The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

by Ernest Hemingway

  “I’ll take you in the car,” I said.

  “All right,” Fontan said. “That way we’ll go faster.”

  We drove down the road in the motor-car and turned up a side road about a mile away.

  “You’ll like that wine,” Fontan said. “It’s come out well. You can drink it for supper tonight.”

  We stopped in front of a frame house. Fontan knocked on the door. There was no answer. We went around to the back. The back door was locked too. There were empty tin cans around the back door. We looked in the window. There was nobody inside. The kitchen was dirty and sloppy, but all the doors and windows were tight shut.”

  “That son of a bitch. Where is she gone out?” Fontan said. He was desperate.

  “I know where I can get a key,” he said. “You stay here.” I watched him go down to the next house down the road, knock on the door, talk to the woman who came out, and finally come back. He had a key. We tried it on the front door and the back, but it wouldn’t work.

  “That son of a bitch,” Fontan said. “She’s gone away somewhere.”

  Looking through the window I could see where the wine was stored. Close to the window you could smell the inside of the house. It smelled sweet and sickish like an Indian house. Suddenly Fontan took a loose board and commenced digging at the earth beside the back door.

  “I can get in,” he said. “Son of a bitch, I can get in.”

  There was a man in the back yard of the next house doing something to one of the front wheels of an old Ford.

  “You better not,” I said. “That man will see you. He’s watching.”

  Fontan straightened up. “We’ll try the key once more,” he said. We tried the key and it did not work. It turned half-way in either direction.

  “We can’t get in,” I said. “We better go back.”

  “I’ll dig up the back,” Fontan offered.

  “No, I wouldn’t let you take the chance.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No,” I said. “That man would see. Then they would seize it.”

  We went out to the car and drove back to Fontan’s, stopping on the way to leave the key. Fontan did not say anything but swear in English. He was incoherent and crushed. We went in the house.

  “That son of a bitch!” he said. “We couldn’t get the wine. My own wine that I made.”

  All the happiness went from Madame Fontan’s face. Fontan sat down in a corner with his head in his hands.

  “We must go,” I said. “It doesn’t make any difference about the wine. You drink to us when we’re gone.”

  “Where did that crazy go?” Madame Fontan asked.

  “I don’t know,” Fontan said. “I don’t know where she go. Now you go away without any wine.”

  “That’s all right,” I said.

  “That’s no good,” Madame Fontan said. She shook her head.

  “We have to go,” I said. “Good-by and good luck. Thank you for the fine times.”

  Fontan shook his head. He was disgraced. Madame Fontan looked sad.

  “Don’t feel bad about the wine,” I said.

  “He wanted you to drink his wine,” Madame Fontan said. “You can come back next year?”

  “No. Maybe the year after.”

  “You see?” Fontan said to her.

  “Good-by,” I said. “Don’t think about the wine. Drink some for us when we’re gone.” Fontan shook his head. He did not smile. He knew when he was ruined.

  “That son of a bitch,” Fontan said to himself.

  “Last night he had three bottles,” Madame Fontan said to comfort him. He shook his head.

  “Good-by,” he said.

  Madame Fontan had tears in her eyes.

  “Good-by,” she said. She felt badly for Fontan.

  “Good-by,” we said. We all felt very badly. They stood in the doorway and we got in, and I started the motor. We waved. They stood together sadly on the porch. Fontan looked very old, and Madame Fontan looked sad. She waved to us and Fontan went in the house. We turned up the road.

  “They felt so badly. Fontan felt terribly.”

  “We ought to have gone last night.”

  “Yes, we ought to have.”

  We were through the town and out on the smooth road beyond, with the stubble of grain-fields on each side and the mountains off to the right. It looked like Spain, but it was Wyoming.

  “I hope they have a lot of good luck.”

  “They won’t,” I said, “and Schmidt won’t be President either.”

  The cement road stopped. The road was gravelled now and we left the plain and started up between two foot-hills; the road in a curve and commencing to climb. The soil of the hills was red, the sage grew in gray clumps, and as the road rose we could see across the hills and away across the plain of the valley to the mountains. They were farther away now and they looked more like Spain than ever. The road curved and climbed again, and ahead there were some grouse dusting in the road. They flew as we came toward them, their wings beating fast, then sailing in long slants, and lit on the hillside below.

  “They are so big and lovely. They’re bigger than European patridges.”

  “It’s a fine country for la chasse, Fontan says.”

  “And when the chasse is gone?”

  “They’ll be dead then.”

  “The boy won’t.”

  “There’s nothing to prove he won’t be,” I said.

  “We ought to have gone last night.”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “We ought to have gone.”

  The Gambler, The Nun, and the Radio

  THEY BROUGHT THEM IN AROUND MID-night and then, all night long, every one along the corridor heard the Russian.

  “Where is he shot?” Mr. Frazer asked the night nurse.

  “In the thigh, I think.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Oh, he’s going to die, I’m afraid.”

  “Where is he shot?”

  “Twice in the abdomen. They only found one of the bullets.”

  They were both beet workers, a Mexican and a Russian, and they were sitting drinking coffee in an all-night restaurant when some one came in the door and started shooting at the Mexican. The Russian crawled under a table and was hit, finally, by a stray shot fired at the Mexican as he lay on the floor with two bullets in his abdomen. That was what the paper said.

  The Mexican told the police he had no idea who shot him. He believed it to be an accident.

  “An accident that he fired eight shots at you and hit you twice, there?”

  “Sí, señor,” said the Mexican, who was named Cayetano Ruiz.

  “An accident that he hit me at all, the cabrón,” he said to the interpreter.

  “What does he say?” asked the detective sergeant, looking across the bed at the interpreter.

  “He says it was an accident.”

  “Tell him to tell the truth, that he is going to die,” the detective said.

  “Na,” said Cayetano. “But tell him that I feel very sick and would prefer not to talk so much.”

  “He says that he is telling the truth,” the interpreter said. Then, speaking confidently, to the detective, “He don’t know who shot him. They shot him in the back.”

  “Yes,” said the detective. “I understand that, but why did the bullets all go in the front?”

  “Maybe he is spinning around,” said the interpreter.

  “Listen,” said the detective, shaking his finger almost at Cayetano’s nose, which projected, waxen yellow, from his dead-man’s face in which his eyes were alive as a hawk’s. “I don’t give a damn who shot you, but I’ve got to clear this thing up. Don’t you want the man who shot you to be punished? Tell him that,” he said to the interpreter.

  “He says to tell who shot you.”

  “Mandarlo al carajo,” said Cayetano, who was very tired.

  “He says he never saw the fellow at all,” the interpreter said. “I tell you straight they shot him in the back.”
>
  “Ask him who shot the Russian.”

  “Poor Russian,” said Cayetano. “He was on the floor with his head enveloped in his arms. He started to give cries when they shoot him and he is giving cries ever since. Poor Russian.”

  “He says some fellow that he doesn’t know. Maybe the same fellow that shot him.”

  “Listen,” the detective said. “This isn’t Chicago. You’re not a gangster. You don’t have to act like a moving picture. It’s all right to tell who shot you. Anybody would tell who shot them. That’s all right to do. Suppose you don’t tell who he is and he shoots somebody else. Suppose he shoots a woman or a child. You can’t let him get away with that. You tell him,” he said to Mr. Frazer. “I don’t trust that damn interpreter.”

  “I am very reliable,” the interpreter said. Cayetano looked at Mr. Frazer.

  “Listen, amigo,” said Mr. Frazer. “The policeman says that we are not in Chicago but in Hailey, Montana. You are not a bandit and this has nothing to do with the cinema.”

  “I believe him,” said Cayetano softly. “Ya lo creo.”

  “One can, with honor, denounce one’s assailant. Every one does it here, he says. He says what happens if after shooting you, this man shoots a woman or a child?”

  “I am not married,” Cayetano said.

  “He says any woman, any child.”

  “The man is not crazy,” Cayetano said.

  “He says you should denounce him,” Mr. Frazer finished.

  “Thank you,” Cayetano said. “You are of the great translators. I speak English, but badly. I understand it all right. How did you break your leg?”

  “A fall off a horse.”

  “What bad luck. I am very sorry. Does it hurt much?”

  “Not now. At first, yes.”

  “Listen, amigo,” Cayetano began, “I am very weak. You will pardon me. Also I have much pain; enough pain. It is very possible that I die. Please get this policeman out of here because I am very tired.” He made as though to roll to one side; then held himself still.

  “I told him everything exactly as you said and he said to tell you, truly, that he doesn’t know who shot him and that he is very weak and wishes you would question him later on,” Mr. Frazer said.

  “He’ll probably be dead later on.”

  “That’s quite possible.”

  “That’s why I want to question him now.”

  “Somebody shot him in the back, I tell you,” the interpreter said.

  “Oh, for Chrisake,” the detective sergeant said, and put his notebook in his pocket.

  Outside in the corridor the detective sergeant stood with the interpreter beside Mr. Frazer’s wheeled chair.

  “I suppose you think somebody shot him in the back too?”

  “Yes,” Frazer said. “Somebody shot him in the back. What’s it to you?”

  “Don’t get sore,” the sergeant said. “I wish I could talk spick.”

  “Why don’t you learn?”

  “You don’t have to get sore. I don’t get any fun out of asking that spick questions. If I could talk spick it would be different.”

  “You don’t need to talk Spanish,” the interpreter said. “I am a very reliable interpreter.”

  “Oh, for Chrisake,” the sergeant said. “Well, so long. I’ll come up and see you.”

  “Thanks. I’m always in.”

  “I guess you are all right. That was bad luck all right. Plenty bad luck.”

  “It’s coming along good now since he spliced the bone.”

  “Yes, but it’s a long time. A long, long time.”

  “Don’t let anybody shoot you in the back.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “That’s right. Well, I’m glad you’re not sore.”

  “So long,” said Mr. Frazer.

  Mr. Frazer did not see Cayetano again for a long time, but each morning Sister Cecilia brought news of him. He was so uncomplaining she said and he was very bad now. He had peritonitis and they thought he could not live. Poor Cayetano, she said. He had such beautiful hands and such a fine face and he never complains. The odor, now, was really terrific. He would point toward his nose with one finger and smile and shake his head, she said. He felt badly about the odor. It embarrassed him, Sister Cecilia said. Oh, he was such a fine patient. He always smiled. He wouldn’t go to confession to Father but he promised to say his prayers, and not a Mexican had been to see him since he had been brought in. The Russian was going out at the end of the week. I could never feel anything about the Russian, Sister Cecilia said. Poor fellow, he suffered too. It was a greased bullet and dirty and the wound infected, but he made so much noise and then I always like the bad ones. That Cayetano, he’s a bad one. Oh, he must really be a bad one, a thoroughly bad one, he’s so fine and delicately made and he’s never done any work with his hands. He’s not a beet worker. I know he’s not a beet worker. His hands are as smooth and not a callous on them. I know he’s a bad one of some sort. I’m going down and pray for him now. Poor Cayetano, he’s having a dreadful time and he doesn’t make a sound. What did they have to shoot him for? Oh, that poor Cayetano! I’m going right down and pray for him.

  She went right down and prayed for him.

  In that hospital a radio did not work very well until it was dusk. They said it was because there was so much ore in the ground or something about the mountains, but anyway it did not work well at all until it began to get dark outside; but all night it worked beautifully and when one station stopped you could go farther west and pick up another. The last one that you could get was Seattle, Washington, and due to the difference in time, when they signed off at four o’clock in the morning it was five o’clock in the morning in the hospital; and at six o’clock you could get the morning revellers in Minneapolis. That was on account of the difference in time, too, and Mr. Frazer used to like to think of the morning revellers arriving at the studio and picture how they would look getting off a street-car before daylight in the morning carrying their instruments. Maybe that was wrong and they kept their instruments at the place they revelled, but he always pictured them with their instruments. He had never been in Minneapolis and believed he probably would never go there, but he knew what it looked like that early in the morning.

  Out of the window of the hospital you could see a field with tumbleweed coming out of the snow, and a bare clay butte. One morning the doctor wanted to show Mr. Frazer two pheasants that were out there in the snow, and pulling the bed toward the window, the reading light fell off the iron bedstead and hit Mr. Frazer on the head. This does not sound so funny now but it was very funny then. Every one was looking out the window, and the doctor, who was a most excellent doctor, was pointing at the pheasants and pulling the bed toward the window, and then, just as in a comic section, Mr. Frazer was knocked out by the leaded base of the lamp hitting the top of his head. It seemed the antithesis of healing or whatever people were in the hospital for, and every one thought it was very funny, as a joke on Mr. Frazer and on the doctor. Everything is much simpler in a hospital, including the jokes.

  From the other window, if the bed was turned, you could see the town, with a little smoke above it, and the Dawson mountains looking like real mountains with the winter snow on them. Those were the two views since the wheeled chair had proved to be premature. It is really best to be in bed if you are in a hospital; since two views, with time to observe them, from a room the temperature of which you control, are much better than any number of views seen for a few minutes from hot, empty rooms that are waiting for some one else, or just abandoned, which you are wheeled in and out of. If you stay long enough in a room the view, whatever it is, acquires a great value and becomes very important and you would not change it, not even by a different angle. Just as, with the radio, there are certain things that you become fond of, and you welcome them and resent the new things. The best tunes they had that winter were “Sing Something Simple,” “Singsong Girl,” and “Little White Lies.” No other tunes were as satisfactory, M
r. Frazer felt. “Betty Co-ed” was a good tune too, but the parody of the words which came unavoidably into Mr. Frazer’s mind, grew so steadily and increasingly obscene that there being no one to appreciate it, he finally abandoned it and let the song go back to football.

  About nine o’clock in the morning they would start using the X-ray machine, and then the radio, which, by then, was only getting Hailey, became useless. Many people in Hailey who owned radios protested about the hospital’s X-ray machine which ruined their morning reception, but there was never any action taken, although many felt it was a shame the hospital could not use their machine at a time when people were not using their radios.

  About the time when it became necessary to turn off the radio Sister Cecilia came in.

  “How’s Cayetano, Sister Cecilia?” Mr. Frazer asked.

  “Oh, he’s very bad.”

  “Is he out of his head?”

  “No, but I’m afraid he’s going to die.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m very worried about him, and do you know that absolutely no one has come to see him? He could die just like a dog for all those Mexicans care. They’re really dreadful.”

  “Do you want to come up and hear the game this afternoon?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “I’d be too excited. I’ll be in the chapel praying.”

  “We ought to be able to hear it pretty well,” Mr. Frazer said. “They’re playing out on the coast and the difference in time will bring it late enough so we can get it all right.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t do it. The world series nearly finished me. When the Athletics were at bat I was praying right out loud: ‘Oh, Lord, direct their batting eyes! Oh, Lord, may he hit one! Oh, Lord, may he hit safely!’ Then when they filled the bases in the third game, you remember, it was too much for me. ‘Oh, Lord, may he hit it out of the lot! Oh, Lord, may he drive it clean over the fence!’ Then you know when the Cardinals would come to bat it was simply dreadful. ‘Oh, Lord, may they not see it! Oh, Lord, don’t let them even catch a glimpse of it! Oh, Lord, may they fan!’ And this game is even worse. It’s Notre Dame. Our Lady. No, I’ll be in the chapel. For Our Lady. They’re playing for Our Lady. I wish you’d write something sometime for Our Lady. You could do it. You know you could do it, Mr. Frazer.”