THE TALENTED MR RIPLEY PATRICIA HIGHSMITH PDF

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The Talented Mr Ripley - Free ebook download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd Patricia Highsmith. "Tom Ripley is one of the most interesting characters in world literature." ― Anthony Minghella, director of the film The Talented Mr. Ripley. Since his debut. Read "The Talented Mr. Ripley" by Patricia Highsmith with Rakuten Kobo. Ripley is back. This new publication of Patricia Highsmith's classic inaugurates the.


The Talented Mr Ripley Patricia Highsmith Pdf

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he Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith is the first of five books featuring the con-man Tom Ripley. As the story begins, Tom is a 23 year old living in New. (47) and notes that “Patricia Highsmith's The Talented Mr. Ripley- (is) too few to be considered a separate genre” (52). Regarding what he claims in his article. You do not have to be complicated to get this PDF or Book Kindle The Talented Mr. Ripley (Ripley, #1) by Patricia Highsmith available to download or Read.

I suppose they took it for granted you were writing him all along. You see, I know so few of Richard's friends any more -' He glanced at Tom's glass, as if he would have liked to offer him a drink, at least, but Tom's glass was nearly full. Tom remembered going to a cocktail party at the Schrievers' with Dickie Greenleaf.

Maybe the Greenleafs were more friendly with the Schrievers than he was, and that was how it had all come about, because he hadn't seen the Schrievers more than three or four times in his life. And the last time, Tom thought, was the night he had worked out Charley Schriever's income tax for him.

Charley was a TV director, and he had been in a complete muddle with his freelance accounts. Charley had thought he was a genius for having doped out his tax and made it lower than the one Charley had arrived at, and perfectly legitimately lower. Maybe that was what had prompted Charley's recommendation of him to Mr Greenleaf. Judging him from that night, Charley could have told Mr Greenleaf that he was intelligent, level- headed, scrupulously honest, and very willing to do a favour.

It was a slight error. There was Buddy Lankenau, Tom thought, but he didn't want to wish a chore like this on Buddy. Tm afraid I don't,' Tom said, shaking his head. But his mother's quite ill right. I'm sorry to annoy you like this. There's no harm in that, but he hasn't the talent to be a painter.

He's got great talent for boat designing, though, if he'd just put his mind to it. You're not ready? Mr Greenleaf looked at Tom apologetically. They all take the attitude that I'm trying to interfere with his life. He remembered now that Dickie's money came from a shipbuilding company.

Small sailing boats. No doubt his father wanted him to come home and take over the family firm. Tom smiled at Mr Greenleaf, meaninglessly, then finished his drink. Tom was on the edge of his chair, ready to leave, but the disappointment across the table was almost palpable. There's not even a library there, he tells me. Divides his time between sailing and painting.

He's bought a house there. Richard has his own income--nothing huge, but enough to live on in Italy, apparently. Well, every man to his own taste, but I'm sure I can't see the attractions of the place. Tom wanted to leave. But he hated to leave the man sitting alone with his fresh drink.

I -' But he didn't want to say he was working for the Department of Internal Revenue, not now. Mr Greenleaf's eyes were fixed on him with a pathetic, hungry expression. What on earth could he say? Tom was sorry he had accepted the drink. So am I, Tom thought. Dickie was probably having the time of his life over there. An income, a house, a boat. Why should he want to come home?

Dickie's face was becoming clearer in his memory: Dickie was lucky. What was he himself doing at twenty-five? Living from week to week. No bank account. Dodging cops now for the first time in his life. He had a talent for mathematics.

Why in hell didn't they pay him for it, somewhere? Tom realized that all his muscles had tensed, that the match-cover in his fingers was mashed sideways, nearly flat. He was bored, God-damned bloody bored, bored, bored! He wanted to be back at the bar, by himself.

The Talented Mr Ripley

Tom took a gulp of his drink. I'd be very glad to write to Dickie, if you give me his address,' he said quickly. We were at a weekend party once out on Long Island, I remember. Dickie and I went out and gathered mussels, and everyone had them for breakfast. But I remember Dickie talking that weekend about going to Europe. He must have left just -' 'I remember! That was the last weekend Richard was here. I think he told me about the mussels.

Or his drawings? Of course he did. Pen- and-ink drawings. Fascinating, some of them. His boredom had slipped into another gear. Tom knew the sensations. He had them sometimes at parties, but generally when he was having dinner with someone with whom he hadn't wanted to have dinner in the first place, and the. Now he could be maniacally polite for perhaps another whole hour, if he had to be, before something in him exploded and sent him running out of the door.

I'm sorry I'm not quite free now or I'd be very glad to go over and see if I could persuade Richard myself. Maybe I could have some influence on him,' he said, just because Mr Greenleaf wanted him to say that. If you or somebody like you who knew him could get a leave of absence, I'd even send them over to talk to him. I think it'd be worth more than my going over, anyway. I don't suppose you could possibly get a leave of absence from your present job, could you?

He put on an expression of reflection. It was a possibility. Something in him had smelt it out and leapt at it even before his brain. Present job: He might have to leave town soon, anyway. He wanted to leave New York. Do you really think you might be able to arrange it? Say, this fall? Tom stared at the gold signet ring with the nearly worn-away crest on Mr Greenleaf's little finger.

I'd be glad to see Richard again-especially if you think I might be of some help. I think he'd listen to you. Then the mere fact that you don't know him very well--If you put it to him strongly why you think he ought to come home, he'd know you hadn't any axe to grind.

Open Library

Richard promised he'd come home when the winter began. Last winter. Jim's given him up. What boy of twenty-five listens to an old man sixty or more? You'll probably succeed where the rest of us have failed!

How about a nice brandy? For the last two and half weeks Tom had been living with Bob Delancey, a young man he hardly knew, but Bob had been the only one of Tom's friends and acquaintances in New York who had volunteered to put him up when he had been without a place to stay.

Tom had not asked any of his friends up to Bob's, and had not even told anybody where he was living. The main advantage of Bob's place was that he could get his George McAlpin mail there with the minimum chance of detection. But the smelly john down the hall that didn't lock, that grimy single room that looked as if it had been lived in by a thousand different people who had left behind their particular kind of filth and never lifted a hand to clean it, those slithering stacks of Vogue and Harper's Bazaar and those big chi-chi smoked-glass bowls all over the place, filled with tangles of string and pencils and cigarette butts and decaying fruit!

Bob was a freelance window decorator for shops and department stores, but now the only work he did was occasional jobs for Third Avenue antique shops, and some antique shop had given him the smoked-glass bowls as a payment for something. Tom had been shocked at the sordidness of the place, shocked that he even knew anybody who lived like that, but he had known that he wouldn't live there very long.

And now Mr Greenleaf had turned up. Something always turned up. That was Tom's philosophy. Just before he climbed the brownstone steps, Tom stopped and looked carefully in both directions. Nothing but an old woman airing her dog, and a weaving old man coming around the corner from Third Avenue. If there was any sensation he hated, it was that of being followed, by anybody. And lately he had it all the time. He ran up the steps. A lot the sordidness mattered now, he thought as he went into.

As soon as he could get a passport, he'd be sailing for Europe, probably in a first-class cabin. Waiters to bring him things when he pushed a button!

Dressing for dinner, strolling into a big dining- room, talking with people at his table like a gentleman!

He could congratulate himself on tonight, he thought. He had behaved just right. Mr Greenleaf couldn't possibly have had the impression that he had wangled the invitation to Europe. Just the opposite. He wouldn't let Mr Greenleaf down. He'd do his very best with Dickie. Mr Greenleaf was such a decent fellow himself, he took it for granted that everybody else in the world was decent, too. Tom had almost forgotten such people existed.

Slowly he took off his jacket and untied his tie, watching every move he made as if it were somebody else's movements he was watching. Astonishing how much straighter he was standing now, what a different look there was in his face. It was one of the few times in his life that he felt pleased with himself. He put a hand into Bob's glutted closet and thrust the hangers aggressively to right and left to make room for his suit. Then he went into the bathroom. The old rusty showerhead sent a jet against the shower curtain and another jet in an erratic spiral that he could hardly catch to wet himself, but it was better than sitting in the filthy tub.

When he woke up the next morning Bob was not there, and Tom saw from a glance at his bed that he hadn't come home. Tom jumped out of bed, went to the two-ring burner and put on coffee. Just as well Bob wasn't home this morning. He didn't want to tell Bob about the European trip. All that crummy bum would see in it was a free trip. And Ed Martin, too, probably, and Bert Visscr, and all the other crumbs he knew.

He wouldn't tell any of them, and he wouldn't have anybody seeing him off. Tom began to whistle. He was invited to dinner tonight at the Greenleafs' apartment on Park Avenue. Fifteen minutes later, showered, shaved, and dressed in a suit and a striped tie that he thought would look well in his passport photo, Tom was strolling up and down the room with a cup of black coffee in his hand, waiting for the morning mail.

After the mail, he would go over to Radio City to take care of the passport business. What should he do this afternoon? Go to some art exhibits, so he could chat about them tonight with the Greenleafs.

Do some research on Burke-Greenleaf Watercraft, Inc. The whack of the mailbox came faintly through the open window, and Tom went downstairs. He waited until the mailman was down the front steps and out of sight before he took the letter addressed to George McAlpin down from the edge of the mailbox frame where the mailman had stuck it.

Tom ripped it open. Out came a cheque for one hundred and nineteen dollars and fifty-four cents, payable to the Collector of Internal Revenue. Good old Mrs Edith W. Paid without a whimper, without even a telephone call. It was a good omen. He went upstairs again, tore up Mrs Superaugh's envelope and dropped it into the garbage bag. He put her cheque into a manila envelope in the inside pocket of one of his jackets in the closet.

This raised his total in cheques to one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three dollars and fourteen cents, he calculated in his head.

A pity that he couldn't cash them. Or that some idiot hadn't paid in cash yet, or made out a cheque to George McAlpin, but so far no one had. Tom had a bank messenger's identification card that he had found somewhere with an old date on it that he could try to alter, but he was afraid he couldn't get away with cashing the cheques, even with a forged letter of authorization for whatever the sum was.

So it amounted to no more than a practical joke, really. Good clean sport. He wasn't stealing money from anybody. Before he went to Europe, he thought, he'd destroy the cheques. There were seven more prospects on his list. Shouldn't he try just one more in these last ten days before he sailed? Walking home last evening, after seeing Mr Greenleaf, he had thought that if Mrs Superaugh and Carlos de Sevilla paid up, he'd call it quits. Mr de Sevilla hadn't paid up yet--he needed a good scare by telephone to put the fear of God into him, Tom thought--but Mrs Superaugh had been so easy, he was tempted to try just one more.

Tom took a mauve-coloured stationery box from his suitcase in the closet. There were a few sheets of stationery in the box, and below them a stack of various forms he had taken from the Internal Revenue office when he had worked there as a stockroom clerk a few weeks ago.

On the very bottom was his list of prospects -carefully chosen people who lived in the Bronx or in Brooklyn and would not be too inclined to pay the New York office a personal visit, artists and writers and freelance people who had no withholding taxes, and who made from seven to twelve thousand a year.

In that bracket, Tom figured. There was William J.

He was a comic-book artist. He probably didn't know whether he was coming or going. Balance due: Then he took a piece of typewriter paper stamped with the Department of Internal Revenue's Lexington Avenue address from his supply in his carbon folder, crossed out the address with one slanting line of his pen, and typed below it: Dear Sir: Due to an overflow at our regular Lexington Avenue office, your reply should be sent to: Thank you.

Ralph F. Fischer Gen. Tom signed it with a scrolly, illegible signature. He put the other forms away in case Bob should come in suddenly, and picked up the telephone. He had decided to give Mr Reddington a preliminary prod. He got Mr Reddington's number from information and called it. Mr Reddington was at home. Tom explained the situation briefly, and expressed surprise that Mr Reddington had not yet received the notice from the Adjusting Department. We've been a little rushed around here.

We've been over your return very carefully, Mr Reddington. There's no mistake. And we wouldn't like to slap a lien on the office you work for or your agent or whatever -' Here he chuckled. A friendly, personal chuckle generally worked wonders. I'm sorry the notice hasn't reached you before now. As I said, we've been pretty -' 'Is there anyone there I can talk to about it if I come in?

He sounded like a genial old codger of sixty-odd, who might be as patient as could be if Mr Reddington came in, but who wouldn't yield by so much as a red cent, for all the talking and explaining Mr Reddington might do.

I'm just thinking of saving you your time. You can come in if you want to, but I've got all your records right here in my hand. Mr Reddington wasn't going to ask him anything about records, because he probably didn't know what to begin asking. But if Mr Reddington were to ask him to explain what it was all about, Tom had a lot of hash about net income versus accrued income, balance due versus computation, interest at six per cent annum accruing from due date of the tax until paid on any balance which represents tax shown on original return, which he could deliver in a slow voice as incapable of interruption as a Sherman tank.

So far, no one had insisted in coming in person to hear more of that. Mr Reddington was backing down, too. Tom could hear it in the silence. I'll read the notice when I get it tomorrow.

Tom sat there for a moment, giggling, the palms of his thin hands pressed together between his knees. Then he jumped up, put Bob's typewriter away again, combed his light-brown hair neatly in front of the mirror, and set off for Radio City. Mr Greenleaf led them into the living-room. Yes, he had been here before with Dickie. I don't believe I met you, though. That was true. About thirty minutes later--just the right time later, Tom thought, because the Greenleafs had kept insisting that he drink another and another martini--they went into a dining-room off the living-room, where a table was set for three with candles, huge dark-blue dinner napkins, and a whole cold chicken in aspic.

Tom was very fond of it. He said so. A pity you can't take him some. She had told him she would like him to take Richard some black woollen socks from Brooks Brothers, the kind Richard always wore. The conversation was dull, and the dinner superb. In answer to a question of Mrs Greenleaf's, Tom told her that he was working for an advertising firm called Rothenberg, Fleming and Barter.

When he referred to it again, he deliberately called it Reddington, Fleming and Parker. Mr Greenleaf didn't seem to notice the difference.

About The Talented Mr Ripley

Tom mentioned the firm's name a second time when he and Mr Greenleaf were alone in the living room after dinner. I went to Princeton for a while, then I visited another aunt in Denver and went to college there. Tom could have discussed the system of teaching history, the campus restrictions, the atmosphere at the weekend dances, the political tendencies of the student body, anything.

Tom had been very friendly last summer with a Princeton junior who had talked of nothing but Princeton, so that Tom had finally pumped him for more and more, foreseeing a time when he might be able to use the information. Tom had told the Greenleafs that he had been raised by his Aunt Dottie in Boston. She had taken him to Denver when he was sixteen, and actually he had only finished high school there, but there had been a young man named Don Mizell rooming in his Aunt Bea's house in Denver who had been going to the University of Colorado.

Tom felt as if he had gone there, too. Mrs Greenleaf came in with a photograph album, and Tom sat beside her on the sofa while she turned through it. Richard taking his first step, Richard in a ghastly full-page colour photograph dressed and posed as the Blue Boy, with long blond curls. The album was not interesting to him until Richard got to be sixteen or so, long-legged, slim, with the wave tightening in his hair. So far as Tom could see, he had hardly changed between sixteen and twenty-three or -four, when the pictures of him stopped, and it was astonishing to Tom how little the bright, naive smile changed.

Tom could not help feeling that Richard was not very intelligent, or else he loved to be photographed and thought he looked best with his mouth spread from ear to ear, which was not very intelligent of him, either. In several of them he was frowning.

The picture was backgrounded by dry, rocky mountains and a fringe of little white houses along the shore. American who lives there. He sat across the room, but he was leaning forward, following the picture-showing intently. The girl was in a bathing suit on the beach, her arms around her knees, healthy and unsophisticated-looking, with tousled, short blonde hair--the good-egg type. There was a good picture of Richard in shorts, sitting on the parapet of a terrace.

He was smiling, but it was not the same smile, Tom saw. Richard looked more poised in the European pictures. Tom noticed that Mrs Greenleaf was staring down at the rug in front of her.

He remembered the moment at the table when she had said, 'I wish I'd never heard of Europe! Now he saw tears in her eyes. Mr Greenleaf was getting up to come to her. Tom stood up as Mrs Greenleaf did. I miss them. Mr Greenleaf went out of the room with her.

Tom remained standing, his hands at his sides, his head high. In a large mirror on the wall he could sec himself: He looked quickly away. He was doing the right thing, behaving the right way. Yet he had a feeling of guilt. When he had said to Mrs Greenleaf just now, I'll do everything I can Well, he meant it. He wasn't trying to fool anybody. He felt himself beginning to sweat, and he tried to relax. What was he so worried about?

He'd felt so well tonight! When he had said that about Aunt Dottie - Tom straightened, glancing at the door, but the door had not opened.

That had been the only time tonight when he had felt uncomfortable, unreal, the way he might have felt if he. My parents died when I was very small. I was raised by my aunt in Boston. Mr Greenleaf came into the room.

His figure seemed to pulsate and grow larger and larger. Tom blinked his eyes, feeling a sudden terror of him, an impulse to attack him before he was attacked. It's like a movie, Tom thought. In a minute, Mr Greenleaf or somebody else's voice would say, 'Okay, cut! No, back in the Green Cage. A cold fear was running over Tom's body. He was thinking of the incident in the drugstore last week, though that was all over and he wasn't really afraid, he reminded himself, not now.

There was a drugstore on Second Avenue whose phone number he gave out to people who insisted on calling him again about their income tax. He gave it out as the phone number of the Adjustment Department where he could be reached only between three-thirty and four on Wednesday and Friday afternoons.

At these times, Tom hung around the booth in the drugstore, waiting for the phone to ring. When the druggist had looked at him suspiciously the second time he had been there, Tom had said that he was waiting for a call from his girl friend. Last Friday when he had answered the telephone, a man's voice had said, 'You know what we're talking about, don't you? We know where you live, if you want us to come to your place We've got the stuff for you, if you've got it for us.

Then, 'Listen, we're coming right over. To your house. Tom had started laughing, had walked out laughing uproariously, staggering as he went,. Tom accepted the glass Mr Greenleaf was holding out to him. By the way, Emily likes you a lot. She told me so. I didn't have to ask her. That's very serious, isn't it? She may not live a year. Mr Greenleaf pulled a paper out of his pocket. I think the usual Cherbourg way is quickest, and also the most interesting. You'd take the boat train to Paris, then a sleeper down over the Alps to Rome and Naples.

I'll write him about you--not telling him that you're an emissary from me,' he added, smiling, 'but I'll tell him we've met. Richard ought to put you up, but if he can't for some reason, there're hotels in the town. I expect you and Richard'll hit it off all right. Now as to money -' Mr Greenleaf smiled his fatherly smile. Does that suit you? The six hundred should see you through nearly two months, and if you need more, all you have to do is wire me, my boy.

You don't look like a young man who'd throw money down the drain. Tom wanted to get out of the apartment. And yet he still wanted to go to Europe, and wanted Mr Greenleaf to approve of him. The moments on the sofa were more agonising than the moments in the bar last night when he had been so bored, because now that break into another gear didn't come. Several times Tom got up with his drink and strolled to the fireplace and back, and when he looked into the mirror he saw that his mouth was turned down at the corners.

Mr Greenleaf was rollicking on about Richard and himself in Paris, when Richard had been ten years old. It was not in the least interesting.

If anything happened with the police in the next ten days,. Tom thought, Mr Greenleaf would take him in. He could tell Mr. Greenleaf that he'd sublet his apartment in a hurry, or something like that, and simply hide out here. Tom felt awful, almost physically ill. But I wanted to show you--Well, never mind. Another time.

Only during your lunch hour, I suppose. I think you should be able to tell Richard what the yards look like these days. You've got my card with my private number. If you give me half an hour's notice, I'll have a man pick you up at your office and drive you out. We'll have a sandwich as we walk through, and he'll drive you back. He felt he would faint if he stayed one minute longer in the dimly lighted foyer, but Mr Greenleaf was chuckling again, asking him if he had read a certain book by Henry James.

Then they shook hands, a long suffocating squeeze from Mr Greenleaf, and it was over. But the pained, frightened expression was still on his face as he rode down in the elevator, Tom saw.

He leaned in the corner of the elevator in an exhausted way, though he knew as soon as he hit the lobby he would fly out of the door and keep on running, running, all the way home.

THE atmosphere of the city became stranger as the days went on. It was as if something had gone out of New York--the realness or the importance of it--and the city was putting on a show just for him, a. As if when his boat left the pier on Saturday, the whole city of New York would collapse with a poof like a lot of cardboard on a stage. Or maybe he was afraid. He hated water. He had never been anywhere before on water, except to New Orleans from New York and back to New York again, but then he had been working on a banana boat mostly below deck, and he had hardly realised he was on water.

The few times he had been on deck the sight of water had at first frightened him, then made him feel sick, and he had always run below deck again, where, contrary to what people said, he had felt better. His parents had drowned in Boston Harbour, and Tom had always thought that probably had something to do with it, because as long as he could remember he had been afraid of water, and he had never learned how to swim.

It gave Tom a sick, empty feeling at the pit of his stomach to think that in less than a week he would have water below him, miles deep, and that undoubtedly he would have to look at it most of the time, because people on ocean liners spent most of their time on deck. And it was particularly un-chic to be seasick, he felt.

He had never been seasick, but he came very near it several times in those last days, simply thinking about the voyage to Cherbourg. He had told Bob Delancey that he was moving in a week, but he hadn't said where. Bob did not seem interested, anyway. They saw very little of each other at the Fifty-first Street place.

Tom had gone to Marc Priminger's house in East-Forty-fifth Street--he still had the keys--to pick up a couple of things he had forgotten, and he had gone at an hour when he had thought Marc wouldn't be there, but Marc had come in with his new housemate, Joel, a thin drip of a young man who worked for a publishing house, and Marc had put on one of his suave 'Please-do- just-as-you-like' acts for Joel's benefit, though if Joel hadn't been there Marc would have cursed him out in language that even a Portuguese sailor wouldn't have used.

Marc his given name was, of all things, Marcellus was an ugly mug of a man with a private income and a hobby of helping out young men in temporary financial difficulties by putting them up in his two-storey, three-bedroom house, and playing God by telling them what they could and couldn't do.

Tom had stayed there three months, though for nearly half that time Marc had been in Florida and he had had the house all to himself, but when Marc had come back he had made a big stink about a few pieces of broken glassware--Marc playing God again, the Stern Father--and Tom had gotten angry enough, for once, to stand up for himself and talk to him back. Whereupon Marc had thrown him out, after collecting sixty-three dollars from him for broken glassware.

The old tightwad! He should have been an old maid, Tom thought, at the head of a girls' school. Tom was bitterly sorry he had ever laid eyes on Marc Priminger, and the sooner he could forget Marc's stupid, pig-like eyes, his massive jaw, his ugly hands with the gaudy rings waving through the air, ordering this and that from everybody , the happier he would be. The only one of his friends he felt like telling about his European trip was Cleo, and he went to see her on the Thursday before he sailed.

Cleo Dobelle was a slim dark-haired girl who could have been anything from twenty-three to thirty, Tom didn't know, who lived with her parents in Grade Square and painted in a small way--a very small way, in fact, on little pieces of ivory no bigger than postage stamps that had to be viewed through a magnifying glass, and Cleo used a magnifying glass when she painted them. Other painters have rooms and rooms to hold their canvases!

Cleo lived in her own suite of rooms with a little bath and kitchen at the back of her parents' section of the apartment, and Cleo's apartment was always rather dark since it had no exposure except to a tiny backyard overgrown with ailanthus trees that blocked out the light. Cleo always had the lights on, dim ones, which gave a nocturnal atmosphere whatever the time of day. Except for the night when he had met her, Tom had seen Cleo only in close-fitting velvet slacks of various colours and gaily striped silk shirts.

They had taken to each other from the very first night, when Cleo had asked him to dinner at her apartment on the following evening.

Cleo always asked him up to her apartment, and there was somehow never any thought that he might ask her out to dinner or the theatre or do any of the ordinary things that a young man was expected to do with a girl. She didn't expect him to bring her flowers or books or candy when he came for dinner or cocktails, though Tom did bring her a little gift sometimes, because it pleased her.

Cleo was the one person he could tell that he was going to Europe and why. He did. Cleo was enthralled, as he had known she would be. Her red lips parted in her long, pale face, and she brought her hands down on her velvet thighs and exclaimed, 'Tommie!

How too, too marvellous! It's just like out of Shakespeare or something! That was just what he had needed someone to say. Cleo fussed around him all evening, asking him if he had this and that, Kleenexes and cold tablets and woollen socks because it started raining in Europe in the fall, and his vaccinations. Tom said he felt pretty well prepared. I don't want to be seen off.

Will you write me everything that happens with Dickie? You're the only person I know who ever went to Europe for a reason. He described the second dinner at Mr Greenleaf's house, when Mr Greenleaf had presented him with a wrist-watch. He showed the wrist-watch to Cleo, not a fabulously expensive wrist-watch, but still an excellent one and just the style Tom might have chosen for himself--a plain white face with fine black Roman numerals in a simple gold setting with an alligator strap.

Cleo sighed. You have all the luck. Nothing like that could ever happen to a girl. Men're so free! It often seemed to him that it was the other way around. After dinner, she showed him five or six of her latest paintings, a couple of romantic portraits of a young man they both knew, in an open-collared white shirt, three imaginary landscapes of a jungle-like land, derived from the view of ailanthus trees out her window.

The hair. Cleo had a lot of brushes with just one hair in them, and even these varied from comparatively coarse to ultra fine. They drank nearly two bottles of Medoc from her parents' liquor shelf, and Tom got so sleepy he could have spent the night right where he was lying on the floor -they had often slept side by side on the two big bear rugs in front of the fireplace, and it was another of the wonderful things about Cleo that she never wanted or expected him to make a pass at her, and he never had--but Tom hauled himself up at a quarter to twelve and took his leave.

Suddenly he leaned forward and planted a firm, brotherly kiss on her ivory cheek. The next day he took care of Mrs Greenleaf's commissions at Brooks Brothers, the dozen pairs of black woollen socks and the bathrobe. Mrs Greenleaf had not suggested a colour for the bathrobe. She would leave that up to him, she had said. Tom chose a dark maroon flannel with a navy-blue belt and lapels.

It was not the best- looking robe of the lot, in Tom's opinion, but he felt it was exactly what Richard would have chosen, and that Richard would be delighted with it. He put the socks and the robe on the Greenleafs' charge account. He saw a heavy linen sport shirt with wooden buttons that he liked very much, that would have been easy to put on the Greenleafs' account, too, but he didn't.

He bought it with his own money. THE morning of his sailing, the morning he had looked forward to with such buoyant excitement, got off to a hideous start. Tom followed the steward to his cabin congratulating himself that his firmness with Bob about not wanting to be seen off had taken effect, and had just. We're waiting! Why don't you ask them for something decent? There they all were, mostly Bob's lousy friends, sprawled on his bed, on the floor, everywhere.

Bob had found out he was sailing, but Tom had never thought he would do a thing like this. It took self-control for Tom not to say in an icy voice, 'There isn't any champagne. He gave Bob a long, withering look, but Bob was already high, on something.

There were very few things that got under his skin, Tom thought self-justifyingly, but this was one of them: Tom went over to Paul Hubbard, the only respectable person in the room, and sat down beside him on the short, built-in sofa. Are you sick? It went on, the noise and the laughter and the girls feeling the bed and looking in the John. Thank God the Greenleafs hadn't come to see him off! Mr Greenleaf had had to go to New Orleans on business, and Mrs Greenleaf, when Tom had called this morning to say good-bye, had said that she didn't feel quite up to coming down to the boat.

Finally, Bob or somebody produced a bottle of whisky, and they all began to drink out of the two glasses from the bathroom, and then a steward came in with a tray of glasses. Tom refused to have a drink. He was sweating so heavily, he took off his jacket so as not to soil it.

Bob came over and rammed a glass in his hand, and Bob was not exactly joking, Tom saw, and he knew why--because he had accepted Bob's hospitality for a month, and he might at least put on a pleasant face, but Tom could not put on a pleasant face any more than if his face had been made of granite. So what if they all hated him after this, he thought, what had he lost?

She had wedged herself sideways into a narrow closet about the size of a broom closet. Tom glared at him. The others were making so much noise, nobody noticed their leaving. They stood at the rail near the stern. It was a sunless day, and the city on their right was already like some grey, distant land that he might be looking at from mid-ocean--except for those bastards inside his stateroom. I haven't seen you in weeks. Tom made up a fine story about an assignment he had been sent on.

Possibly the Middle East, Tom said. He made it sound rather secret. It's awfully nice of you to come down and see me off. Any old excuse! Paul taught music at a girls' school in New York to earn his living, but he preferred to compose music on his own time.

Tom could not remember how he had met Paul, but he remembered going to his Riverside Drive apartment for Sunday brunch once with some other people, and Paul had played some of his own compositions on the piano, and Tom had enjoyed it immensely.

Let's see if we can find the bar,' Tom said. But just then a steward came out, hitting a gong and shouting, 'Visitors ashore, please! All visitors ashore! They shook hands, patted shoulders, promised to write postcards to each other. Then Paul was gone. Bob's gang would stay till the last minute, he thought, probably have to be blasted out. Tom turned suddenly and ran up a narrow, ladder-like flight of stairs.

They surely wouldn't object to a. He couldn't bear to look at Bob's gang again. He had paid Bob half a month's rent and given him a good-bye present of a good shirt and tie.

What more did Bob want? The ship was moving before Tom dared to go down to his room again. He went into the room cautiously. The neat blue bedcover was smooth again. The ashtrays were clean. There was no sign they had ever been here. Tom relaxed and smiled. This was service! The fine old tradition of the Cunard Line, British seamanship and all that!

He saw a big basket of fruit on the floor by his bed. He seized the little white envelope eagerly. The card inside said: Bon voyage and bless you, Tom. All our good wishes go with you. The basket had a tall handle and it was entirely under yellow cellophane--apples and pears and grapes and a couple of candy bars and several little bottles of liqueurs.

Tom had never received a bon voyage basket. To him, they had always been something you saw in florists' windows for fantastic prices and laughed at.

Now he found himself with tears in his eyes, and he put his face down in his hands suddenly and began to sob. His mood was tranquil and benevolent, but not at all sociable. He wanted his time for thinking, and he did not care to meet any of the people on the ship, not any of them, though when he encountered the people with whom he sat at his table, he greeted them pleasantly and smiled.

He began to play a role on the ship, that of a serious young man with a serious job ahead of him. He was courteous, poised, civilised and preoccupied. He had a sudden whim for a cap and bought one in the haberdashery, a conservative bluish-grey cap of soft English wool. A cap was the most versatile of head-gears, he thought, and he wondered why he had never thought of wearing one before?

He could look like a country gentleman, a thug, an Englishman, a Frenchman, or a plain American eccentric, depending on how he wore it. Tom amused himself with it in his room in front of the mirror. He had always thought he had the world's dullest face, a thoroughly forgettable face with a look of docility that he could not understand, and a look also of vague fright that he had never been able to erase.

A real conformist's face, he thought. The cap changed all that. It gave him a country air, Greenwich, Connecticut, country. Now he was a young man with a private income, not long out of Princeton, perhaps. He bought a pipe to go with the cap. He was starting a new life. Good-bye to all the second-rate people he had hung around and had let hang around him in the past three years in New York.

He felt as he imagined immigrants felt when they left everything behind them in some foreign country, left their friends and relations and their past mistakes, and sailed for America. A clean slate! Whatever happened with Dickie, he would acquit himself well, and Mr Greenleaf would know that he had, and would respect him for it.

When Mr Greenleaf s money was used up, he might not come back to America. He might get an interesting job in a hotel, for instance, where they needed somebody bright and personable who spoke English. Or he might become a representative for some European firm and travel everywhere in the world. Or somebody might come along who needed a young man exactly like himself, who could drive a car, who was quick at figures, who could entertain an old grandmother or squire somebody's daughter to a dance.

He was versatile, and the world was wide! He swore to himself he would stick to a job once he got it. Patience and perseverance! Upward and onward!. The book was not on the shelf.

Tom was disappointed. It was the book Mr Greenleaf had asked him if he had read. Tom felt he ought to read it. He went to the cabin- class library. He found the book on the shelf, but when he started to. Tom had been afraid of that. He put the book back docilely, though it would have been easy, so easy, to make a pass at the shelf and slip the book under his jacket. In the mornings he strolled several times round the deck, but very slowly, so that the people puffing around on their morning constitutionals always passed him two or three times before he had been around once, then settled down in his deck-chair for bouillon and more thought on his own destiny.

The Talented Mr Ripley

After lunch, he pottered around in his cabin, basking in its privacy and comfort, doing absolutely nothing. Sometimes he sat in the writing-room, thoughtfully penning letters on the ship's stationery to Marc Priminger, to Cleo, to the Greenleafs. The letter to the Green-leafs began as a polite greeting and a thank-you for the bon voyage basket and the comfortable accommodations, but he amused himself by adding an imaginary postdated paragraph about finding Dickie and living with him in his Mongibello house, about the slow but steady progress he was making in persuading Dickie to come home, about the swimming, the fishing, the cafe life, and he got so carried away that it went on for eight or ten pages and he knew he would never mail any of it, so he wrote on about Dickie's not being romantically interested in Marge he gave a complete character analysis of Marge so it was not Marge who was holding Dickie, though Mrs Greenleaf had thought it might be, etc.

On another afternoon, he wrote a polite note to Aunt Dottie:. Dear Auntie [which he rarely called her in a letter and never to her face], As you see by the stationery, I am on the high seas.

An unexpected business offer which I cannot explain now. I had to leave rather suddenly, so I was not able to get up to Boston and I'm sorry, because it may be months or even years before I come back. I just wanted you not to worry and not to send me any more cheques, thank you.

Thank you very much for the last one of a month or so ago. I don't suppose you have sent any more since then. I am well and extremely happy. No use sending any good wishes about her health. She was as strong as an ox. He added: I have no idea what my address will be, so I cannot give you any. That made him feel better, because it definitely cut him off from her.

He needn't ever tell her where he was. No more of the snidely digging letters, the sly comparisons of him to his father, the piddling cheques for the strange sums of six dollars and forty-eight cents and twelve dollars and ninety-five, as if she had had a bit left over from her latest bill-paying, or taken something back to a store and had tossed the money to him, like a crumb. Considering what Aunt Dottie might have sent him, with her income, the cheques were an insult.

Aunt Dottie insisted that his upbringing had cost her more than his father had left in insurance, and maybe it had, but did she have to keep rubbing it in his face? Did anybody human keep rubbing a thing like that in a child's face? Lots of aunts and even strangers raised a child for nothing and were delighted to do it. After his letter to Aunt Dottie, he got up and strode around the deck, walking it off. Writing her always made him feel angry.

He resented the courtesy to her. Yet until now he had always wanted her to know where he was, because he had always needed her piddling cheques. He had had to write a score of letters about his changes of address to Aunt Dottie. But he didn't need her money now. He would hold himself independent of it, forever. He thought suddenly of one summer day when he had been about twelve, when he had been on a cross-country trip with Aunt Dottie and a woman friend of hers, and they had got stuck in a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam somewhere.

It had been a hot summer day, and Aunt Dottie had sent him out with the Thermos to get some ice water at a filling station, and suddenly the traffic had started moving.

He remembered running between huge, inching cars, always about to touch the door of Aunt Dottie's car and never being quite able to, because she had kept inching along as fast as she could go, not willing to wait for him a minute, and yelling, 'Come on, come on, slowpoke! When he had finally made it to the car and got in, with tears of frustration and anger running down his cheeks, she had said gaily to her friend, 'Sissy! He's a sissy from the ground up. Just like his father!

And just what, he wondered, made Aunt Dottie think his father had been a sissy? Could she, had she, ever cited a single thing? He had told Bob Delancey that he was moving in a week, but he hadn't said where. Bob did not seem interested, anyway. They saw very little of each other at the Fifty-first Street place.

Tom had gone to Marc Priminger's house in East-Forty-fifth Street--he still had the keys--to pick up a couple of things he had forgotten, and he had gone at an hour when he had thought Marc wouldn't be there, but Marc had come in with his new housemate, Joel, a thin drip of a young man who worked for a publishing house, and Marc had put on one of his suave 'Please-do- just-as-you-like' acts for Joel's benefit, though if Joel hadn't been there Marc would have cursed him out in language that even a Portuguese sailor wouldn't have used.

Marc his given name was, of all things, Marcellus was an ugly mug of a man with a private income and a hobby of helping out young men in temporary financial difficulties by putting them up in his two-storey, three-bedroom house, and playing God by telling them what they could and couldn't do 19 around the place and by giving them advice as to their lives and their jobs, generally rotten advice.

Tom had stayed there three months, though for nearly half that time Marc had been in Florida and he had had the house all to himself, but when Marc had come back he had made a big stink about a few pieces of broken glassware--Marc playing God again, the Stern Father--and Tom had gotten angry enough, for once, to stand up for himself and talk to him back.

Whereupon Marc had thrown him out, after collecting sixty-three dollars from him for broken glassware. The old tightwad! He should have been an old maid, Tom thought, at the head of a girls' school. Tom was bitterly sorry he had ever laid eyes on Marc Priminger, and the sooner he could forget Marc's stupid, pig-like eyes, his massive jaw, his ugly hands with the gaudy rings waving through the air, ordering this and that from everybody , the happier he would be.

The only one of his friends he felt like telling about his European trip was Cleo, and he went to see her on the Thursday before he sailed. Cleo Dobelle was a slim dark-haired girl who could have been anything from twenty-three to thirty, Tom didn't know, who lived with her parents in Grade Square and painted in a small way--a very small way, in fact, on little pieces of ivory no bigger than postage stamps that had to be viewed through a magnifying glass, and Cleo used a magnifying glass when she painted them.

Other painters have rooms and rooms to hold their canvases! Cleo lived in her own suite of rooms with a little bath and kitchen at the back of her parents' section of the apartment, and Cleo's apartment was always rather dark since it had no exposure except to a tiny backyard overgrown with ailanthus trees that blocked out the light. Cleo always had the lights on, dim ones, which gave a nocturnal atmosphere whatever the time of day. Except for the night when he had met her, Tom had seen Cleo only in close-fitting velvet slacks of various colours and gaily striped silk shirts.

They had taken to each other from the very first night, when Cleo had asked him to dinner at her apartment on the following evening.

Cleo always asked him up to her apartment, and there was somehow never any thought that he might ask her out to dinner or the theatre or do any of the ordinary things that a young man was expected to do with a girl. She didn't expect him to bring her flowers or books or candy when he came for dinner or cocktails, though Tom did bring her a little gift sometimes, because it pleased her 20 so. Cleo was the one person he could tell that he was going to Europe and why.

He did. Cleo was enthralled, as he had known she would be. Her red lips parted in her long, pale face, and she brought her hands down on her velvet thighs and exclaimed, 'Tommie! How too, too marvellous! It's just like out of Shakespeare or something! That was just what he had needed someone to say. Cleo fussed around him all evening, asking him if he had this and that, Kleenexes and cold tablets and woollen socks because it started raining in Europe in the fall, and his vaccinations.

Tom said he felt pretty well prepared. I don't want to be seen off. Will you write me everything that happens with Dickie? You're the only person I know who ever went to Europe for a reason. He described the second dinner at Mr Greenleaf's house, when Mr Greenleaf had presented him with a wrist-watch. He showed the wrist-watch to Cleo, not a fabulously expensive wrist-watch, but still an excellent one and just the style Tom might have chosen for himself--a plain white face with fine black Roman numerals in a simple gold setting with an alligator strap.

Cleo sighed. You have all the luck. Nothing like that could ever happen to a girl. Men're so free! It often seemed to him that it was the other way around.

After dinner, she showed him five or six of her latest paintings, a couple of romantic portraits of a young man they both knew, in an open-collared white shirt, three imaginary landscapes of a jungle-like land, derived from the view of ailanthus trees out her window.

The hair 21 of the little monkeys in the paintings was really astoundingly well done, Tom thought. Cleo had a lot of brushes with just one hair in them, and even these varied from comparatively coarse to ultra fine. They drank nearly two bottles of Medoc from her parents' liquor shelf, and Tom got so sleepy he could have spent the night right where he was lying on the floor -they had often slept side by side on the two big bear rugs in front of the fireplace, and it was another of the wonderful things about Cleo that she never wanted or expected him to make a pass at her, and he never had--but Tom hauled himself up at a quarter to twelve and took his leave.

Suddenly he leaned forward and planted a firm, brotherly kiss on her ivory cheek. The next day he took care of Mrs Greenleaf's commissions at Brooks Brothers, the dozen pairs of black woollen socks and the bathrobe.

Mrs Greenleaf had not suggested a colour for the bathrobe. She would leave that up to him, she had said. Tom chose a dark maroon flannel with a navy-blue belt and lapels. It was not the best- looking robe of the lot, in Tom's opinion, but he felt it was exactly what Richard would have chosen, and that Richard would be delighted with it.

He put the socks and the robe on the Greenleafs' charge account. He saw a heavy linen sport shirt with wooden buttons that he liked very much, that would have been easy to put on the Greenleafs' account, too, but he didn't. He bought it with his own money. THE morning of his sailing, the morning he had looked forward to with such buoyant excitement, got off to a hideous start. Tom followed the steward to his cabin congratulating himself that his firmness with Bob about not wanting to be seen off had taken effect, and had just 22 entered the room when a bloodcurdling whoop went up.

We're waiting! Why don't you ask them for something decent? There they all were, mostly Bob's lousy friends, sprawled on his bed, on the floor, everywhere. Bob had found out he was sailing, but Tom had never thought he would do a thing like this.

It took self-control for Tom not to say in an icy voice, 'There isn't any champagne. He gave Bob a long, withering look, but Bob was already high, on something. There were very few things that got under his skin, Tom thought self-justifyingly, but this was one of them: noisy surprises like this, the riffraff, the vulgarians, the slobs he had thought he had left behind when he crossed the gangplank, littering the very stateroom where he was to spend the next five days!

Tom went over to Paul Hubbard, the only respectable person in the room, and sat down beside him on the short, built-in sofa. Are you sick? It went on, the noise and the laughter and the girls feeling the bed and looking in the John.

Thank God the Greenleafs hadn't come to see him off! Mr Greenleaf had had to go to New Orleans on business, and Mrs Greenleaf, when Tom had called this morning to say good-bye, had said that she didn't feel quite up to coming down to the boat.

Finally, Bob or somebody produced a bottle of whisky, and they all began to drink out of the two glasses from the bathroom, and then a steward came in with a tray of glasses.

Tom refused to have a drink. He was sweating so heavily, he took off his jacket so as not to soil it. Bob came over and rammed a glass in his hand, and Bob was not exactly joking, Tom saw, and he knew why--because he had accepted Bob's hospitality for a month, and he might at least put on a pleasant face, but Tom could not put on a pleasant face any more than if his face had been made of granite. So what if they all hated him after this, he thought, what had he lost? She had wedged herself sideways into a narrow closet about the size of a broom closet.

Tom glared at him. The others were making so much noise, nobody noticed their leaving. They stood at the rail near the stern. It was a sunless day, and the city on their right was already like some grey, distant land that he might be looking at from mid-ocean--except for those bastards inside his stateroom.

I haven't seen you in weeks. Tom made up a fine story about an assignment he had been sent on. Possibly the Middle East, Tom said. He made it sound rather secret. It's awfully nice of you to come down and see me off. Any old excuse! Paul taught music at a girls' school in New York to earn his living, but he preferred to compose music on his own time. Tom could not remember how he had met Paul, but he remembered going to his Riverside Drive apartment for Sunday brunch once with some other people, and Paul had played some of his own compositions on the piano, and Tom had enjoyed it immensely.

Let's see if we can find the bar,' Tom said. But just then a steward came out, hitting a gong and shouting, 'Visitors ashore, please! All visitors ashore!

They shook hands, patted shoulders, promised to write postcards to each other. Then Paul was gone. Bob's gang would stay till the last minute, he thought, probably have to be blasted out. Tom turned suddenly and ran up a narrow, ladder-like flight of stairs. They surely wouldn't object to a 24 first-class passenger going into second-class, he thought. He couldn't bear to look at Bob's gang again.

He had paid Bob half a month's rent and given him a good-bye present of a good shirt and tie. What more did Bob want? The ship was moving before Tom dared to go down to his room again. He went into the room cautiously. The neat blue bedcover was smooth again. The ashtrays were clean. There was no sign they had ever been here.

Tom relaxed and smiled.

This was service! The fine old tradition of the Cunard Line, British seamanship and all that! He saw a big basket of fruit on the floor by his bed. He seized the little white envelope eagerly. The card inside said: Bon voyage and bless you, Tom. All our good wishes go with you. Emily and Herbert Greenleaf The basket had a tall handle and it was entirely under yellow cellophane--apples and pears and grapes and a couple of candy bars and several little bottles of liqueurs.

Tom had never received a bon voyage basket. To him, they had always been something you saw in florists' windows for fantastic prices and laughed at.

Now he found himself with tears in his eyes, and he put his face down in his hands suddenly and began to sob. His mood was tranquil and benevolent, but not at all sociable. He wanted his time for thinking, and he did not care to meet any of the people on the ship, not any of them, though when he encountered the people with whom he sat at his table, he greeted them pleasantly and smiled.

He began to play a role on the ship, that of a serious young man with a serious job ahead of him. He was courteous, poised, civilised and preoccupied. He had a sudden whim for a cap and bought one in the haberdashery, a conservative bluish-grey cap of soft English wool. He 25 could pull its visor down over nearly his whole face when he wanted to nap in his deck-chair, or wanted to look as if he were napping. A cap was the most versatile of head-gears, he thought, and he wondered why he had never thought of wearing one before?

He could look like a country gentleman, a thug, an Englishman, a Frenchman, or a plain American eccentric, depending on how he wore it. Tom amused himself with it in his room in front of the mirror. He had always thought he had the world's dullest face, a thoroughly forgettable face with a look of docility that he could not understand, and a look also of vague fright that he had never been able to erase. A real conformist's face, he thought.

The cap changed all that. It gave him a country air, Greenwich, Connecticut, country. Now he was a young man with a private income, not long out of Princeton, perhaps.Are you sick? He was feeling mellow on the wine. They all take the attitude that I'm trying to interfere with his life. Tom went down to the water, went confidently up to his waist and stopped there, splashing the water over his shoulders. It was as if something had gone out of New York--the realness or the importance of it--and the city was putting on a show just for him, a 18 colossal show with its buses, taxis, and hurrying people on the sidewalks, its television shows in all the Third Avenue bars, its movie marquees lighted up in broad daylight, and its sound effects of thousands of honking horns and human voices, talking for no purpose whatsoever.

No use spoiling his trip worrying about imaginary policemen. In a way, Highsmith is blurring the line between victim and the criminal at the very beginning of the novel.

VIVA from Arvada
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