Ripley Underground

I scoured the nearest library for the rest of the Ripley books. They only had the one I’d read, but they could get the rest in a few days if I wanted. I wanted now. I took a long detour home to swing by a second hand book store I recalled. They had only one Highsmith title on the shelf, Ripley Underground ($5). RESULT!!

The man asked was there anything specific I was looking for? I said, “Yes, this, specifically.” He said he’d look out for the others, but he wasn’t familiar with them (which I found odd, for a second hand bookseller), I’ll check the Central Library tomorrow.

So, Ripley Underground, Tom’s certainly more confident now, a few years after Dickie Greanleaf’s disappearance (Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet is in the London cinemas). There are brazen public impersonations of dead artists, fake beards, false passports, and alibis set up left, right and centre. He’s got a possibly equally amoral, hot, French wife now, who basically aids and abets when she’s not off cruising the Mediterranean with friends. Any movie version would have lots of bronzed Euro-hotties-in-swimsuit-scenes in warm, exotic locations. I’m surprised that as far as I know, it hasn’t been filmed. The action spans London, Paris and surrounds, Athens, sundry Greek Isles and Salzburg.

But for all his confidence and scheming, Ripley’s still prone to the highly dramatic predicament. He’s still pants at corpse disposal too, typically just before the police are to visit to investigate the disappearance of the deceased. His attempt to adequately cremate another is a gruesome FAIL. He wonders if he’s doomed to a life digging shallow graves in the woods. He detests murder, unless it’s absolutely necessary, in Ripley’s mind he gives the disgruntled, hapless Murchison all the opportunity in the world to recant his theory (the truth),

“Derwatt is dead. They got someone to impersonate him.” Tom blurted it out, feeling he had nothing any longer to lose, and maybe something to gain. Murchison had his life to gain, but Tom could not quite put that into words, not plain words, as yet.

Perhaps surprisingly, Ripley’s got a sweet and loving relationship with his young wife, she’s an heiress, and absent for half of the book. Her parents disapprove of Tom. But Tom trusts her enough to tell her almost everything, holding back only details he thinks might upset her. And Heloise seems to trust Tom enough not to ask too many questions, even about murder.

While they clearly spend a lot of time apart, and have separate rooms at home, their maid is accustomed to finding both of them sprawled across each other in either bedroom in the mornings, or even afternoons. They have an enthusiastic sex life. Heloise enjoys travelling with Tom under assumed names, joining him with delight if they happen to be in the same city:

“Good evening, Mme Stevens,” Tom said in French. “You are Mme Stevens this evening.” Tom thought of steering her to the desk to register, then decided not to bother, and led Heloise to the lift.

 Three pairs of eyes followed them. Was she really his wife?

Heloise may or may not see right through him – Tom thinks she suspects at least that he arranged Dickie’s disappearance, she knows where Tom’s money came from - but there’s obviously something in him she very much loves. They enjoy each other’s company; they both have independent incomes, so it’s not a money dependent relationship, the only friction between them occurs because of an uninvited and intruding guest, when Heloise wants Tom to herself, and they are both eager to be reconciled. No worries about the forgery, fraud and murder then. She and Tom are like the Anti-Nick and Nora.

Ripley has interesting feelings for the unhinged Bernard. He frets that Bernard isn’t getting the artistic credit he deserves, he’s almost admiring, and certainly not resentful, when Bernard unexpectedly turns the tables and nearly kills him (a gruelling and surreal episode that explains the title). Tom sincerely regrets Bernard’s probable fate. He genuinely cares about his welfare and state of mind even as he hunts him across Europe in order to, one way or another, eliminate the threat he poses. Ever the optimist that there will be a happy conclusion, he seeks to relieve Bernard’s conscience of the burden of his murder, “I’m not a ghost. There wasn’t much earth on top of me and I dug my way out. Funny, isn’t it?” He wants to assure him. Ripley’s not one to harbour a grudge.

There’s a sense of the good sport about Ripley, on several occasions through both books, there are moments he feels exposure is imminent, yet it will be a fair cop, and worth it. And you have to wonder at someone so blasé at being hit over the head with a shovel, buried in a woodland grave meant for someone else, and left for dead. He conceals his own grave, has a refreshing bath, makes a ham sandwich and ponders the merits and practicalities of playing dead for a while. Ripley doesn’t sweat getting even; he’s got his eye on the big picture.

Onwards now, to Ripley’s Game, in which, if memory serves, our anti-hero attempts to turn an innocent to the Dark Side, The Boy Who Followed Ripley and Ripley Under Water, of which I know nothing. I want there to be more. I hope Heloise returns.