The Talented Mr Ripley / Талантливый мистер Рипли. Патриция Хайсмит

at the slowness of department-store promotions. Well, he blamed Aunt Dottie for his lack of patience; she never gave him praise when he was younger. He had won a silver medal from the newspaper once. It was like looking back at another person to remember himself then, a thin boy with runny nose, who had still managed to win a medal. Aunt Dottie didn't praise him, she hated him when he had a cold and she used to take her handkerchief and almost twist his nose off.

      He remembered the promises he had made, even at the age of eight, to run away from Aunt Dottie, he imagined the violent scenes – Aunt Dottie trying to hold him in the house, and he hitting her with his fists, pushing her to the ground, and finally killing her with a knife in her throat. He ran away at seventeen and they brought him back, and he did it again at twenty and succeeded. And it was a surprise and pity how naive he was, how little he knew about the way the world worked, as if he had spent so much of his time hating Aunt Dottie and planning how to escape her, that he had not had enough time to learn and grow.

      'Mr Ripley?' he heard suddenly from one of the Englishwomen who he had seen the other day during tea. 'We were wondering if you could join us for a bridge in the game-room? We're going to start in about fifteen minutes.'

      Tom sat up politely in his chair. ' Thank you very much, but I think I'd like to stay outside. I'm afraid, I'm not too good at bridge.'

      'Oh, neither are we! All right, another time.' She smiled and went away.

      Tom sank back in his chair again, pulled his cap down over his eyes. His lack of interest, he knew, was producing a little comment among the passengers. He imagined how the passengers might guess: Is he an American! I think so, but he doesn't act like an American, does he? Most Americans are so noisy. He's extremely serious, isn't he, and he can't be more than twenty-three. He must have something very important on his mind.

      Yes, he had. The present and the future of Tom Ripley.

* * *

      Paris was no more than a very short view out of a railroad station window, like a tourist poster illustration, a series of long station platforms down which he followed porters with his luggage, and at last the sleeper that would take him all the way to Rome. He could come back to Paris at some other time, he thought. He was eager to get to Mongibello.

      When he woke up the next morning, he was in Italy. Something very pleasant happened that morning. Tom was watching the landscape out of the window, when he heard some Italians in the corridor who said something with the word 'Pisa[16] ' in it. Tom went into the corridor to get a better look at it, looking automatically for the Leaning Tower[17], though he was not at all sure that the city was Pisa or that the tower would even be seen from here, but there it was! – a thick white column, leaning at an angle that he couldn't imagine was possible! It seemed to him a good sign. He believed that Italy was going to be everything that he expected, and that everything would go well with him and Dickie.

      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

16

Pisa – Пиза, город в Италии.

17

Leaning Tower – Падающая башня или Пизанская башня– колокольня, получившая всемирную известность благодаря тому, что стоит под наклоном от основной оси.