Hemingway

Round 10: "The old man and the sea" The first thing i saw when I hit New York was Hemingway's picture on a magazine cover. There he was big as Life. That's why he wanted me to get to New York, I thought. So I'd see it. I looked it over and saw it had a new book of his in it. Must be that left hook he told me about, I thought. Almost bought one too. Wanted to look it over. But I wasn't going to break a life-long rule for him or anybody else. It wasn't the 20 cents. It was the principle of the thing. I had to go to the dentist's anyway. Had a broken tooth. I could wait and get the magazine there.

Saw an article in the paper about him, too. It said he was on his way to Africa to hunt lions. Looks like the guy told me the truth all right, I thought. Probably got his ticket on credit too. And that's not all. As I walked down Broadway there was his name on the marquees of a lot of movie theatres. They were all old stuff though. Reruns Too bad Hollywood doesn't pay for reruns. Might have got myself walking-around money. Better hit the dentist's right away and kill two birds with one stone, I thought. I showed him the busted tooth.

"Must have bit something awful tough," he said.

"You can say that again, Doc," I said. But I didn't tell him I tried to put the bite on Ernest. Might bite me right back for his fee if I did. So he fixed the tooth and I picked up Life on my way out. Took it over to the hotel with me. I wanted to be alone when I read the guy's stuff. Might say something. Aloud.

And maybe you think I didn't say something aloud when I read the thing. Lucky nobody was there.I read the whole book through. Word of honor. Got the bellboy to bring me up a bottle of Scotch and stuck it out. I even moved my lips when I read so I would understand it better. It was called The Old Man and the Sea. Not a bad title.

The book was full of padding though, I thought. Ernest must have been paid by the word for that one. I can tell you the whole story in one sentence. If you haven't read the book read my rewrite. It's got everything in it you need to fool your friends:

Once upon a time in Cuba there was a nice Old Man who had not eaten in many days because he was on a fish diet and had not caught a fish and when he did catch a fish the fish was so big that The Fish really caught The Old Man because he could not let go of the line and was taken on a fish-conducted tour of the Caribbean Sea until some bad sharks had eaten up all his dinner and when he got to shore all he had on his hands were scars and fish bones but a Little Boy who liked The Old Man shared his dinner with him and The Little Boy and The Old Man and Ernest lived happily ever afterward.

But you know something? You can joke all you like about his writing but you gotta give him credit. He is a swell guy. I realized it more than ever that night the news-flash came about his crashing somewhere in Africa. Hit me right between the eyes. It was a Saturday about six P.M. I was just about to go out to dinner. But I didn't go. Took my appetite right away. Reached for a bottle of Scotch instead. Drank my dinner.

And that's a funny thing about Ernest. When you think of him or even hear his name, you want a drink. What a swell name for a new blend: Five-Star-Hemingway. Wonder if he's got any with him. Must have; for snake bites and everything, I thought.

You'd think he was right there with me, the way I was lapping it up. Just sat there drinking and listening to the radio. Once I picked up the magazine and tried to read it again. You know, maybe I would get a better slant on it. But you couldn't see the small print. Your eyes were bothering you. You had to keep wiping off your glasses all the time. So I walked over to the mirror and did something I often do when I've had a few drinks. Started talking to myself.

I said aloud, "You're a chump to worry about that guy."

"Who's a chump?" I said.

"You are," I said.

"Why?" I said.

"Because you know he will get out of this. He always does. Has nine lives like a cat. Must have five or six left anyway."

That's right, I thought, look at what the Bimini natives said that time he was out in The Three Day Blow: "No storm too bad for Papa. He come back soon." And look at what the Coast Guard said in Key West: "If that guy is ever lost at sea it will be because they hung him from a yard arm." You can bet they're not worried about him now, I thought. Better forget about him. He'll come back. Like a bad penny.

My liquor was all gone so I dropped around to a few of the bars to see how other people were taking it. They were taking it big everywhere. I got a lot of free drinks just because I knew him.Got in some arguments too. Funny how everybody sticks up for the guy, I thought.

In one place they had the lights on. But nobody was paying any attention. Just waiting around for news of him. So was I but I wasn't going to show it. There was a pretty blonde standing next to me at the bar. She was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. Might get her on the rebound, I thought. I gave her the eye.

"No storm too bad for Papa. He come back soon," I said.

"You talk in riddles," she said.

"So does he," I said.

"Who?" she said.

"Hemingway," I said.

"Oh, do you know Mr. Hemingway?" she said. And the way she said it you could see she was one of his fans. The guy's name is open sesame, I thought. When I answered her everybody at the bar looked at me.

"Do I know Ernest?" I said. "He's my pal."

"Do you know Miss Mary too?" she said.

"Miss Mary who?" I said.

"If Mr. Hemingway was your pal you would know that Miss Mary is Mrs. Ernest Hemingway," she said.

"Oh," I said.

That's right, I thought. He did get married again. Old habits are hard to break. I hadn't met the present Mrs. H. But I sure sympathized with her.

I said aloud, "Don't worry your pretty head about Miss Mary. He will take care of her. Always brings'em back alive, like Frank Buck."

Just then they interrupted the TV fights to make an announcement. The search for Hemingway and his wife was being abandoned because of darkness. So what, I thought. The guy has eyes like a cat too. Sees in the dark. But I got another drink fast just the same. Knocked it off the way he does – in a gulp. The blonde grabbed my arm.

"But suppose they are not alive now," she said.

"That's all we got to worry about," I said. "But if his neck and his bottles are not broken he will come out of that juÈgle with Miss Mary under one arm and a pink elephant under the other."

"But if they are alive," she said, "think of their spending the night with those wild animals."

"Think nothing of it," I said. "He's a wild animal himself."

A big fellow on the other side of me swung me around. Funny how they all take his part. This one can't even read, I thought.

He said aloud, "How would you like to sleep in a den of lions?"

"I'm no Daniel," I said, "but he is."

"Who is?" he said.

"Hemingway is," I said.

"Oh yeah," he said, "suppose a lion bites him?"

"He'll bite him right back," I said. "Ever see his teeth?"

"No," he said.

"I did," I said. "Never uses a bottle opener."

"Oh," he said.

"The guy's a Tarzan," I said. "He can kick a lion's teeth out with his bare feet. Saw him scare a shark to death once. Just snapped at him."

"There's no sharks in Africa," the guy said.

"There's no snow there either," I said.

"Who said there was?" he said.

"He did," I said.

"Who did?" he said.

"Skip it," I said.

"Listen, Mister," the blonde said, "there was plenty of snow in The Snows of Kilimanjaro. And it was the best picture I ever saw."

Funny how these kids dig that baloney, I thought. We called it Nature Faking when I was a kid. Better watch the fights and cool off. But I didn't cool off. One of the pugs reminded me of Ernest. In there slugging all the time. Couldn't get him off my mind. Wonder if he really is in trouble? I liked the guy personally if not professionally. He really should have been a doctor like his father wanted him to be. He would have had a swell bedside manner. Better try and make the blonde understand me, I thought.

"Friendship's a funny thing," I said aloud.

"You're a funny thing," she said louder.

"Oh yeah?" I said.

"Yeah," she said.

"Now take Ernie and me," I said.

"I'll take Ernie," she said.

"So will I," I said. "As a friend. I praise his virtues and forgive his weaknesses. I know his weakness is writing. But –"

"How about the Pulitzer Prize?" she said.

"Just a semi-final eight rounder," I said, "big medal but no purse. Might have been a bad decision, too, like some of those on TV. Or maybe the Judge's set had snow on it."

"Are you talking about a fighter or a writer?" she said.

"A fighter," I said.

"Oh," she said, and walked out.

I let her go. What's the use, I thought. The pen is mightier than the sword. Once that guy starts slinging phrases at them they stay phrased. He's poison. Here he is 5000 miles away in darkest Africa and he's coming between me and a gal in New York City. Projects himself like an Indian Yogi. Not only that, he had driven everybody else out of the bar. I didn't want to go home and maybe not sleep. I wanted to talk some more about him. Like whistling in the dark or something. The bartender walked over and sweetened my drink.

"You're right, mister," he said. "This Hemingway plays too rough for Africa. I used to work in a sawdust joint in Key West. He can take it."

"I see you know him," I said.

"Only by sight," he said. "Seen him kick all the furniture out of the joint once with his bare feet."

"Anybody stop him?" I said.

"No," he said. "There were only four of us behind the bar that night."

"I see," I said. "Ever read his stuff?"

"No," he said.

Seems like an intelligent bartender, I thought. They listen better on his side of the bar too. Too bad he was getting ready to close up. He made me feel surer than ever that Ernest would be found. I even decided to go on the wagon until they did find him. We shook hands at the door.

"See you when they find him," I said.

"That's a date," he said.

Sunday was a bad day for me. Stayed in bed all day. But Monday was my big day. That's the day they found him. I read all the papeÈs and hustled right over to the little bar. I sure hoped the gal would be there. Couldn't wait to say I told you so and really go to work on Ernest. I'll tell her plenty too, I thought.

But she wasn't there. Neither was the big fellow. The bartender was all alone. He was reading the paper too. You could see he knew all about it. Looked as happy as I did, I thought.

"Well, I told you so," I said.

"What's that?" he said. (continued overleaf)

"Scotch and soda," I said. "Have one yourself. Remember me?"

He brought the two drinks and looked at me a long time.

"Sure," he said. "You're Mr. Hemingway's friend."

"Let's say he is my friend," I said. "Notice he got out OK?"

"Yeah," he said. "You sure had the right dope on him but you didn't say anything about his wife. It says here she was hurt."

"Just a couple of broken ribs," I said. "You got to expect that when you try to keep up with that guy. He might have done that just hugging her. How do you like his picture in the paper there?"

"Well," he said, "if I was a barber I wouldn't like it but as a bartender I'd say it's OK. You can see he's a good writer."

"How?" I said.

"By the drink in his hand," he said. "Some of my best customers are writers."

"Oh," I said. "Give us a couple more."

This fellow makes sense, I thought. It's the literary punks on the other side of the bar who give you an argument about his writing. I told him I was sorry Miss Mary got hurt.

"Brave little woman," he said.

"They all were," I said.

"Who's they?" he said.

"Skip it," I said. "What's your name?"

"Joe," he said.

"Well, Joe," I said, "it's this way. The guy bears a charmed life. It's the people with him who take a chance. Almost got killed once myself on the boat . . ."

"You told me about that," Joe said.

"OK," I said, "but do you see what I mean?"

"Sure," Joe said. "You mean he is sort of an Achilles' heel."

Better think that one over, I thought. I said aloud: "Why bring Achilles into it?"

Joe looked at his paper. "You can see in the picture he ain't hurt much," he said.

"How?" I said.

"He's got that big drink in his hand ain't he?"

"Doesn't mean a thing, Joe." I said. "You don't know the guy the way I do. That hand could be cut off at the neck and there'd still be a drink in it. If both arms were gone he'd hold it with his toes."

"But it says here in the paper he wasn't hurt much."

"How do they know?" I said. "He wouldn't tell them if he was hurt. Might not get the drink if he did. Never talks about himself. Read your paper and you'll see; it's Miss Mary this and Miss Mary that. You'd think she was alone in the plane to hear him tell it. He's the kind of a guy who wouldn't even tell you about his operation."

"Has he had an operation?" Joe said.

"Had a hundred," I said. "Been cut all the way from the equator to the Spanish Peninsula. But he just won't open up."

"Has he lost his gall bladder?"

"Not so's you could notice it," I said.

"I did," Joe said. "They left a sponge in me and . . ."

"Must have left 20 in him from the way he acts sometimes," I said.

"Bring him in sometime," Joe said. I reached for my hat.

"Not me," I said. "I like your place."

As I walked down the street you could hear radio and TV sets blaring out Ernest's name everywhere. Everybody had a paper with Hemingway and wife found in great big red letters. You'd think the guy was the President of the United States instead of a writer of sorts. Too bad the papers hadn't looked me up, I thought. They could have had a 36-hour scoop on the story. Came out just like I said it would. I was sure glad just the same to see the guy was safe and sound. I'd had a few bad moments myself over the weekend.

You knew he'd hop off to Europe the minute he and Miss Mary could travel. He's like Lindbergh. Doesn't lÈke being a celebrity. That's why he hides away in those island castles of his with eight dogs and 13 cats. Animals don't bother you asking for autographs. It's like I said before; when the honors are being dished out he always disappears.

Then one day in August of '54 I got a shock. Saw a picture of him in the paper getting the key to the city of Havana or some such honor. He was back home in Cuba. There he was up on the platform with Miss Mary and a lot of Cuban big-shots. They must have had to arrest him to get him there, I thought, or maybe they kidnapped him. Must have used force of some kind. The guy doesn't honor easily. But that wasn't what gave me the big shock. It was the picture itself. I examined it closely and could not be mistaken.

He did not have a drink in his hand.

This is serious, I thought. He may even be on the wagon. There was a big sign of welcome over his head but no welcoming glass in his big hand. Call it mental telepathy or what you will but I was sure, right then and there, that he had been hurt more than he had admitted in that accident in Africa.

The judge's decision

So I cut the picture out of the paper and wrote him a letter. Wanted to check on how he was feeling. Just sent him one of those clever little notes of mine. You might say it was an invitation. I invited him to invite me down there for some deep-sea-fishing and some deep-sea-drinking. If he couldn't fish and couldn't drink he was in a bad way. I enclosed the Havana picture and gave him my diagnosis. Naturally I didn't say anything about The Old Man and the Sea. My thoughts on that could wait.

Well, you know how he is about answering letters. Sometimes he doesn't even open them. I didn't really expect an answer. Intended to hop down to Cuba and surprise him. But he surprised me. Answered by return air mail. Caught me just in time to stop the trip. Must have been studying the air flight schedule from New York, I thought.

It was just a little note declining my invitation. But it told me just what I had suspected. He was on the wagon. And he had been hurt much more seriously than the newspapers had reported. He didn't tell me how badly but I could read between the lines.

He said: "You know all there is to know about those bad smashes. Right now I am engaged in putting the body and the head in shape and writing. Nothing else. Anyway I can't fish big fish until my back is sound. I am working very hard and have to be ruthless for a while about seeing anybody even old pals. Sorry you got hurt so badly, kid."

But see what I mean? It's just like I said to that barman. The guy had fooled everybody in Nairobi about his real condition by not talking and by having a drink in his hand when they took that picture. The papers here came out a month after his letter to me saying that he had broken his back, broken his arm and fractured his skull. You'd think he had only a torn hangnail in the crash to read the rescue stories written at the time.

It only goes to show you I thought, the old time reporters are better than these School of Journalism graduates today. The ex-Kansas City cub had scooped the entire world nine months on his own condition.

You got to hand it to him after all, I thought. He is a good reporter.

Before we take our leave of Ernie, suppose we conduct a little friendly psychoanalysis, just for fun? We will call it The Case History of Mr. E. H. so that no one will know whom we mean. Let's pin his colorful wings to our laboratory table and dissect his libido.

We will find Mr. E. H. one of our most difficult subjects. Earlier in this treatise you will recall that I likened him to a cat. We psychologists like to probe for animal traits in subjects and vice versa. I mentioned that he had nine lives and could see in the dark. Now where does Mr. E. H. get his feline motivation?

It's very simple to the trained observer. He has 13 cats at his home in Cuba. In passing I might draw your atÈention to some of the names he has given them. Notice how they follow the same behavior pattern he displays in the titles of his books. One alley cat of doubtful lineage for instance, I have been told, answers to the name of Rutherford B. Hayes. Another is Chester A. Arthur. Why? No one knows. These and many other conditioned reactions of our subject's dual personality may never be explained. A presidential neurosis could account for it.

With the 13 cats note that he has only eight dogs. This indicates a stronger feline behavior pattern as opposed to the canine. Not that he won't bite, mind you. He will. But so will cats if teased. There is perhaps only one trait he does not share with his feline friends. He never scratches. He punches.

Another outstanding feline trait E. H. shares with 13 American Short-Hairs (Mr. E. H. is an American Long-Hair) is this: they never beg for mercy and they never show any mercy. Ever see a cat cornered by dogs? Kitty will not turn over on her back with her tail between her legs as some canines do when attacked by a larger dog. No sir. Just keeps on slugging it out to the end. Like he does.

We have no direct evidence of Mr. E. H.'s reaction to petting. But we can assume from his behavior pattern that he does not resent this form of feline frailty any more than the average house cat. Kitty has a decided penchant for petting.

Let us now try to determine if feline motivation influenced E. H. to hide his real injuries from his public. I believe it did. Cats when hurt or when sick do not look for sympathy. I never heard a cat complain to newspaper reporters or to anyone else. Did you? They just want to be alone. Cats hide out under the house or in Europe the way he did. Mr. E. H. unconsciously did exactly what his friend Chester A. Arthur would have done under the same circumstances.

As to physical characteristics: Are his features those of the average house cat? By no means. One would never say his beard is the cat's whiskers. On the contrary. But, make no mistake, those shaggy whiskers are feline just the same. They resemble the mane of a lion. But do not try to tame him. And do not attempt to trim that mane. The old lions are the man-killers.

They say E.H. stands up on his hind legs to work. This is a decided feline trait. Your own cat stands on her hind legs to work on your upholstery. Standing on the hind legs to scratch is feline behavior to the ninth line. No question about it.

I dislike bringing in hearsay evidence but according to his neighbors it would appear that he has one more strong reflex in common with Felis catus. Has a habit of digging in his garden. And, they say. he never uses a spade.

However, let us not jump to faulty conclusions. I do not contend that E. H. has a cat complex. It may very well be that cats have an E.H. complex. But let us now return to Hemingway the Man.

Having seen in the paper that he had been nominated in Stockholm for the Nobel Prize. I hurried over to Sixth Avenue to get the returns from a reliable oracle, Mr. Harry Nelson, an old Paris friend of mine and a member of the bar in good standing. He is of Swedish descent. Nelson would know the dope if anybody would. I found him on my side of the bar. He was taking off his apron after the day shift. I ordered a couple of Swedish Punches. I suggested the punches as befitting the occasion. We discussed literature in general and then I swung the conversation around to the big bout in Stockholm.

"How are the boys at the Union betting?" I said.

"Two to one on Papa to win by a KO in the first round," he said.

"How come?" I said.

"Well," he said, "you know how bartenders are. They just pull for the fellow they know. They've all seen him in action."

"I see what you mean," I said.

I knocked my punch off at a gulp and Harry threw another one at me. Those Swedish Punches carry authority, I thought. Reminded me of Papa's concoctions. Hit you downstairs and upstairs at the same time.

I said aloud, "Got any real dope?"

Harry leaned toward me the way he does when he is giving you a winner in the second, "Yeah," he said, "Right from the horse's mouth." His mouth was right in my car.

"Do you know my Uncle Sven?" he said.

"No," I said.

"Well," Harry said, "he just got back from the old country and he says it's in the bag for Hemingway. He's a fisherman, see, and he's crazy about Hemingway's stuff."

How do you like that, I thought. A fisherman. Some horse's mouth all right.

I said aloud, "What does he fish – sardines?"

"No," Harry said. "Whales."

"Oh," I said.

"Yeah." he said. "It's a long time between bites on a whaler and Uncle Sven spends the time reading Hemingway. Says it's the best stuff he's ever read."

"Can he read English?" I said.

"No," Harry said.

"What?" I said.

"Not a word," Harry said.

That's a hot one, I thought. Harry must have been nipping on the job. Says his uncle can't read but he likes Hemingway. Well, that made some sense. I couldn't read his stuff either. And I liked him. Maybe the old gent watched somebody else reading it and then read his lips when they moved, I thought.

I said aloud, "Lip reader?"

"No," Harry said.

Better get going, I thought. This wise guy's giving me double talk. He'll be saying the old man's a mind reader next. I downed my drink aloud.

"Thanks for the info, Buster," I said.

"Wail a minute," he said. "You ain't heard nothin' yet. Let's have a couple more punches."

I'd like to let you have a couple, I thought. Funny, when you just talk about that guy Hemingway, you want to start slugging some old pal. Wonder what there is about that name. You either want to drink or fight when you hear it. I put my hand all around my drink so you couldn't see the glass. Then I got set for the left hook downstairs.

"Nelson," I said, "you say your uncle cannot read English. Right?"

"Right."

"OK," I said. "Now, answer me yes or no. How does he read Hemingway?"

"Out loud," Nelson said.

Now you're going to get it, I thought. You won't even know what hit you. I started moving the right foot slowly. To get leverage. But he caught on. Danced away from me. Moves fast too. For a heavy man. Mind reading must run in the family, I thought.

"If you'll listen," he said, "I'll tell you how he reads."

"How?" I said.

"In Swedish," he said.

"Oh," I said.

That's right, I thought. They translate his stuff into all the foreign languages. Including the Scandinavian. This guy Nelson's not so dumb after all. Maybe got an angle.

I said aloud, "Go on. mentor."

"The name's Nelson," he said. "Now stop sparring and listen. Uncle Sven's no chump. If he likes Hemingway's stuff that much it must be better in Swedish. See what I mean? Let's suppose our boy in the red, white and blue trunks has some ex-champion over there in his corner."

"Translator?" I said.

"Sure," Harry said. "A ghost like Hamlet or something who knows the Swedish taste. A guy like that could take a comic book and make it into a Harvard Classic or even better. Get it?"

"Lead on,Macduff," I said.

"Nelson's the name," he said. "Now remember over in Paris when you read Eve Curie's book on her mother?"

"Sure. But what's radium got to do with Hemingway? He's no atom bomb in my book."

"Mine neither. But he is in Uncle Sven's book. Just drink your drink and I'll tell you why. When you read the Curie book in the original French you said it wasn't so hot. Remember? Then you read Vincent Sheehan's translation into English and raved about it. Remember?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Can you read Swedish?"

"No," I said, "but after a few more of those Swedish Punches I could."

"I'm not joking," Harry said.

"I'm not either," I said.

"OK," Harry said. "Two more."

"Coming up," a voice saÈd.

"Where was I?" Harry said.

"I don't know," I said.

"You was talking about Mr. Hemingway," the voice said.

"Oh yeah," Harry said. "Just think what a good ghost over there could do with The Old Man and the Sea for instance. Why he could have the Old Man a Swede instead of a Cuban. You know: spearing cod fish in the fjords instead of tuna. When that guy got through with him you wouldn't recognize the Old Man if you saw him.

"You wouldn't either," I said.

"Somebody over there just gives his stuff a Swedish massage and it comes out better than it went in. Then the judges read it and he wins,"

"Oh," I said. "Maybe you got something there."

"Sure I got something. Now take that Swedish Punch you're drinking..."

"I will take another one," I said.

"Sure," Harry said, "I'll take one too.

But where do you think it comes from &nadash; Sweden? Not on your life. It's American – translated right here in the bar into Swedish by me and the other boys."

"Tastes swell to me," I said.

"Sure it tastes swell to you. Because it's rewritten to your taste. If you was a Swede you wouldn't like it. You'd want the McCoy. Say you walked in here and said 'I bane vanting a SvenskaPunch' you'd get the McCoy. Taste is only a question of geography. See what I mean?"

"Sure I see," I said.

Funny how convincing a bartender can be, I thought. They're philosophers.

That's what they are. Maybe that's because people confide in them so much.

You tell a barkeep things you wouldn't tell your confessor. That white apron of his seems to have an air of authority about it. And they hear more secrets than your lawyer and family doctor put together. I've heard bank presidents ask a barkeep how to invest our money.

Then they slip him a five-spot for telling them. Bet writers like Ernest get a lot of good ideas from barkeeps, I thought. Maybe that's why he goes to bars.But I still couldn't believe he'd go for any translation racket. I might have believed it if Harry had been wearing his white apron. But in his street clothes he was like a judge without his robes.

Anyway, I thought, if Ernest did go in for that translation stuffhe would write his book in Swedish first. Then have it translated into English. So it would read better to us Americans. You couldn't blame him for that, I thought.

I said aloud, "He'd never let anybody rewrite his stuff. And if he ever thought the fix was in for him he'd lose on purpose. The guy's on the up-and-up and I know it."

"I know it too," Harry said. "But when the fix is in, the fighter never knows about it. It's his manager who makes the deal. Take the time my married sister won the turkey at our Christ-masraffle. She didn't know from nothin'.

Wrote her own ticket. And I translated it. Still thinks she was lucky. She'd give the turkey back if she knew about it."

"So would he," I said.

"OK," Harry said, "I'll go along with that. But how's he ever going to know?Can he read Swedish?"

"Don't know. He's a good linguist."

"Never mind his politics. Can he read Swedish?"

"Guess not," I said.

"Well there you are. It's just like Uncle Sven says. . ."

"Oh, the hell with your Uncle Sven," I said.

"Bet you a C-note Hemingway wins in the first," he said.

"Oh, go to hell," I said.

Better get the hell out of here, I thought. Some bartenders think they know it all. Sure, I kid his writing. But nobody can say anything about him to me. Take that time they said his plane crash was a publicity stunt. I told them plenty then. And if I don't beat it now I'm going to tell Nelson plenty too, I thought. A lot of fellows might be better pals of Ernest's than I was. But I always saw through that booze curtain he throws around his private life. Saw through it when he was a kid around the Quarter. And I can still see through it, 30 years after. With all his front, he's a home boy at heÈrt. Of Course I don't say I would have voted for him at Stockholm. Then again I might have. But I'll tell you one thing, I thought, if they ever had a Noble Prize anywhere, I'd vote for him twice.But he isn't the kind of guy who would let you vote twice if he knew about it.

I said aloud, "Thanks for nothing, Buster. Be seeing you."

"Wait a minute, Buddy," Buster said.

"I'll be right back. Then we hear the results on the first at Stockholm."

But I didn't wait a minute. The minute the restroom door closed I went out the front door. Let him pay for the drinks himself, I thought.

I turned right on Sixth Avenue. The sunlight reflecting on the windshields hit your eyes like hot sparks. There was a man crossing the street with a wooden leg. There were a lot of people on the sidewalk. You wondered where they were going. And what they were thinking of. A crowd at the corner was waiting for a bus. You could see they were glad to be going home. Two girls passed me. One was wearing a red hat. It had a feather on it and it seemed to wave at you. The other had a green hat. There was a small run starting in her left stocking. You waited at the corner for the signal to change. Funny how you always did that. Then you turned east on 42nd Street.

• • •

Code

The coda came into literary fashion in England a long time ago. As you know it is a tail stuck on a tale by the author, like you stick the tail on the donkey in the old parlor game. Only you are not blindfolded. It was generally written in verse. So is mine:

Deare readyr get a loada

This poore wryter's coda

I wrote this pastiche ye mite say

To synge the praise of Hemingway

Alas that my weake dialogue Shoulde reeke with wiskee, gyn andgrog

And when I say his wryting's bum

My pen is only dippt in rum

Ah wouldst that I could only learnest

To write as well as gentyl Ernest

Without ye name of parfit papa

This pastiche woulde be a floppa

In twentee bookes on him I've rede

All place his wryting far ahede

And if I'd saide his stuff beats par

Ye nevere woulde have rede this far

Ah Ernest how my poore harte weeps

That I am not another Pepys

But as I wryte from memoree

Dere nobel Ernest preye for me.

Ernest was on his way to Africa to hunt lions.