"No. They wrote the binder based on the fragments. I was hired to certify the full find for them, but now they're more interested in proving they were fake." "
I see," Martin said.
"How do you defend your conclusion against the other scholars who came out publicly and acclaimed the find as genuine early Hemingway?"
"They're mistaken. It's understandable because those word studies are suggestive but certainly not definitive. If David did this, he had access to all of the word studies software. He would have written the fakes to fool all of these studies." Martin smiled and continued.
"Furthermore, doesn't it sound a bit too pat that someone-no one knows who-just happened to send a parcel to David with the valise and the manuscripts all nicely indexed? I mean, why David, for God's sake? Where is this supposed to have come from?"
"I understand David tried to investigate who mailed it."
"It's too coincidental, especially in the academic world, that he ends up with the manuscripts. We were together on countless research trips up to Michigan, looking for anything Hemingway-related. We had a theory that the valise Hadley lost might have had identifying name tags at an address in Michigan. After all, they'd been in Paris for only a short time. We suspected the valise had been returned to the lost and found office at the Gare de Lyon and sent back to the States, probably to an address in Michigan. My guess was Petoskey." He paused. "But David getting the stuff in the mail? No. Nobody would give up the manuscripts now. They're way too valuable."
The door opened, and an orange-haired woman in a bright pink outfit entered the room with energy and purpose. She nodded at Martin as her high heels clicked her over to the corner desk.
"She's the curator," Martin whispered. "Her name is Olive."
"Have you uncovered anything significant today, Martin?" Miss Olive inquired.
"Nothing in this stack," he replied, collecting the papers to his right and returning them to her desk. "I've still got some to look through, though."
"Our Martin is quite the scholar," Miss Olive smirked, addressing her remark to me. "He's of the minority opinion that our favorite son, Ernest Hemingway, had a hard time here at the high school. Aren't you, Martin?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. Martin's jaw was clenched under his beard, and I quickly deduced these two weren't chums.
Miss Olive gave him no chance to reply. "Martin doesn't understand the concept of happy."
"All I'm trying to do is uncover the facts," Martin said. "As a teen, Hemingway had a rough time here in Oak Park."
Martin winked at me. "Here are the facts. When he started school with his sister, she was half a head taller than him. He was too light and too short to do well at sports-all that's well enough known. He did so miserably in football they called him `lead-ass"'
Miss Olive pursed her lips. Her face flushed a deep red, clashing with her orange hair.
"And," Martin continued, sensing he was hitting his target, "Ernest was too nearsighted to do well in the rifle club. And he hated playing the cello, which," Martin looked in my direction, "his mother insisted he take up."
"Really?"
"And," Martin raised his arm to punctuate the importance of this, pursuing Miss Olive like a lion pouncing on an injured impala, "didn't we find out that he had once punched holes with a pencil in his bull's-eye target before he shot?" Martin laughed out loud. "That's not really what you'd call Oak Park fair play, is it?"
Miss Olive's lips clamped tightly, and she turned away, hailing a lean, gaunt man dressed in corduroy slacks and a checked shirt who'd lumbered into the Trust. He called a greeting to her, and when he saw Martin, his natural frown deepened.
"Oh, hello, Hal," Martin nodded cheerily at the approaching newcomer. "Miss McGil, this is Hal Schultz, the head of the Oak Park Hemingway Trust.
"Hal, I was reminding Miss Olive about the time Hemingway's mother had to hire a tutor for him to learn Latin. And how about when he lost the lead in the senior play? And didn't he have to go to the senior prom with his own sister?"
"Martin," Hal Schultz barked, his hands in the pockets of his rust-colored corduroy pants, "as Dorothy Parker said at the time about Hemingway, `of no other living man has so much tripe been penned or spoken.' You're continuing the tradition with halftruths. How many times do we have to tell you that you're not welcome here? You look for anything negative in the Hemingway-Oak Park connection, and use it for bad publicity."
"The truth. That's all I want," Martin told him. "And so should you.
"Even his harshest critics agree that he was a serious, dedicated craftsman," Hal Schultz replied. "He had enormously compelling personal charisma, which was reflected in his writing."
"There's a lot more to it than that," Martin said. "Why did he mistreat so many who'd helped him up the ladder, like Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, and Scott Fitzgerald? His ego grew in proportion to his fame, and my thesis is that the basis for his aggression was the negative things he endured right here in good old Oak Park. His experiences in Michigan brought out his good side. Living in the bosom of goody-goody old Oak Park nurtured his nasty side."
Both Hal and Olive vigorously shook their heads.
"Miss McGil, this is the chap I was telling you about who dreamed up the running of the bulls down the streets of Oak Park. It's a pitiful sight, and I feel sorry for you, Hal, that you have to stoop so low. Why don't you come with me this year to the Hemingway Fest in Key West?"
"That's not real, either, and you know it, Martin. You're always trying to stir up trouble. You know we want those manuscripts. And in the end we'll get them."
I stood up, interrupting the sparring match.
"Look, I have another appointment. I'll get a contract out to you covering your professional testimony, if that's agreed."
"Fine," he said as we walked toward the door. "But I know what this is going to do to David's reputation. I wish it didn't have to go any further."
As I was leaving, a tall, anorexic-looking woman swooped in, nearly knocking me against the wall.
"Hi, Andrea," Martin said genially.
Barely acknowledging Martin, she rushed over to speak in hushed tones to Hal Schultz, eliminating further eavesdropping on his part.
Martin and I checked the corridors for any other news anchors all the way out of the building. He, too, was trying to avoid further interviews.
Visible waves of heat radiated off the parking lot, and I wondered when this weather would break. There was no sign of rain, but in Chicago, weather changes, like us Midwesterners, tend to be abrupt.
I wasn't sure what I believed about Hemingway, but I was glad I didn't have to deal with Hal, Miss Olive, or Andrea on a regular basis. Even an hour raking a Zen Garden wasn't going to help calm those three. Martin, I suspected, was right. Hemingway probably had been unhappy as a teenager. But which of us wasn't, to one degree or another. Good old golden rule days.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Never confuse movement with action.
-ERNEST HEMINGWAY
BEFORE I LEFT, MARTIN and I commiserated about Beth's death. The English Department was in a shambles. He invited me to join him at a nearby restaurant. "They make a great Papa DobleHemingway's favorite drink. Rum, fresh lime, grapefruit, and maraschino cherry juice shaken and stirred. You'd like it."
I'd thanked him, but took a rain check. Today was my Aikido class, and even though I was sore from yesterday and maybe had a mild concussion, I was nevertheless determined to go. A good workout would clear my mind and maybe stimulate those little gray cells. Anyway, it was better than raking one of those Zen Gardens.
Aikido, developed in the early twentieth century, is the most recent of the martial arts. It means, literally, the Ki Way, which is difficult to translate. There's no Western equivalent of Ki. Life Force is probably close. My friend Lauren's always telling me that Aikido is a good thing because it legally channels all my pent-up aggressions.
The changing room had already cleared out as I hurriedly donned my regulation-wear
Gi. Sensei, the Master, always began promptly at the appointed hour. Latecomers were not admitted. I rushed to the arena and nearly collided with the Master in the entryway.
I was going for the second black stripe on my orange belt, so I had to perfect nine self-defense escapes with twenty position stances and blocks. All the complex and subtle maneuvers made me feel inscrutable-or at least as inscrutable as any Westerner can.
Sensei always began class with a series of civilized, ritualized maneuvers, then broke into full-fledged combat. Tonight we were practicing the two-handed lapel grab-the escape and setup.
"In Aikido," Sensei emphasized in measured tones, "one must always follow the lead of one's opponent, blending into that opponent, directing the opponent's own flow of force back against him in order to subdue him."
He made it sound so simple.
Cato, our instructor, chose a member of the class to demonstrate.
"You must memorize the sequence of these maneuvers." Cato glared at each of us before beginning. "Kick with double high block." He raised his leg and proceeded to demonstrate in slow motion with the student. "Punch and pin your opponent's arm under your arm." He did so.
"Punch on your opponent's hip with your hip; drive your upper body down hard on your opponent's arm, and take your back leg off the floor. Then kick your opponent's leg out and complete with a throw." Cato easily subdued the student on the floor.
"Now we will have a second demonstration," Cato announced and called on me to play guinea pig. Walking into the circle, I repeated the five maneuvers over and over to myself: kick, punch, block, drop, and throw.
Cato smiled his impersonal smile as we commenced to grapple. Cast as the attacker, I'd be getting the worst of it, and it was in moments like this I almost hated Lauren for encouraging me to enroll.
Cato took pains not to spare me as he kicked, punched, blocked, dropped, and threw me. As he crashed me to the mat, I knew there was no malice in it, just as there is no malice in it when you squash a bug.
When it was my turn to practice on him, I tried to remember to direct his own flow of force back against him. Secretly, I was enjoying putting him onto the mat. On balance, I loved this stuff, and when the demonstration ended, we bowed respectfully to each other-no hard feelings-and the class began practicing.
After an hour, I was exhausted, but at least I wasn't thinking about my problems. The long, cool shower was therapeutic. The concussion was gone for now, and I felt refreshed and in better spirits as I left for home. Most of last night's mess was still there to clean, and I needed a good sleep. I knew it was going to take time to get over David's death and losing Scotty. I was desperately trying not to sink into that same dark pit I'd hibernated in after Frank died.
I jumped into the Miata, jammed the key into the ignition and fired her up. Or tried to. Nothing happened. The key turned, but the ignition didn't ignite. I tried again. No coughs, no wheezes. Nothing.
"Dammit, Dieter," I said out loud. Miata's are generally reliable, and Dieter, my German mechanic, always kept mine in great shape. Feeling crabby and impotent, I got out and raised the hood, hoping I could spot something fixable. I walked around, examining the engine compartment. First I checked the coil wire. That was okay. Everything else looked good until I saw the severed battery cable. The red positive cable was in two separate pieces, and fresh copper glinted on each end. Warning bells went off in my head as I thought of Beth's Saturn, and I silently apologized to Dieter. Like my apartment, I knew this wasn't coincidence. Then I remembered Aunt Elizabeth's phone call. My mother told me to call Auntie because she'd had one of her premonitions. And I hadn't called. I reminded myself to watch my back.
I called Dieter on my cell. He often worked late, and I hoped to catch him. It rang and rang. Just as I was ready to give up, he answered.
"Dis better be good, whoever you are," he snorted. "You got me oud from under a Volvo."
I explained what happened, and he said a few choice words in German that I didn't understand. "Not goot," he said, switching back to his version of English. "Dis maybe is connected to dat lady's accident yesterday, or maybe somebody just vanted to steal your battery. You vatch yourself, DD. Take a taxicab. Leave the key under da mat and I tow her in tonight soon as I can. You pick her up in da morning after ten."
I dumped the phone back in my purse and checked my money. There was enough maybe to have a cabbie drop the flag and take me a mile, but not enough to get me home. I was dead tired, but I was gonna have to take the EL home.
I trudged up the long, baroque iron stairway to the elevated platform to wait for a train. Built in the 1890s, it still served its purpose today, only now its ornate detail was covered over by innumerable coats of industrial green paint and the grime from countless hands. The sound of shuffling footsteps from behind made me turn round. A trim guy in his late twenties continued up the stairs ahead of me, and I was too tired to even admire his butt. More footsteps from behind, and this time I moved to the right to let whoever pass. The move saved my life. I felt a tremendous pain in my left shoulder and fell forward, instinctively clutching my purse.
"Hey. HEY!" someone shouted.
I felt the stairs vibrate beneath me and shut my eyes for a second. When I opened them, I saw a pair of men's loafers and felt strong arms lifting me. It was Mr. Trim-butt.
"You okay?" he asked, supporting me.
"Did you see who hit me?" I asked as I brushed the grime along with a piece of old gum off my knees.
"Not really. All I could see was the back of some guy. He ran down the stairs, but at least he didn't get your purse."
I didn't think it was the purse the guy was after, but I didn't tell that to Trim-butt.
My collarbone and neck ached, and my left arm was numb. I flexed it until it started to throb, and at least I knew the blood was again circulating.
"Is there any blood?" I asked, turning my head and getting dizzy.
"None I can see, but you need a doctor. Here, I'll help you down the stairs, and we'll call the cops."
If the cops saw me again, I'd be locked up for sure. "No. I'll be fine. I want to go up to the train."
I hung on while he assisted me up the remaining stairs to the wooden platform decorated in equal parts with advertising and graffiti. A street musician leaned against a Doublemint Chewing Gum billboard and played a mournful sax, substituting volume for talent.
"I really think you should call the cops," Trim-butt said as he followed me through the turnstile.
"Honestly, I'll be fine." I saw the lights of an approaching train and said, "I've got to be somewhere."
I watched the motorman seated in the front car twist a large brass handle, and the "A" train squealed to a stop with sparks and an acrid smell.
"This is my train," I told him. "Thanks again for your help."
I jumped aboard, the doors shut, and the train pulled slowly out. My arm stung, but whoever hit me had meant to do more damage than just that. I wondered again who it was. I also wondered about Aunt Elizabeth's canny prediction.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only
one-ninth of it being above water.
-ERNEST HEMINGWAY
I WAS READY FOR a wee drink as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Tonight I'd have to clean it all up. I was worn out mentally and physically, so I wasn't thrilled when I reached the landing and Glendy and Lucille called me over.
"DD, we're so glad you're back. How did today go?" They both smiled brightly. "Cavvy is fine, but we've been worried about you."
The twins are spry chicks who are always on the go. They don't seem to understand that I work for a living and can't join the junior League or be around all day. I love them dearly so I acted interested, even though I was dead tired.
"Come in with us," Glendy urged, prodding me gently toward their place.
"We'll get you a drinkey," Lucille added, guiding me by the elbow.
"A little wets is what you need.
And we've got a surprise for you, too." Glendy pushed me into their doorway where I collided with Mitch Sinclair.
"What the ...?" I stammered.
"Hello," he smiled, his muscular arms slowly unwinding me.
I tried to focus on his face. What was he doing here?
"I was passing by," he explained, as if I had uttered my last thought. "I wanted to see you and ask if we could start over." "
I guess you already met the twins, Glendy and Lucille," I said, at a loss for anything else. "Well, ladies, meet Mitch Sinclair."
"We've already met," he said, smiling and bowing. "And it's been a pleasure."
Glendy batted her eyes. "He said he's the one who made that ruckus outside your door the other night."
"He's been here waiting for you a whole hour, DD" Lucille announced, implying it was somehow my fault.
"I didn't mind the wait," Mitch interjected. "I came here to ask you to give me another chance. These two lovelies have been telling me all about you."
I hoped, for his sake, they hadn't regaled him with the wisdom of Deepak Chopra.
"Look, DD" The sisters pointed at a huge bouquet of red roses on a side table. "He even brought flowers."
"He's so good looking," Glendy whispered in my direction. "And such nice manners."
The Quisling Cavalier was curled up on one of the twins' Victorian puffy red pillows. He blinked twice, then settled back into cat sleep.
I grabbed Mitch's elbow and pulled him to the door. "We've got to leave now."
"Good-bye, ladies." He bowed again. "And thanks for the hospitality."
"Can't you stay awhile?" Glendy asked.
"No, but I promise I'll tell you everything later. He's just a business acquaintance."
"You can't fool us, DD," Glendy followed me and stage whispered as I ducked through the doorway.
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