Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost Page 6

  As we closed in on Ernest’s old estate surrounded now by lush, tropical greenery, I looked for a tall hill. I knew that Finca Vigia was Spanish for Lookout Farm and that it sat atop a hill. But before I could see the house, Humberto slowed the Chrysler to a stop on the country road. He shifted the transmission into park then turned to look at Ernest in back.

  “As you know, Senor Hemingway, the entrance is but another mile from here. Come . . . why don’t you drive your car the rest of the way? It is very quiet here. I do not think anyone will see you.”

  “Sure. What the hell.”

  I got out and opened the door for Ernest, and he pulled his stiff body out of the car. Then Humberto climbed out, and Ernest slid behind the wheel. Our Cuban friend closed the door and said, “I will be leaving you gentlemen now.” Then he shook our hands.

  “It’s a long walk back, Humberto,” I said, winking at him as if I were now an insider.

  “Oh, I will make it.”

  He gave the door a gentle pat then started walking back toward Havana. We turned and watched him for a moment. He was something else. All spruced up in his red jacket and fine black trousers, he strolled down that long country road as if he didn’t have a care in the world. When Ernest pulled away, I looked back at him one more time. Humberto Salazar was nowhere to be seen. I let out a sigh, and Ernest glanced in the rearview mirror and only smiled.

  A hundred yards later we rounded a curve, and Ernest said, “Now this is going to be interesting, Jacky boy.”

  Up ahead, on the driver’s side of the road, an old man ambled along with four goats.

  “Watch his eyes,” Ernest said as he slowed the car down.

  When we got close enough so that the old timer could hear us coming, which was just before we passed him, he stopped and turned our way.

  Fighting back the laughter by now and with a goofy smile on my face, I gave him a little wave.

  His eyes were disinterested. They followed us as we went by, but that was it. He acted as if he’d seen a hundred driverless cars on that quiet road every day.

  When we passed him, Ernest and I both popped a gut. Like two wild and crazy teenagers in daddy’s convertible, we roared and chortled as we bounced in our seats. Finally, after half-pulling ourselves together, Ernest said, “Talk about being world weary,” and we lost it all over again. Life, or whatever state of existence I was in, was good.

  About the time we regained our composure again, Ernest stomped the brake pedal.

  “I don’t believe I almost missed it,” he said, turning the wheel hard right and pulling into a break in the trees. As we rolled to a stop, he said, “There we go. Jump out and open the gate.”

  It was a wide metal gate like you’d expect to see at a ranch’s entrance. There was a shield mounted on the middle with the letters FV emblazoned on it. Behind that, a narrow sandy road cut through a pine forest. I couldn’t yet see the house or any outbuildings. As we idled slowly ahead, I could tell Ernest’s anxiety was building. There was tension in the air just as there had been when we’d walked up to the front door of his Key West home. Apprehension was smeared all over his face. He looked like he was pushing the car rather than driving it.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He turned to me, giving me a slow wink that said, “Thank you, and yes, I’m alright.” We then rounded a bend. He looked a little stronger, and he said, “There she is . . . to the left up there. All cleaned up, sitting proud beneath her protective shelter.”

  It was the Pilar. Seeing the boat there on a concrete pad surrounded by tall swaying bamboo did not surprise me in the least. Not much would at this point.

  “The swimming pool is in the trees there as well,” Hem said. “I buried some of my pets right near it. Hell, I even had gravestones made for them.” After seemingly reflecting back in time for a moment he added, “See the tower over there? Mary had it built so I could write in it. But I couldn’t work in there. Eventually the cats took it over.”

  “This sure is one beautiful place.”

  “Yes it is. At first I thought I wouldn’t like it, you know, being so far from town. But we had many good times here. Hey, there it is. There’s the house!”

  Tinted pink by the setting tropical sun, the stone building was magnificent. Edged on the sides by palm trees, the place resembled a single-story fortress with a second floor on just one end. Stone steps almost as wide as the horizon led up to a huge front patio. Sitting atop the high wooded grounds like it had since 1886, the Finca Vigia looked every bit the paradisiacal writer’s home it had once been.

  Ernest said nothing. He parked the car, and we walked to and up the steps to the spacious courtyard. Still not muttering a word, he accessed his surroundings. When he finally finished, he let out one low grunt, and I then followed him to a smaller set of steps leading to a pillared entryway. Once we were inside the house, I again stayed in the living room while he roamed around. Not knowing what to expect, I minded my own business and looked around some.

  Just like his Key West home, this one was very airy with tall ceilings and lots of windows. Beneath the windows on one wall, a long bookcase full of Ernest’s favorite reads stretched almost the entire length of the room. I touched some old book covers; then I pulled two out. They were The Brothers Karamozov and James Joyce’s short story collection Dubliners. Both looked like they had been individually cleaned. Several trophy animal heads adorned the uncluttered walls along with a few pictures. The period furniture was sparsely arranged, and a well-stocked bar took up most of one side wall.

  Even though the old place lacked air-conditioning, it was cool in the spacious room as I walked around with the knowing grin of an inside trader. When the welcome smell of hot Cuban food drifted in from another room, that grin stretched into a smile. Nodding my head I muttered, “Mmm hmm, dinner’s on.”

  Suddenly appearing in the room like a, well . . . like a ghost, Ernest said, “Everything looks to be in shipshape, Amigo. What do you say I mix us both one before we sit down to eat?”

  “Why not?” I said, parking myself in an upholstered chair by the bar.

  “What’s your preference?”

  “Doesn’t matter, whatever you recommend.”

  In a flash Ernest handed me a stemmed glass. It was a Daiquiri, complete with lime juice and sugar. He sat in the chair next to me, and I asked him, “What’s the most important thing you can tell me about writing? I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . just in case.”

  Stirring his drink while he spoke he said, “You have to write about what you know. That’s the most important advice I can give you. If you don’t know what or where you’re writing about, they’ll spot it in no time. You’ll come across as a fake.”

  “Must you have been to a place or experienced an event before you can write about it?”

  “It’s always better if you have, but it’s not absolutely necessary if you . . . .”

  Right then Ernest was interrupted. There was a knock at the door, and the loud rapping sound echoed throughout the spacious room,

  “Who in the hell could that be?” Ernest said.

  Resting his drink on a table between us, he got up and lumbered toward the glass paned door. As he approached it he said, “I don’t see anybody out there.” But then he swung it open, and the moment he did, an entire crowd of what sounded like fifty excited voices shouted in unison, “HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY ERNEST!”

  Chapter 10

  As I rose from the chair, my eyes bulged, and my mouth slung open. I simply could not believe what I was witnessing. One by one, dozens of people from Ernest’s long-gone past filed through that doorway.

  The first to come were his wives. In the order he had married them—Hadley, Pauline, Martha, and Mary—all gave the birthday boy a hug and a kiss. His last wife, Mary Welsh-Hemingway, held him the longest. Once all four of them moved to the bar in a cluster, the next person stepped inside. It was Gary Cooper. Tall and rangy with boyish good looks, his smile brightened the room even
more. Then in came Marlene Dietrich—the famous German-American actress of their time. I heard Ernest affectionately call her “my little Kraut” as they embraced. After her grand entrance, two matadors in bullfighting outfits followed. Behind them were Charles and Lorine Thompson—two of Ernest and Pauline’s closest Key West friends.

  All of Ernest’s closest pals, known as his Key West “mob,” came in together. They were a jovial bunch, and though they were bunched together inside the doorway, I think it was Sloppy Joe’s voice that shouted, “Let the games begin!” I may be uncertain about that, but I’m positive that, with a wide grin and a raised fist, Hem said to Josie, “I really should cool you for not telling me about all this.”

  Max Perkins, Hem’s editor at Scribner’s, showed up as did F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda. Gertrude Stein, Ernest’s mentor from his Paris years, walked in with Alice B. Toklas. Their arms were locked together and both sported uncharacteristically wide smiles on their faces. It was as if, after many years, Stein and Toklas had finally broken out of a locked closet. Later on Gertrude would ask me how I got the nasty “Ernestesque” gash on my forehead.

  When Big Skinner, the bartender from Joe’s bar came in, the doorway suddenly seemed to shrink. He was a towering, imposing figure even if he weren’t the three hundred pounds he’d been during his prime. I stood there in awe, wondering how anybody, no matter how drunk, would not be intimidated by this man. I also wondered why Big Skinner ever bothered to keep a baseball bat hidden beneath his bar. Later, when I shook his enormous hand, I felt like a cub scout shaking with his new scout leader.

  A band cranked up outside on the patio as other guests streamed into the crowded room. The musicians opened with Happy Days are Here Again, and I felt a nostalgic smile rise on my face. I thought how perfectly fitting the 1930’s hit song was for such an occasion.

  As I sipped my second Daiquiri, I felt as if I were back in time. It was like being at a mid-19th Century Gala or Academy Awards ceremony. And I swear, just as the latter crossed my mind, who walks in side-by-side but Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. Gable looked as dashing as ever. He had on a white tuxedo and the same ear-to-ear, gleaming smile that had driven generations of women wild. As Spencer Tracy shook hands with Ernest, he was beaming as well. I imagined Mister Tracy must have smiled that very same way the first time he’d met his longtime sweetheart, Katherine Hepburn.

  After wishing Ernest a happy birthday and mingling a bit, some of the happy faces retreated to the patio. I saw through the windows that vintage lawn furniture had been set up out there. Tables and chairs had been arranged in a semi-circle facing the band, and some folks were dancing to the tunes. I watched Marlene Dietrich do the swing with tall, bearded Waldo Peirce, Ernest’s artist friend who’d painted several portraits of him. Pretty Zelda Fitzgerald was out there, too, swinging away with a man I didn’t recognize. Other couples danced the jitterbug while white-shirted waiters made sure the guests had drinks of their choices and plenty of hors d’oeuvres. As I watched the goings-on outside the window, I noticed two men in my periphery. They were walking toward me. It was Ernest and a handsome man with hair parted in the middle. The grand party suddenly felt like a Great Gatsby, East Egg bash.

  “Scotty, meet my new friend Jack Phelan . . . Jack, Scott Fitzgerald.”

  We shook, and his hand was smooth as a baby’s. A heart attack had ended his life when he was but forty-four, and he, along with his wife, were two of the youngest looking guests at the party.

  “It’s an honor to meet you Mister Fitzgerald.”

  “The honor is mine, Jack. Please, call me Scott.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “Ernest here tells me that you just might become a fledgling author.”

  Feeling a small rush of pride from such a possibility, I said, “Yes, that’s what it sounds like if I have what it takes.”

  “Well, if you do, don’t be like our mutual friend here,” he said giving Hem a devilish look. “Don’t be going out and getting yourself a new woman every time you write a big book.”

  “Go ahead, Scott,” Ernest said in a half-joking manner, “I’d love to find out exactly how you kept Zelda so happy all those years.”

  “Touché, Ernest,” Fitzgerald came back, giving him a playful pat on the back. “Nice stab, lots of thrust. I award you a point for that one.”

  “In about two minutes, I’m going to award you with a right hook.”

  The close friends shared a good laugh; then Fitz said to me, “Alright, on with it then. Jack, if you do attempt to write something worthwhile, you must live inside your book the entire time you work on it. You must take it to sleep with you. It needs to be on your mind when you go to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and to the market. The best ideas will come when you least expect them. And they will be short-lived. Write them down immediately. They are always fleeting and usually irretrievable. They will abandon you as quickly as they appear. You do not want to squander those golden revelations.”

  All in all, our talk lasted about ten minutes, about as long as it took Scott to polish off the Gin Rickey he was working on. But before he went for a refill, I picked up a few more invaluable writing tips. I also learned something else. F. Scott Key Fitzgerald was named after a famous song writer. His second cousin thrice removed was Francis Scott Key, the lawyer and poet who wrote the lyrics to The Star Spangled Banner.

  Though Scott had spoken in a stilted manner, I liked him. And it was easy to see that his thoughts were every bit as stilted as his words. I knew, had I the opportunity to spend more time with him, I could have learned an awfully lot from this man.

  A short time later, Ernest deserted me when poet Wallace Stevens stepped into the house. Since I’d read somewhere they’d once had a nasty fistfight, I watched their reunion very closely. I feared it might put an end to the festivities, but it didn’t. They shared a rousing hello, spoke calmly for a few minutes, and then went their own ways.

  I didn’t have the opportunity to meet Pauline or Martha because they disappeared somewhat early. However, I did get to meet Hadley and Mary, the first and the last of Ernest’s wives. Both were very friendly and interesting ladies.

  But, odd as it may sound, the person who fascinated me most was someone I’d never heard of nor read about. Henry “Prof” Tobias was one of Ernest’s more obscure Key West pals. About Ernest’s age but in much better shape, he was almost as tall as Big Skinner but wiry. When Ernest called me over to introduce us, I immediately thought that here is a man who’s been around. Dressed in blue jeans, a white tee, and work boots, he looked like the type of guy who not only could handle himself through any kind of tough situation but had.

  “Prof” Tobias in no way looked like a professor. He had a strong chin and a lean-but-sturdy neck. His short, parted hair had kept its brown color except for a bit of white infiltrating his sideburns and temples. There were no scars on his face, but it was still a face that told you its owner had no room for nonsense. His eyes, always the most revealing feature, were intelligent but at the same time wary. And there were good reasons for that. There were also good reasons for Prof’s four aliases.

  Because his mysterious mortal life was over, he didn’t mind Ernest telling me about it. He even stopped him a few times and interjected a few details himself.

  Right after the one-hundred-and-sixty mile per hour winds of The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935 had subsided, Ernest trekked up the Keys to survey the damage. He saw the worst of it when he arrived at Matecumbe Key, eighty miles north of Key West. Seventeen feet of water had washed over the small island, killing two-hundred-and-sixty-five men who’d been laying tracks for a new railroad. Those down-and-out veterans, who’d been working for The Public Works for Veterans Program, lost their lives when the ocean washed over the small island.

  “It was a horrific scene,” Ernest said. “There were bodies strewn all over the place. We located sixty-nine, and Prof, here, almost became number seventy. Many of the dead were entangled in the mangrove tre
es that lined the shoreline. The men were gray and limp as old dishtowels. Their bones were broken, and, by the time we arrived, flies were all over their bodies.”

  “Yes, and I was out cold,” Prof said.

  “We checked them all,” Ernest went on, “but it was too late. I was just about to walk away from Prof when I noticed a bit of seawater expel from his mouth. His breathing was so shallow I didn’t even notice. But when I saw that water, I realized he could be alive. We went to work on him, and he suddenly came to. Then, when I wanted to rush him down to the hospital, he refused to go.”

  “That’s right,” Prof said turning to his friend, “I told Ernest I’d only go to Key West if I had a chance of remaining anonymous there. And going to a hospital would blow that chance. I’d go to see a doctor but not at a hospital. Otherwise I was prepared to die right there in those mangroves.”

  Together they went on to tell me how Prof had joined the Public Works Program to get out of Chicago—eleven years after he’d killed two men in a New York alley. Prof fled to Chi Town four months after the incident when the law in New York was closing in on him. Then ten years later he left Chicago for the same reason. In both cities he spent most of his spare time locked up in a small apartment, reading the classics.

  “He’s read as much or more than I have,” Ernest said.

  And that was quite obvious. Rough and tumble as the former fugitive’s appearance was, and despite having just a fifth grade education, Prof spoke with the knowledge and eloquence of an Ivy League professor.

  He went on to tell me that his first and only wife died of tuberculosis when they were both in their early 20’s and that he’d never married again. She was an American Indian, a full-blooded Mohegan who’d grown up in Montauk Long Island. And that is why he wound up killing those men years later.

  Boisterous and drunk, they’d been cracking Indian jokes in a seedy Hell’s Kitchen bar. When one of them howled with laughter and listed to one side, he splashed a glass of nickel beer all over Prof who was quietly sitting by himself. He didn’t get all pissed about the beer but calmly asked them to please stop the Indian jokes. He told them that someone once very dear to him had been an Indian and that such talk salted his wounds.