll probably go down to the beach tomorrow morning,” Tom said.

  “All right. Thanks for the cologne.”

  “Don’t mention it!”

  She walked down the path to the iron gate, and out.

  Tom picked up the suitcase and ran upstairs to Dickie’s bedroom. He slid Dickie’s top drawer out: letters, two address books, a couple of little notebooks, a watchchain, loose keys, and some kind of insurance policy. He slid the other drawers out, one by one, and left them open. Shirts, shorts, folded sweaters and disordered socks. In the corner of the room a sloppy mountain of portfolios and old drawing pads. There was a lot to be done. Tom took off all his clothes, ran downstairs naked and took a quick, cool shower, then put on Dickie’s old white duck trousers that were hanging on a nail in the closet.

  He started with the top drawer, for two reasons: the recent letters were important in case there were current situations that had to be taken care of immediately, and also because, in case Marge happened to come back this afternoon, it wouldn’t look as if he were dismantling the entire house so soon. But at least he could begin, even this afternoon, packing Dickie’s biggest suitcases with his best clothes, Tom thought.

  Tom was still pottering about the house at midnight. Dickie’s suitcases were packed, and now he was assessing how much the house furnishings were worth, what he would bequeath to Marge, and how he would dispose of the rest. Marge could have the damned refrigerator. That ought to please her. The heavy carved chest in the foyer, which Dickie used for his linens, ought to be worth several hundred dollars, Tom thought. Dickie had said it was four hundred years old, when Tom had asked him about it. Cinquecento. He intended to speak to Signor Pucci, the assistant manager of the Miramare, and ask him to act as agent for the sale of the house and the furniture. And the boat, too. Dickie had told him that Signor Pucci did jobs like that for residents of the village.

  He had wanted to take all of Dickie’s possessions straight away to Rome, but in view of what Marge might think about his taking so much for presumably such a short time, he decided it would be better to pretend that Dickie had later made a decision to move to Rome.

  Accordingly, Tom went down to the post office around three the next afternoon, claimed one interesting letter for Dickie from a friend in America and nothing for himself, but as he walked slowly back to the house again he imagined that he was reading a letter from Dickie. He imagined the exact words, so that he could quote them to Marge, if he had to, and he even made himself feel the slight surprise he would have felt at Dickie’s change of mind.

  As soon as he got home he began packing Dickie’s best drawings and best linens into the big cardboard box he had gotten from Aldo at the grocery store on the way up the hill. He worked calmly and methodically, expecting Marge to drop in at any minute, but it was after four before she came.

  “Still here?” she asked as she came into Dickie’s room.

  “Yes. I had a letter from Dickie today. He’s decided he’s going to move to Rome.” Tom straightened up and smiled a little, as if it were a surprise to him, too. “He wants me to pick up all his things, all I can handle.”

&
nbsp; “Move to Rome? For how long?”

  “I don’t know. The rest of the winter apparently, anyway.” Tom went on tying canvases.

  “He’s not coming back all winter?” Marge’s voice sounded lost already.

  “No. He said he might even sell the house. He said he hadn’t decided yet.”

  “Gosh!— What happened?”

  Tom shrugged. “He apparently wants to spend the winter in Rome. He said he was going to write to you. I thought you might have got a letter this afternoon, too.”

  “No.”

  Silence. Tom kept on working. It occurred to him that he hadn’t packed up his own things at all. He hadn’t even been into his room.

  “He’s still going to Cortina, isn’t he?” Marge asked.

  “No, he’s not. He said he was going to write to Freddie and cancel it. But that shouldn’t prevent your going.” Tom watched her. “By the way, Dickie said he wants you to take the refrigerator. You can probably get somebody to help you move it.”