Hemingway

Round 1: "The sun also rises."

He was standing next to me at the bar. He was a big fellow. About 25, I thought. He needed a shave and a haircut. And his sport coat looked like he had slept in it. But you could see he was not a bar-fly. He threw out a big hand in my direction. It was a hand you would not want thrown at you in anger. His coat sleeves were short and you could see the heavy black hair on his thick wrists. He had a short black mustache that looked like his eyebrows. He grinned all over. It was a pleasant grin, I thought. I winced as we shook hands. Some grip.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," I said.

"Remember me?" he said.

"Sure, sure," I said.

Who is this guy? I thought. Must have met him up at my place in Montmartre. I had an American nightclub up on The Hill and everybody knew me. You could see he was a Yank by the way he held his drink. Had a death-grip on it. Like somebody was going to take it away from him. But that did not mean a thing. They had Prohibition then back in the States and that's the way all the tourists drank. Like somebody was going to take it away from them. Some law, I thought.

I said aloud, "Have a drink?"

"Why not?" he said.

He knocked off his old drink at a gulp. You could not see what he was (continued on page 28) Hemingway (continued from page 19) drinking. His big hand hid the glass. Alphonse brought us two fines. He had a paw wrapped around his before it hit the bar. Some hands. Wonder what he does, I thought. Probably one of those sculptors from the Left Bank. Did not seem to be holding enough dough for a tourist. Must have met him in one of the bars. Some drinker. Better let him talk some more.

"Been reading your stuff inThe Boulevardier," he said.

Well, I thought, that's different. Erskine Gwynne and I were getting out a smart little magazine on the Champs-Elysees and I was the top writer. They used to read my stuff inThe Boulevardier and then come up The Hill to meet the author. You might say I was literary in the daytime and mercenary at night. I liked to talk about my stuff too. So I hooked my came over the bar-rail and ordered a refill on the fines. If there's one thing an author likes it's honest criticism from a stranger.

"Like it?" I said.

"No," he said.

"Oh," I said. "What are you doing over here besides drinking?"

"Writing," he said.

"Writing what?" I said.

"A book," he said.

"Oh," I said.

This bird is a wise guy, I thought. He has probably been around Paris all of three weeks and he is writing a book about it. That is the way a lot of them did. They sat around the Dome drinking fines and Pernods and wrote a book about Paris. Then you never heard about them again. I had been around Paris for six years and still did not know enough about Paris to write a book about it. Maybe that's the way it was. The longer you stayed around the less you wanted to write a book about it.

"Like it over here?" I said.

"No," he said.

Better get out of here fast, I thought. The man's a poseur. Who ever heard of an American not liking Paris? No wonder he didn't like my stuff. The guy's taste is all in his mouth. I hooked the Malacca back on my arm and gave him the old night-club smile.

"Nice seeing you again, Doc," I said. He roared out laughing and slapped me on the back. I can still feel it.

"The name's Hemingway," he said.

Well, what do you know, I thought. It's old Ernest Miller Hemingway from Oak Park. Nobody else could have a name like that. Had not seen him since the war. Knew he was in Europe somewhere. He had come over in the French Ambulance in '17 when I had. But he had been in an Italian Section. Heard he had enlisted in the Italian army and had been badly wounded. I hung the cane back on the bar and shook hands again. There's nothing wrong with his grip, I thought.

"Didn't know you with the false mustache," I said.

"Bar stance is changed too," he said.

That's right, I thought. Used to stand with the other leg on the rail. No wonder I didn't recognize him. Must be that war wound, I thought.

I said aloud, "Have a drink."

"Sure," he said louder.

Hasn't changed a bit, I thought. He was quite an amateur boxer, I remembered. Used to say he was going to be the world's heavyweight champion some day. And he might have made it. Guess the wound must have knocked that idea out of his head, I thought.

"Still going to be the Champ?" I said.

"Yes," he said, "but not in boxing."

"Wrestling?" I said.

"No," he said.

"What?" I said.

"Literature," he said.

"Oh," I said.

Still shooting at the moon, I thought. Never pulls his punches. Always in there trying. Why, when he was a kid in school he used to pick up a tough five bucks acting as a sparring partner for the pros in O'Connell's gym. He didn't care how big they were either. Plenty of guts. Well, he could count on me to be in his corner over here. I knew the ropes. You know how it is when you run into a guy from your own home town. Might start by running something for him in The Boulevardier. You could see he could use the prestige. If he can write like he can drink, I thought, I'll take him in my stable.

I said aloud, "What's your record?"

"Just a couple of amateur warm-ups," he said."Three Stories and Ten Poems and a six rounder called In Our Time."

"Kayos?" I said.

"No," he said. "Didn't want to hurt my hands. I'm turning pro in my next bout. It's an eight rounder that will put me in the semi-finals. Then when I get into the main bouts and grab those big purses in The States I'm going to buy me a boat, a house on a tropical island and go fishing."

"And retire with the title?" I said.

"No," he said, "I'll defend the title. You know, fight in spurts. Stall for the first two minutes of each round and then go in slugging the last minute like the champs do."

He's got it all figured out, I thought. Sounds like he means it too.

"What's this eight rounder you're writing?" I said.

"The Sun Also Rises," he said.

"Come again," I said.

"The Sun Also Rises," he said.

"The Sun Also Rises," I thought. What the hell has the sun got to do with Paris? You never see it. You go to bed when it rises and you get up when it sets. What a title for a book on Paris, I thought.

"Better call it the moon also rises," I said aloud.

"Gertrude likes it," he said.

"Gertrude who?" I said.

"Gertrude Stein," he said. "She's my trainer."

Holy smokes, I thought. A chump is a chump is a chump. If he listens to those Left Bank oracles he's going to be throwing iambic tetrameters instead of punches. Better get him across the river and under the trees of the Champs Elysees fast.

"Ernest," I said, "how would you like to do a one round benefit for The Boulevardier? If you've got something short and sweet with a wallop I can run it for you. No purse, as you know, but plenty of prestige."

"Glad to help you boys out," he said.

"Well, it would help you, too," I said. "To have the name Ernest Miller Hemingway up there with Sinclair Lewis, Scott Fitzgerald and the rest of us."

"I have dropped the Miller," he said.

"OK," I said, "I'll call you Kid Hemingway if you like. What kind of stuff are you doing?"

He feinted with his left, shot a straight right and picked up a big envelope from the bar.

"Here's a short left hook," he said. "Travels only about eight inches but carries authority. If it isn't a knockout, I'll eat it. It's not for The Boulevardier however. You guys would duck and let it go over your heads."

Oh, yeah, I thought. I opened it up and glanced at the title. The Killers it was called. I'll say it's not for us, I thought.The Kissers would have pleased me better. I ordered another round to give me strength, and glanced through it.

The story was all dialogue. It was all right as far as it went but it didn't get anywhere. Some gangsters were going to kill a Swede. They walked into a cafe where the Swede used to eat and waited for him with their hands in their pockets. Then they walked out. The Swede came in later and when he heard they had been looking for him he couldn't eat. Just went home to his furnished room and went to bed. That's the way it ended. With the poor Swede waiting in bed. Sort of left you up in the air.

"Where's the rest of it?" I said.

"The rest of what?" he said.

"The story," I said.

"Don't be silly," he said, "that's my style."

Well, if that's his style I'll take vanilla, I thought.

"I'm sending it that way to The States," he said.

"Listen, kid," I said, "you gotta have a Hollywood ending for The States. Take a tip from me and have the two killers give it to the Swede with tommy guns. They step out of the clothes closet and give it to him while he is saying his prayers. Then you got something."

"I'll make a note of that," he said.

I didn't like the way he said it. But I'll bet he does change it, I thought. If he doesn't they'll blast him.

Then he shadow boxed, drove a hard right into the inside pocket of his sports coat and hit me with a few crumpled sheets of yellow paper written in lead pencil.

"Here's a low kidney punch for that throwaway of yours," he said. "Don't change a word."

Get a load of that, I thought. Don't change a word.

Here I am doing the guy a favor and he starts ordering me (continued on page 34) Hemingway (continued from page 28) around. I tell him how to end the killers thing and he fouls me. Offer to print his stuff in The Boulevardier and he calls it a "throwaway." What if he does know the magazine, I thought. He doesn't know me well enough to call it that to my face.

I glanced at the title. It was The Real Spaniard. Sounded all right. Louis Bromfield, another young Paris writer, had done a piece for us called The Real Frenchman. Louis had already hit the jackpot with his second book. It got him the Pulitzer Prize. That meant the other Left Bank writers would be out gunning for him, I thought.

"Parody on Bromfield?" I said.

"Yeah," he said. "I give him hell."

That's OK, I thought. We liked parodies in the book. But I didn't say anything. Just stuck the thing in my pocket without reading it. Might need it for wrapping up a parcel some day. I was still sore about that crack he had made about the magazine. Better change the subject, I thought. One more drink and I'd be telling him what he could do with his wrapping paper. I put on my phoney night-club smile.

I said, "Ever been up to my place on the hill?"

"No," he said.

"Why?" I said.

"Too high," he said.

"The Hill?" I said.

"No. The prices," he said.

I said, "Come up any night. Be my guest. Bring your girl."

"Thanks," he said.

"Got a smoking?" I said.

"A what?" he said.

"Asmoking," I said.

Can you beat that, I thought. He is writing a book on Paris and he does not know what a smoking is. A smoking is Paris argot for a tuxedo, I told him. You got to be dressed in my place. It's no Left Bank honky-tonk. We open at midnight and close when the sun also rises, I told him. Might as well impress him that it was a classy joint. He might think it is another Hinkey Dinks in Chicago, I thought.

"There's no sawdust on my floor," I said.

"Too bad," he said.

"Too bad," he said. "But I will give you a break for old time's sake. I never play when I work but I will come up when the book is finished. I'll bring Lady Brett with me."

"Lady who?" I said.

"Lady Brett," he said. "Belongs to an old English family; title and all that sort of thing. You wouldn't know her."

"Oh," I said.

"I'll bring you an autographed copy of the book too," he said.

"Thanks," I said. And I paid the check and left.

I had to laugh when I got outside. Here I had a whole book-case full of autographed best-sellers like Sinclair Lewis' Main Street, Michael Arlen's The Green Hat, Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and a lot of others. And the kid was going to give me an autographed copy of his opus. Not only that, he was going to lend a little class to my place by bringing along Lady What's-her-name. Why, ever since the Prince of Wales started coming there I had them all. Wait until he sees the cream of British nobility hob-nobbing with me, I thought. Lady Mountbatten used to say my dance floor looked like an illustrated copy of Burke's Peerage. The Duke of Manchester was there every night. They liked my jazz band – The Crackerjacks and the Argentine Tango Orchestra which was a new wrinkle then. Well, I thought, I only hope his story is up to The Boulevardier's standards. Those standards were high in one way and low in another. Look at Sinclair Lewis. He made the Nobel Prize but he had a tough time making The Boulevardier. We turned him down twice. His stuff was too provincial for us.

In the taxi to the office I got thinking about Lewis. The only way he resembles Hemingway, I thought, is in his drinking. He was a swell guy though. He finally did make the magazine, too. That was when I cut a five thousand. word yarn of his down to one thousand. He was delighted to make the grade and bought up half the issue to send to friends in The States. Never could do the short stuff he always said. Nice guy. You don't mind helping out a writer like that, I thought.

I showed The Real Spaniard to Gwynne and told him Hemingway was another Bromfield. Gwynne read it, grabbed a big blue pencil and hit the ceiling. "Where does he write, on rest room walls?" he roared. I looked over his shoulder and there were two four-letter words! They were words that you heard around the office all the time. But you didn't see them.

"Well," I said, "he spelled them correctly didn't he?"

And the guy tells me not to change a word, I thought. Gwynne tossed the sheets over to Arthur Moss. Arthur was the editor and said he knew Hemingway and wasn't surprised. He read the piece through and then turned over the last page. "Where's the rest of it?" he said.

"You must have lost a page."

"That's all he gave me," I said. I read it myself. It's an unfinished symphony all right, I thought. But maybe he wants it like that.

I said aloud, "It's the latest style in literature and –" I added, "he comes from my home town."

"OK," Moss said. "Write an ending to it and we'll run it on page 42."

"Not me," I said. "Promised I wouldn't change a word."

"You don't have to change a word," Arthur said. "Just add a paragraph. I'll take the rap for you if he squawks. We go to press in an hour and we can't print it that way. The story stinks and you know it."

Of course I knew it. But I knew Hemingway too. Well, I thought, if he didn't give me all of it it's not my fault. Besides, Moss had agreed to take the blame. I wanted the yarn to get in that issue and it wouldn't make the grade the way it was.

So I wrote an ending. I ghosted his style a little and it turned out swell. The story wasn't bad at all with my ending. Then we ran a little blurb about his book. That ought to please him, I thought.

But it didn't please him. The magazine was hardly on the stands before he was on our necks. Came roaring into the office with fire in his eye and said I had spoiled the story. I told the truth; said I had not changed a word. I should have stood in bed like the guy in the other story, I thought. I glanced over at Moss. Would he take the rap as he had promised?

Li'l Arthur, as we called him, stood under five feet and weighed in ringside at 123 pounds. But there was no moss attached to him except his name. He had to bend his head away back to look up at our detractor but he looked the bull right in the eye.

"Pipe down, Big Boy," he said. "I'm the editor and I rewrote your story for the better. What are you going to do about it?"

Ernest looked like he couldn't believe his ears. He bent over to get a better look.

"Stand up and I'll show you," he said.

"I am standing up," Arthur said, and he was.

That broke the spell. Ernest stuck out a big hand. I knew he would.

"Shake, brother," he said. "You got guts."

Then he walked out without a glance at me. That's gratitude for you, I thought. You try to help out a pal and he does not appreciate it. Show him how to write and he says you spoiled his story. Well, let him go back to his Gertrude Stein and see if I care. Bet that book of his needs a rewrite more than the story did, I thought.

• • •

I didn't see my new fighter for a couple of months. Heard he was holed up working on the proofs of that opus of his. Then he dropped in to my place one night and the minute I saw what he had with him I was sure he was still sore at me for that rewrite job. She was awful. Of all the females in the entire world there was only one barred permanently from my place. And he had her on his arm. How she ever got by Blink McClusky at the door I'll never know. Must have come up on his blind side. How she even got across the river was a mystery. Like Chicago's West Side hoboes, who were barred from crossing the Chicago River, she was barred socially from the Montmartre night spots across the Seine. Her natural habitat was the Left Bank. Incidentally, she was even barred from crossing the great Atlantic Ocean. They had barred her out of The States on "moral turpitude" grounds. Some gal.

I didn't object to her on moral grounds. My place was no church. It was the way she behaved and the way she dressed. They say she was from a good family in England but they paid her a (continued overleaf) Hemingway (continued from page 34) small remittance to stay out of the British Isles. If she crossed the channel the dough stopped. She was a table-hopper and generally wore soiled tennis shoes and a pair of men's pants. That was long before they called them "slacks" and normal women took to wearing them.

And here she was with Hemingway. Had used him to crash the gate. Well, I had asked for it. The waiters were ganging up for the bum's rush but I waved them aside. He looked pretty good. Almost civilized. Had a smoking on and was even shaved. Maybe he just looks good alongside of her, I thought. As I came up you could see he was ready to present me like they do at the Court of St. James. But she put her hand up in the air as though she were reaching for a strap in a bus, to shake hands.

"Fawncy seeing you here," she said.

"Fancy seeing you here," I said.

"Fancy your knowing Lady Brett," he said.

Lady Brett! I thought. Is this the one he calls Lady Brett? That was a new monicker to me. I had heard her called many things but never that. They called her "The Countess" around the Dome.

I gave the head-waiter the highsign and he showed Ernest to a nice table in the back row behind the post. She hooked her arm in mine. That gave me a chance to talk to her man to man. I told her to keep off the dance floor and not bother any of the guests and she could stay this time.

Of course I didn't dare to sit down with them. Had my social position to consider. The other girls might think she was going to work in the place and I didn't want any labor trouble that night. So I said I was very busy and tipped off Blink to keep an eye on her but not to get into an argument with Hemingway. Blink had lost an eye fighting Jack Johnson and I didn't want him to lose the other one.

She surprised me by behaving herself. Once I heard a scream and a crash from their side of the room and went tearing over there. But it was only one of our regular society matrons slugging it out with a gigolo.

My guests left about 5:00 o'clock and left five empty champagne bottles behind them. That's the way we kept count; by leaving the empties on the table. I didn't mind that. But I was a little sore at him for bringing that broad into the place. I went to the vestiare with them. Nobody could see us there. Then he pulled out his book. I'd forgotten all about it. But I had not forgotten the title when I saw it: The Sun Also Rises. So I let him have it.

"Where do you think you are?" I said. "In Atlantic City? You don't see any sun around this town, do you? That high flush you are wearing is not sunburn. It's a bar-room tan. You should have named it something else when I told you before."

Guess he thought I was just kidding because he didn't get mad. Just grinned and wrote something on the fly-leaf and handed it to me. I read it; "What's in a name?" it said. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Just some more of the Gertrude Stein stuff, I thought. I flicked over the pages to show a little interest and two words jumped right out and hit me in the eye. "Lady Brett!" I said aloud.

"Yes," he said. "That's the name I gave the Countess in the book. She is my heroine."

"Your heroine of what?" I said.

"Of The Sun Also Rises," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"Had a fine time," he said.

"We're even," I said.

"Au revoir," she said.

"Goodbye," I said.

Good Lord, I thought. How do they get that naive? Some heroine. Well, that's one book I'll never read. And he will never be able to go back to Oak Park after this. They will even give him the horse laugh in Paris. Maybe he was just kidding me, I thought. I opened the book again and glanced through it. There she was all right. Big as life. That bout is not a semi-final, I thought. It's a final with a capital F.

But there was something nice about him just the same. Take the time at the Velodrome d'Hiver. It happened at one of their weekly fight. I was sitting in the front row of the ringside seats with two lovely American girls when a pug I had had some trouble with walked up to me. I should have recognized his cauliflower ears but I didn't. It was between bouts and he must have been acting as a second as he had a wet sponge in his hand. I put out my hand absently to shake hands with him and he put out his. But he didn't shake hands; instead he shoved the wet sponge in my face and began insulting me.

The crowd loved it. It was a Charlot comedy to them. I was the gent in the smoking getting the custard pie from the guy in the sweater. I jumped up to grab the sponge. But as I did two other guys grabbed me. It was three to one. Well, a lot of people in those ringside seats knew me but who do you suppose was the only one to take my part? Right. Monsieur Hemingway. He just appeared from nowhere. He was grinning from ear to ear. But he wasn't fooling. He grabbed the two pugs, each by an arm, and pulled the two of them from me as though they were babies. "Get the sponge," he said. "I'll take care of these two punks."

That was all the moral and physical support I needed. I snatched the sponge away from The Ears and went into a clinch. Couldn't touch him. Two gendarmes, acting like referees, broke us apart and led us to our corners. But I took a chance and let the sponge go. It was a lucky shot. Just missed the other gendarmes and caught The Ears smack in the face. The crowd roared its approval. The gendarmes laughed and I took a bow to the gallery. But when I turned to raise Hemingway's hand he was gone. He had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared.

What a strange mixture of guts and diffidence, I thought. He had not hesitated to take a hand in a friend's quarrel in front of the whole crowd. Might even have caused a riot if somebody had started swinging. Then the minute the danger is over he fades out of the picture. Funny guy, all right. They say that when the Italians decorated him they had to bring the medal to him. Afraid to get up in front of the outfit. Not afraid of action but afraid of praise. The girls said he limped a little. Who wouldn't, I thought, with an artificial knee-cap and a hundred shell-splinters in his body. But that didn't stop him. Some character.

I sure felt grateful to him that night. Kept thinking about it all during the fights. And you could see that the pug who started it was thinking about it too. Kept glaring at me. He was no practical joker either. We had had some serious trouble and he had threatened to get me.

When the fights were over I began to get worried. Sure wished my body guard had stuck around. I told the girls if anything started they were to keep right on going and meet me at the car. As we got into the crush headed for the exit I had a feeling we were being followed. So I dropped back a little and glanced over my shoulder. And sure enough the big guy was right behind me. He was still grinning.

"Keep going," he said. "I'm doing a rear-guard action."

What do you know, I thought. Some friend. He may not be much of a writer but he sure has hair on his chest. He tailed me and I tailed the girls right into my car and in a few minutes we were on our way. I introduced him to the girls. And then they burned me up.

"You're not the Mr. Hemingway who wrote The Sun Also Rises, are you?" they both said at once.

"Guilty," he said.

"We both read it and think it's wonderful," they said. And they went on gushing like a couple of bobby-soxers. I didn't mind so much about the brunette. She was a spare. But the red-head was putting it on too thick to suit me. She was sitting up front with me but kept turning around to talk to him. I was glad when he shut her off. He poked his finger in my back.

"How did you like the book?" he said.

Well, I thought, if he thinks I am going to flatter him, just because he saved my life, he's got another think coming. Better give it to him straight from the shoulder.

"I couldn't read the thing," I said.

"Wait a minute," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Do you move your lips when you read?" he said.

"No," I said.

"That's it," he said.

"That's what?" I said.

"That's it. I write for people who move their lips when they read."

"Oh," I said.

The girls laughed their heads off. But (concluded overleaf) Hemingway (continued from page 36) I didn't laugh. Bad taste, I thought. I wanted him to ask me why I couldn't read his book. Had some sound criticisms all ready for him. And he laughs it off. Not only that, I had to sit there and listen to the girls raving about it. They wanted to know all about Lady Brett. What a character. Did she really exist? They should ask me, I thought. I could have told them plenty.

I listened to their flattery and got a line on the kind of book it was. Some guy had been fouled in the war. Hit below the belt. He had been Lady Brett's heavy lover before he got the TKO and when he came out she loved him just the same and continued to live with him. She was even keeping him, according to the story. Baloney, I thought. All that baby ever kept was the change when somebody gave her over two dollars. She was no more capable of spiritual love than I was. Then I heard the story switched to bull-fighting in Spain. Bull-throwing is more like it, I thought.

I was burning at this snake I had taken into the bosom of my car. I recall leaning over and whispering into the ear of the red-head that Hemingway himself was the guy who had been shot in the book. I don't recall mentioning that he had been shot in the knee either. All's fair in love and war, I thought.

Round 2: "To have and have not."

It was getting around midnight so I suggested that we all drive up to my place and have a little champagne.

"Sorry," he said. "Told you I never play when I am working. Doing a new book and got to get some sleep."

"OK," I said. "I'll drive you home. Where do you live?"

"Montparnasse," he said.

The red-head said, "What's the book about?"

"Collection of short stories," he said.

I shot over the bridge to the Left Bank and turned up the Boulevard Raspail. So it's short bouts now, I thought. Wonder if he is using that lemon I had read in the bar. The Killers or something. Hope the others are better than that one, I thought.

I said aloud, "What kind of stories?"

"I never talk about a story until it is finished," he said. "If you tell it you never write it. The trouble with you is that you tell your stories up at that joint of yours and never write them."

"Oh yeah," I said.

"Yes," he said. "Make up your mind whether you want to be a writer or a saloonkeeper. If you want to run a saloon, keep talking. If you want to be a writer start slugging the typewriter."

"Listen," I said.

"What for?" he said. "I'm not paying you to talk. Put it on paper."

Get a load of that, I thought. You'd think he was Scott Fitzgerald or someone. Here everybody in Paris is talking about my stuff in The Boulevardier and he is telling me how to write. What a laugh. Not only that, he probably hasn't got a pot to cook in but he's telling me off right in my own Cadillac. Some gall. Drinks my champagne and calls my joint a saloon. I started to tell him I was a star reporter in Chicago when he was a cub in Kansas City. But the girls were so busy laughing and talking to him I couldn't get a word in edgewise. That's what you get, I thought.

"What's the name of your new book, Mr. Hemingway?" the girls said.

"Men Without Women," he said.

"What?" I said.

"Men Without Women," he said.

Here's my chance, I thought. Imagine writing a book in Paris with a title like that. First it's The Sun Also Rises and now it's Men Without Women. Gertrude Stein must have picked that one for him, too, I thought.

I said aloud. "Listen, Ernest, let's be Frank and Ernest with each other. Did you ever see a Man without a Woman in Paris? You are in Paris, France, now, kid, not Paris, Illinois. There are no men without women here and no women without men outside of Lady Brett perhaps."

"Turn left at the cemetery," he said.

"OK," I said. "And while we are here take a good look in that cemetery. If you see any Men without Women even in there I'll buy you a good dinner. They bury them side by side over here. Hot or cold, in Paris Men are with Women."

"Third house from the corner," he said.

I stopped at the third house. It was an old brick relic of the Second Empire. It had a Chambres a Louer sign in the window and was right across the street from the cemetery. There were no lights on inside but you could see it in spurts. There was a big electric sign on the house next door that flashed on and off. It said Pompes Funebres. Clever idea for an undertaker, I thought. The lights going on and off reminded you that you are here today and gone tomorrow. The house on the other side had a marble orchard in the front yard. It was a monument maker's atelier. The stone angles and other tombstones jumped at you when the undertaker's sign lit up. Nice cheerful little spot, I thought. He hopped out like he was going in to the Louvre palace.

"My room's on the fifth floor, girls," he said. "Come up and see me some time."

"Rest in peace," I said.

No wonder he writes that stuff about people getting killed, I thought. He's looking at graves all day. But do you know something? You had to give the guy credit for one thing. He was always himself. Natural like. Look at the way he let me drive him right up to that dump of his. A lot of fellows would have gotten off at the Ritz and walked the rest of the way. But he didn't care. Maybe it's integrity or self-confidence or something. Guess it must be confidence. A Hearst man told me that he had climbed those five flights of stairs around that time to offer him a newspaper job. The job paid 200 a week and he wasn't eating regularly then. But he turned down the job flat. Said nobody was going to tell him what to write again. Wanted to live his own stories. Must have something, I guess. But, as I say, you can't put your finger on it.

There's one thing I will say for him though. He really worked hard. I went around to the cemetery room one day to see him. The concierge told me he was there. So I climbed the five flights and rapped on his door but he wouldn't let me in. The undertaker's assistant who had the room next to him told me he had been locked in his room for a week correcting proofs. Wouldn't let anybody in. They used to leave coffee and croissants at the door for him. The only exercise he got was walking to the bathroom at the other end of the hall. If genius is really the capacity for taking infinite pains he is a genius, I thought.

But work or no work you could always see him at the fights. Guess he didn't think going to the fights was playing; just part of his training. I used to see him there all the time. We used to betten francs a corner and he almost always won. We never talked about his books any more. What's the use, I thought. You can't tell him anything and he won't tell you anything anyway. I didn't mind when he won. Guess he can use the money more than I can, I thought.

When he was not at the fights you knew he was away somewhere. But you never knew where he was. He might be in the green hills of Africa, the blood soaked arenas of Spain or somewhere in Italy. He never writes or even sends postals.

It must have been a couple of years before I saw him again.

In November of 1929 the big Depression bounced off of Wall Street and hit Paris hard. It was a TKO for the American colony. Every Yank who had been spending money like water suddenly went dry. They had it one day and didn't have it the next. Forty thousand of them who had been living on incomes fought to get reservations on the boats and borrowed money to pay their passage.

Things were plenty tough for us. Lost the place in Montmartre and The Boulevardier folded for want of readers. But before it folded it did me a favor. I was offered a contract to go over to Hollywood and write for the new talking pictures. What a break.

And the first person I wanted to tell about it was the smart-alec Hemingway. Tell me how to write, would he? I could tell him something now. Universal Pictures had seen a story of mine in The Boulevardier and had come over 5000 miles to sign me up. I didn't see them coming after him. Going to be the champ, was he? Well, maybe he'd find himself up against his old sparring mate in the battle of the century. You know how it is. I was dying to rub it in. Wherever he was I knew he was in there slugging. But a good boxer can always outpoint a slugger. Wait until I stick that straight Hollywood left in his kisser, I thought.

Next Month:

Round 3: "A Farewell to arms"

"I'll take care of these two punks," grinned Hemingway.