The Talented Mr Ripley / Талантливый мистер Рипли. Патриция ХайсмитЧитать онлайн книгу.

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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

      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 siesta[19] 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.

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