4

For three or four days they saw very little of Marge, and she was cooler towards both of them on the beach. She smiled and talked to them, but there was an element of politeness now. Tom noticed that Dickie was worried, but not worried enough to talk to Marge alone, because he didn't have a chance to see her alone. Tom was with Dickie every moment since he had moved into Dickie's house.

Finally Tom mentioned to Dickie that he thought she was acting strangely.

'Oh, that's because of her moods,' Dickie said. 'Maybe she's working well. She doesn't like to see people when she's in the middle of work.'

The Dickie-Marge relationship was just what he supposed it was at first, Tom thought. Marge was much fonder of Dickie than Dickie was of her.

Tom tried to amuse Dickie. He had lots of funny stories to tell Dickie about people he knew in New York, some of them true, some of them invented. They went for a sail in Dickie's boat every day. They never spoke about the date when Tom might leave. Dickie also seemed pleased that Tom was taking his study of Italian seriously. Tom spent a couple of hours a day with his grammar and conversation books.

Tom wrote to Mr Greenleaf that he was staying with Dickie now for a few days, and said that Dickie was planning to fly home for a short time in the winter, and that probably he could persuade him to stay longer. Tom also said that when he spent Mr Greenleaf's money, he intended to try to get himself a job. This letter sounded much better now when he was staying at Dickie's house. Tom wanted to make a good impression on Dickie, so he gave Dickie the letter to read.

Another week went by, of ideally pleasant weather, ideally lazy days.

A letter came from Mr Greenleaf, which had crossed Tom's letter, in which Mr Greenleaf repeated his arguments for Dickie's coming home, wished Tom success, and asked for a quick reply. Mr Greenleaf's letter was in a extremely businesslike tone, Tom thought – so he found it very easy to reply in the same way. He wrote in Mr Greenleaf's own style:

…If I am not mistaken, Richard is hesitating in his decision to spend another winter here. As I promised you, I shall do everything in my power to persuade him not to spend another winter here, and in time – probably at Christmas – I may be able to get him to the States.

Tom had to smile as he wrote it, because he and Dickie were talking of sailing around the Greek islands this winter, and Dickie decided not to fly home even for a few days, unless his mother should be really seriously ill by then. They also decided to spend January and February, Mongibello's worst months, in Majorca^[29]. And Marge would not be going with them, Tom was sure. Both he and Dickie didn't include her in their travel plans.

And now, though Tom knew Dickie was still firm about their going alone, Dickie became more attentive to Marge, just because he realised that she would be lonely here by herself, and that it was very unkind of them not to ask her to join them. Dickie and Tom both tried to explain to her that they would be travelling in the cheapest and worst possible way around Greece, no way for a girl to travel. But Marge still looked sad.

And when they asked her to go along with them to Herculaneum^[30], she refused.

'I think I'll stay home. You boys enjoy yourselves,' she said with a sad smile.

'Was she angry about something?' Tom asked when Marge had left.

'No. She feels kind of left out, I suppose.'

'We certainly tried to include her.'

'It isn't just this.' Dickie was walking slowly up and down the terrace. 'Now she says she doesn't even want to go to Cortina with me.'

'Do you want me to leave, Dickie?' Tom asked, sure that Dickie didn't want him to leave. 'I feel I'm intruding on you and Marge.'

'Of course not! Intruding on what?'

'Well, from her point of view.'

'No. It's just that I should do something for her. And I haven't been nice to her lately. We haven't.'

Tom knew he meant that he and Marge were very close to each other, when they had been the only Americans in the village, and that he shouldn't ignore her now because somebody else was here.

'Suppose I talk to her about going to Cortina,' Tom suggested.

'Then she surely won't go,' Dickie said, and went into the house.

Tom wanted to offer a drink but then decided against it: it wasn't his house, though he had bought the three bottles of gin that now stood in the kitchen.

'It's after two,' Tom said. 'Want to take a little walk and go by the post office?'

They walked down the hill in silence. What had Marge said about him, Tom wondered. He suddenly felt guilt, a very strong sense of guilt, as if Marge told Dickie that he had stolen something or had done some other shameful thing. Dickie wouldn't be acting like this only because Marge had behaved coolly, Tom thought. He came out of silence only to thank the Italian post office clerk for his letter. Tom had no mail. Dickie's letter was from a Naples bank, a form on which Tom saw typewritten in a blank space: $500.00. The monthly announcement that Dickie's money had arrived in Naples, Tom supposed. Dickie had said that his trust company sent his money to a Naples bank. They walked on down the hill. Dickie stopped at the steps that led up to Marge's house.

'I think I'll go up to see Marge,' he said. 'I won't be long, but there's no use in your waiting^[31].'

'All right,' Tom said, feeling suddenly lonely. He turned and started back towards the house. About half-way up the hill he stopped with an impulse to go to Marge's house. He imagined himself saying 'Look here, Marge, I'm sorry if I've been the reason for the stress around here. We asked you to go today, and we mean it. I mean it.'

He turned and walked back to Marge's gate. He closed the gate carefully behind him, though she could not possibly hear it, then ran up the steps. He slowed as he climbed the last steps, stopped at Marge's window and looked in: Dickie's arm was around her waist. Dickie was kissing her, smiling at her. Marge's face was turned up to Dickie's, as if she were lost in ecstasy, and Tom felt disgust because he knew that Dickie didn't mean it, that Dickie was only using this cheap easy way to hold on her friendship. Tom really couldn't believe it possible of Dickie!

Tom turned away and ran down the steps, wanting to scream. He ran all the way up the road home. He sat in Dickie's studio for a few moments, his mind shocked and empty. That kiss – it hadn't looked like a first kiss. He had a curious feeling that his brain remained calm and logical and that his body was out of control. He ran out on the terrace with an idea of jumping on to the parapet and doing a dance or standing on his head, but the empty space on the other side of the parapet stopped him.

He went up to Dickie's room and walked around for a few moments, his hands in his pockets. He wondered when Dickie was coming back? Or was he going to stay, really take her to bed with him? He opened Dickie's closet door and looked in.

There was a new-looking grey flannel suit that he had never seen before. Tom took it out. He took off his shorts and put on the grey flannel trousers. Then he put on a pair of Dickie's shoes. Then he chose a dark-blue silk tie and knotted it carefully. The suit fitted him.

'Marge, you must understand that I don't love you,' Tom said into the mirror in Dickie's voice, with Dickie's intonation, 'Marge, stop it!' Tom turned suddenly and made a gesture in the air as if he were seizing Marge's throat. He shook her, twisted her, while she sank lower and lower, until at last he left her on the floor. He was breathing hard. He touched his forehead the way Dickie did, reached for a handkerchief and, not finding any, got one from Dickie's closet, then started again in front of the mirror. 'You know why I had to do that,' he said, addressing Marge, though he watched himself in the mirror. 'You were intruding between Tom and me – No, not that! But there is a bond between us!'

He turned, stepped over the imaginary body, and went to the window. Dickie was not on the steps or on the road. Maybe they were sleeping together, Tom thought with disgust in his throat. He imagined it, unsatisfactory for Dickie, and Marge loving it. Tom came back to the closet again and took a hat from the top shelf. It was a little grey Tyrolian hat with a green-and-white feather. He put it on. It surprised him how much he looked like Dickie with the top part of his head covered. Really it was only his darker hair that was very different from Dickie. His nose – or at least its general form – his mouth, his eyebrows if he held them right —

'What're you doing?'

Tom turned around quickly. Dickie was in the doorway. Tom understood that he had been right below at the gate when he had looked out.

'Oh – just amusing myself,' Tom said in the deep voice he always used when he was confused. 'Sorry, Dickie.'

Dickie's mouth opened a little, then closed, as if anger stopped his words. Tom stood paralysed with fear.

'Get out of my clothes,' Dickie said.

Tom started to undress, his fingers didn't move because of his shock. Dickie looked at Tom's feet. 'Shoes, too? Are you crazy?'

'No.' Tom tried to pull himself together as he put the suit into the closet, then he asked, 'Did you make peace with Marge?'

'Marge and I are fine,' Dickie said firmly as if he wanted Tom to be out from them.

'I feel as if I've —' Tom began, but Dickie was not even listening. Dickie turned away and carried his drink to the corner of the terrace. Tom followed him and asked quietly, 'Are you in love with Marge, Dickie?'

'No, but I feel sorry for her. I care about her. She's been very nice to me. We've had some good times together. You don't seem to be able to understand that.'

'I understand. That was my original feeling about you and her – that it was a platonic thing with you, and that she was probably in love with you.'

'She is. You go out of your way not to hurt people who're in love with you, you know.'

'Of course.' He hesitated again, trying to choose his words. Dickie was not angry with him any more. Dickie was not going to throw him out. Tom said in a more cofident tone, 'I can imagine that if you both were in New York you wouldn't see her so often – or at all – but this village is so lonely – '

'That's exactly right. I haven't been to bed with her and I don't intend to, but I really intend to keep her friendship.'

'Well, have I done anything to prevent you? I told you, Dickie, I'm ready to leave, I don't want to do anything to break up your friendship with Marge.'

Dickie gave a glance. 'No, you haven't done anything special, but it's obvious you don't like her around.'

'I'm sorry,' Tom said trying to show he was feeling guilty.

'Well, let's let it go. Marge and I are okay,' Dickie said refusing to continue the conversation. He turned away and stared at the water.

Tom went into the kitchen to make himself a little boiled coffee. This wasn't the time to make peace with Dickie, Tom thought. Dickie had his pride. He would be silent for most of the afternoon, then go painting and at about five o'clock it would be as if the episode with the clothes had never happened.

One thing Tom was sure of: Dickie was glad to have him here. Dickie was bored with living by himself, and bored with Marge, too. Tom still had three hundred dollars of the money Mr Greenleaf had given him, and he and Dickie were going to spend it in Paris. Without Marge.

Dickie was back to normal by five o'clock.

* * *

Next day Dickie asked Tom to pick up the mail at the post office. There were two letters, one to him from Dickie's father, one to Dickie from someone in New York whom Tom didn't know. He stood in the doorway and opened Mr Greenleaf's letter.

10 Nov. 19 —

My dear Tom,

In view of the fact you have been with Dickie over a month and that he shows no more sign of coming home than before you went, I can only conclude that you haven't been successful. You reported that he is thinking of returning, but frankly, I don't see it anywhere in his letter of 26 October. As a matter of fact, he seems more eager than ever to stay where he is.

I want you to know that I and my wife appreciate your efforts but you need no longer think you have any duty to me in any way. I hope you didn't have any inconvenience in the past month, and I sincerely hope the trip has given you some pleasure despite the failure of its main goal.

Both my wife and I send you greetings and our thanks.

Sincerely,

H. R. Greenleaf

It was the final blow. With the cool tone – even cooler than his usual businesslike coolness, because this was a dismissal and he included a note of courteous thanks in it – Mr Greenleaf simply cut him off. He failed.

Mr Greenleaf didn't even say that he would like to see him again when he returned to America.

Tom walked quickly up the hill towards Dickie's house. At least, he thought proudly, he didn't try to get any more money out of Mr Greenleaf, and he might. He might, even with Dickie's cooperation.

He stood at the corner of the terrace, staring out at the empty line of the horizon and thinking of nothing, feeling nothing except a faint lostness and emptiness. Even Dickie and Marge seemed far away, and what they might be talking about seemed unimportant. He was alone. That was the only important thing.

They were not friends. They didn't know each other. Tom realized it like a horrible truth, true for all time, true for the people he had known in the past and for those he would know in the future. He realised that he would never know them, and the worst was that there would always be the illusion, for a moment, that he knew them, and that he and they were true friends. He began to feel a fear at his back. He felt as if he was going to faint and fall to the ground. It was too much: the foreigners around him, the different language, his failure, and the fact that Dickie hated him. He felt surrounded by hostility.

He turned as he heard the gate open. Dickie walked up the path, smiling, but it was a false, polite smile.

'What are you doing there in the rain?' Dickie asked.

'It's very refreshing,' Tom said pleasantly. 'Here's a letter for you.' He handed Dickie his letter and hid the one from Mr Greenleaf into his pocket.

When Dickie finished reading his letter – a letter that had made him laugh out loud as he read it – Tom said, 'Do you think Marge would like to go up to Paris with us when we go?'

Dickie looked surprised. 'I think she would.'

'Well, ask her,' Tom said cheerfully.

'I don't know if I should go up to Paris,' Dickie said. 'I wouldn't mind getting away somewhere for a few days, but Paris – ' He lighted a cigarette. 'I'd like to go up to San Remo or even Genoa^[32]. That's quite a town.'

'But Paris – Genoa can't compare with Paris, can it?'

'No, of course not, but it's a lot closer.'

'But when will we get to Paris?'

'I don't know. Any time. Paris will still be there.'

The day before yesterday, Dickie had received a letter from his father. He had read a few lines aloud and they had laughed about something, but he had not read the whole letter as he had before. Tom had no doubt that Mr Greenleaf had told Dickie that he was tired of Tom Ripley, and probably that he suspected him of using his money for his own entertainment. A month ago Dickie might laugh at something like that, too, but not now, Tom thought.