Islands in the Stream

by Ernest Hemingway

  “Why did you give him a peso?” the Alcalde Peor asked him as they were outside the door and back to the noise of the bar, the restaurant, and the traffic on the street outside.

  “I have no real use for it.”

  “Hombre,” the Alcalde Peor said. “Are you feeling all right? Do you feel OK?”

  “Quite,” said Thomas Hudson. “I’m quite OK, thank you very much.”

  “How was the trip?” Honest Lil asked from her stool at the bar. Thomas Hudson looked at her and saw her again for the first time. She looked considerably darker and much wider.

  “It was a nice trip,” he said. “You always meet interesting people when you travel.”

  Honest Lil put her hand on his thigh and squeezed it and he was looking down the bar, away from Honest Lil, past the Panama hats, the Cuban faces, and the moving dice cups of the drinkers and out the open door into the bright light of the square, when he saw the car pull up and the doorman opened the rear door, his cap in his hand, and she got out.

  It was her. No one else got out of a car that way, practically and easily and beautifully and at the same time as though she were doing the street a great favor when she stepped on it: Everyone had tried to look like her for many years and some came quite close. But when you saw her, all the people that looked like her were only imitations. She was in uniform now and she smiled at the doorman and asked him a question and he answered happily and nodded his head and she started across the sidewalk and into the bar. There was another woman in uniform behind her.

  Thomas Hudson stood up and he felt as though his chest was being constricted so that he could not breathe. She had seen him and she was walking down the gap between the people at the bar and the tables toward him. The other woman was following behind her.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Honest Lil and to the Alcalde Peor. “I have to see a friend.”

  They met halfway down the free corridor between the bar and the tables and he was holding her in his arms. They were both holding hard and tight as people can hold and he was kissing her hard and well and she was kissing him and feeling both his arms with her hands.

  “Oh you. You. You,” she said.

  “You devil,” he said. “How did you get here?”

  “From Camagüey, of course.”

  People were looking at them and he picked her off her feet and held her tight against him and kissed her once more then put her down and took her hand and started for a table in the corner.

  “We can’t do that here,” he said. “We’ll get arrested.”

  “Let’s get arrested,” she said. “This is Ginny. She’s my secretary.”

  “Hi, Ginny,” Thomas Hudson said. “Let’s get this mad woman behind that table.”

  Ginny was a nice, ugly girl. They were both wearing the same uniform; officers’ blouses without insignia, shirts and ties, skirts, stockings, and brogues. They had overseas caps and a patch on their left shoulders he had not seen before.

  “Take your cap off, devil.”

  “I’m not supposed to.”

  “Take it off.”

  “All right.”

  She took it off and lifted her face and shook her hair loose and moved her head back and looked at him and he saw the high forehead, the magic rolling line of the hair that was the same silvery ripe-wheat color as always, the high cheekbones with the hollows just below them, the hollows that could always break your heart, the slightly flattened nose, and the mouth he had just left that was disarranged by the kissing, and the lovely chin and throat line.

  “How do I look?”

  “You know.”

  “Did you ever kiss anybody in these clothes before? Or scratch yourself on army buttons?”

  “No.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “I always love you.”

  “No. Do you love me right now. This minute.”

  “Yes,” he said and his throat ached.

  “That’s good,” she said. “It would be pretty awful for you if you didn’t.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Just today.”

  “Let me kiss you.”

  “You said we’d be arrested.”

  “We can wait. What do you want to drink?”

  “Do they have good champagne?”

  “Yes. But there’s an awfully good local drink.”

  “There must be. About how many of them have you had?”

  “I don’t know. About a dozen.”

  “You only look tight around the eyes. Are you in love with anyone?”

  “No. You?”

  “We’ll have to see. Where is your bitch of a wife?”

  “In the Pacific.”

  “I wish she was. About a thousand fathoms deep. Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.”

  “Are you in love with anyone?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Isn’t it terrible? The first time I ever meet you since I went away and you’re not in love with anyone and I’m in love with someone.”

  “You went away?”

  “That’s my story.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “He’s nice, this one, like children are nice. I’m very necessary to him.”

  “Where is he?”

  “That’s a military secret.”

  “Is that where you’re going?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you?”

  “We’re USO.”

  “Is that the same as OSS?”

  “No, goofy. Don’t pretend to be stupid and don’t be stuffy just because I love someone. You never consult me when you fall in love with people.”

  “How much do you love him?”

  “I didn’t say I loved him. I said I was in love with him. I won’t even be in love with him today if you don’t want. I’m only here for a day. I don’t want not to be polite.”

  “Go to hell,” he said.

  “How would it be if I took the car and went to the hotel?” Ginny asked.

  “No, Ginny. We’re going to have some champagne first. Do you have a car?” she asked Thomas Hudson.

  “Yeah. Outside on the square.”

  “Can we drive out to your place?”

  “Of course. We can eat and then go out. Or I can pick up something for us to eat out there.”

  “Weren’t we lucky that we could get here?”

  “Yes,” Thomas Hudson said. “How did you know anyone was here?”

  “A boy at the field at Camagüey told me you might be here. If we didn’t find you, we were going to see Havana.”

  “We can see Havana.”

  “No,” she said. “Ginny can see it. Do you know anybody who could take Ginny out?”

  “Sure.”

  “We have to get back to Camagüey tonight.”

  “What time does your plane leave?”

  “Six o’clock, I think.”

  “We’ll fix everything up,” Thomas Hudson said.

  A man came over to the table. He was a local boy.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “May I have your autograph?”

  “Of course.”

  He gave her a card with the picture of the bar on it with Constante standing behind it making a cocktail and she signed with the overlarge theatrical writing Thomas Hudson knew so well.

  “It’s not for my little daughter or my son who is in school,” the man said. “It’s for me.”

  “Good,” she said and smiled at him. “You were very nice to ask me.”

  “I’ve seen all of your pictures,” the man said. “I think you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Please keep on thinking that.”

  “Would you let me buy you a drink?”

  “I’m drinking with a friend.”

  “I know him,” the radio announcer said. “I’ve known him for many years. May I sit down, Tom? There is an extra lady here.”

  “This is Mr. Rodríguez,”
Thomas Hudson said. “What’s your last name, Ginny?”

  “Watson.”

  “Miss Watson.”

  “I’m delighted to know you, Miss Watson,” the radio announcer said. He was a good-looking man, dark and tanned with pleasant eyes, a nice smile, and the big good hands of a ball player. He had been both a gambler and a ball player and he had some of the good looks of the modern gambler left.

  “Could you all three have lunch with me?” he asked. “It is nearly lunchtime now.”

  “Mr. Hudson and I have to make a trip into the country,” she said.

  “I’d love to have lunch with you,” Ginny said. “I think you’re wonderful.”

  “Is he all right?” she asked Thomas Hudson.

  “He’s a fine man. As good as you’ll find in town.”

  “Thank you very much, Tom,” the man said. “You are sure you won’t all eat with me?”

  “We really have to go,” she said. “We’re late now. Then I’ll see you at the hotel, Ginny. Thank you so much, Mr. Rodríguez.”

  “You really are the most beautiful woman in the world,” Mr. Rodríguez said. “If I hadn’t always known it, I know it now.”

  “Please keep on thinking so,” she said and then they were out in the street.

  “Well,” she said. “That wasn’t too bad. Ginny likes him, too, and he’s nice.”

  “He is nice,” Thomas Hudson said and the chauffeur opened the door of the car for them.

  “You’re nice,” she said. “I wish you hadn’t had quite so many drinks. That’s why I skipped the champagne. Who was your dark friend at the end of the bar?”

  “Just my dark friend at the end of the bar.”

  “Do you need a drink? We could stop somewhere and get one.”

  “No. Do you?”

  “You know I never do. I’d like some wine though.”

  “I have wine out at the house.”

  “That’s wonderful. Now you can kiss me. They won’t arrest us now.”

  “¿Adonde vamos?” the chauffeur asked looking straight ahead.

  “A la finca,” Thomas Hudson said.

  “Oh, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy,” she said. “Go right ahead. It doesn’t make any difference if he sees us, does it?”

  “No. It makes no difference. You can cut his tongue out if you like.”

  “No, I don’t want to. Nor nothing brutal ever. But you were nice to offer it.”

  “It wouldn’t be a bad idea. How are you? You old love-house of always.”

  “I’m the same.”

  “Really the same?”

  “The same as one always is. I’m yours in this town.”

  “Until the plane leaves.”

  “Exactly,” she said and changed her position for the better in the car. “Look,” she said. “We’ve left the shining part and it’s dirty and smoky. When didn’t we do that?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  Then they looked at the dirty and the smoky and her quick eyes and lovely intelligence saw everything instantly that had taken him so many years to see.

  “Now it gets better,” she said. She had never told him a lie in his life and he had tried to never lie to her. But he had been quite unsuccessful.

  “Do you still love me?” she asked. “Tell me true without adornments.”

  “Yes. You ought to know.”

  “I know,” she said, holding him to prove it if it could prove it.

  “Who is the man now?”

  “Let’s not talk about him. You wouldn’t care for him.”

  “Maybe not,” he said and held her so close that it was as though something must break if both were truly serious. It was their old game and she broke and the break was clean.

  “You don’t have breasts,” she said. “And you always win.”

  “I don’t have a face to break your heart. Nor what you have and the long lovely legs.”

  “You have something else.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Last night with a pillow and a cat making love.”

  “I’ll make up for the cat. How far is it now?”

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “That’s too far the way things are now.”

  “Should I take it from him and drive it in eight?”

  “No, please, and remember everything I taught you about patience.”

  “That was the most intelligent and stupid lesson I learned. Reteach it to me a little now.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No. It is only eight minutes now.”

  “Will it be a nice place and will the bed be big?”

  “We will have to see,” Thomas Hudson said. “Are you starting to have your old doubts already?”

  “No,” she said. “I want a big, big bed. To forget all about the army.”

  “There is a big bed,” he said. “Maybe not as big as the army.”

  “You don’t have to be rough,” she said. “All the beautiful ones end up showing pictures of their wives. You should know the Airbornes.”

  “I’m glad I don’t. We’re a little waterlogged. But we were never waterborne nor said so.”

  “Can you tell me anything about it?” she asked him, her hand now soundly in his pocket.

  “No.”

  “You never would and I love you for it. But I get curious and people ask me and I worry.”

  “Just be curious,” he said. “And never worry. Don’t you remember that curiosity killed a cat? I’ve got a cat and he’s curious enough.” He thought of Boise. Then he said, “But worry kills big businessmen right in their prime. Do I have to worry about you?”

  “Only as an actress. Then not too much. Now it’s only two minutes more. It’s nice country now and I like it. Can we have lunch in bed?”

  “Can we go to sleep then, too?”

  “Yes. It’s not a sin, if we don’t miss the plane.”

  The car climbed steeply now on the old stone-paved road with the big trees on either side.

  “Have you anything to miss?”

  “You,” he said.

  “I mean duty.”

  “Did I look as though I were on duty?”

  “You might be. You’re a wonderful actor. The worst I ever saw. I love you, my dear crazy,” she said. “I’ve seen you play all your great roles. The one I loved you the best in was when you were playing the Faithful Husband and you were doing it so wonderfully and there was a big spot of natural juices showed on your trousers and every time you looked at me it was bigger. That was in the Ritz, I think.”

  “That was where I played the Faithful Husband best,” he said. “Like Garrick at the Old Bailey.”

  “You’re a little confused,” she said. “I think you played it best on the Normandie.”

  “When they burned her I didn’t give a damn about anything for six days.”

  “That’s not your record.”

  “No,” he said.

  They were stopped at the gate now and the chauffeur was unlocking it.

  “Do we really live here?”

  “Yes. Up the hill. I’m sorry the drive’s in such bad shape.”

  The car climbed it through the mango trees and the unflowering flamboyanes, turned past the cattle sheds and on up the circular drive to the house. He opened the door of the car and she stepped out as though conferring a warm and generous favor to the ground.

  She looked at the house and could see the open windows of the bedroom. They were big windows and in some way it reminded her of the Normandie.

  “I’ll miss the plane,” she said. “Why can’t I be ill? All the other women are ill.”

  “I know two good doctors that will swear you are.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, going up the stairs. “We won’t have to ask them to dinner, will we?”

  “No,” he said, opening the door, “I’ll call them up and send the chauffeur for the certificates.”

  “I am ill,” she said. “I’ve decided. Let the troops entertain themselves f
or once.”

  “You’ll go.”

  “No. I’m going to entertain you. Have you been entertained properly lately?”

  “No.”

  “Me either, or is it neither?”

  “I don’t know,” he said and held her close and looked in her eyes and then away. He opened the door to the big bedroom. “It’s neither,” he said reflectively.

  The windows were open and the wind was in the room. But it was pleasant now with the sun.

  “It is like the Normandie. Did you make it like the Normandie for me?”

  “Of course, darling,” he lied. “What did you think?”

  “You’re a worse liar than I am.”

  “I’m not even faster.”

  “Let’s not lie. Let’s pretend you made it for me.”

  “I made it for you,” he said. “Only it looked like someone else.”

  “Is that as hard as you can hold anyone?”

  “Without breaking them.” Then he said, “Without lying down.”

  “Who is against lying down?”

  “Not me,” he said and picked her up and carried her to the bed.

  “Let me drop the jalousie. I don’t mind your entertaining the troops. But we have a radio that entertains the kitchen. They don’t need us.”

  “Now,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Now remember everything I ever taught you.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “Now and then.”

  “Then,” he said. “Where did we know him?”

  “We met him. Don’t you remember?”

  “Look, let’s not remember anything and let’s not talk and let’s not talk and let’s not talk.”

  Afterwards she said, “People used to get hungry even on the Normandie.”

  “I’ll ring for the steward.”

  “But this steward doesn’t know us.”

  “He will.”

  “No. Let’s go out and see the house. What have you painted?”

  “What all nothing.”

  “Don’t you have time?”

  “What do you think?”

  “But couldn’t you when you’re ashore?”

  “What do you mean ashore?”

  “Tom,” she said. They were in the living room now in the big old chairs and she had taken her shoes off to feel the matting on the floor. She sat curled in the chair and she had brushed her hair to please him, and because of what she knew it did to him, and she sat so it swung like a heavy silken load when her head moved.