Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost

by Winton, Tom

  “How do you know who you are?”

  “C’mon, you know what I mean. Look how I’m dressed. Not only that, but just a couple of hours ago I was fighting for my life in some freak Bermuda Triangle phenomenon. I must really be a sight.”

  “Ahhh, don’t worry about it. Just run your fingers through your hair a couple of times.”

  I felt the back pocket of my shorts. There was a comb there—a brand new one.

  “Well looky here,” I said holding it up for Ernest to see, “I just happen to have a comb.”

  Then when I started scanning the spacious restaurant for the men’s room, Ernest said, “It’s right back there. You might think about slapping a little water on your face, too. You are looking a little crusty and salty.”

  “Cute, Papa! Real cute! I’ll be right back.”

  As I made my way past all the mid-afternoon patrons, I could tell they were mostly tourists. All the way down the long side of the bar, people were engaged in spirited conversations with hands waving and gesturing. Most of the excited chatter was in English, and I thought I picked up more than a few Canadian accents. In the adjoining dining area, all but two of the linen-covered tables were empty. But when I walked by one occupied by a family of four, the delicious aroma of steamed tamales and black bean soup reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  A few steps later inside the bathroom, I put the comb to work then doused my face with cold water. It seemed to bring me back to life, but of course it didn’t. I was still lying in that hospital bed. And as I watched myself dry my face in the mirror, that again was front and center in my mind. Sure, other than riding out that storm, I’d been having a terrific time. But there also were those times when I wondered who the hell I was and who I might have left behind. Blotting my temples now, I had a very unsettling revel

  ation. It had to do with yet another question—where am I going to end up in a few days? Not knowing myself from Adam, I really didn’t much care whether it was up in Ernest’s neck of the woods or back in my previous life. If push came to shove I would have chosen to stay on earth so as not to hurt my mystery wife. But suddenly now, that other possibility popped into my head.

  What if I wind up or possibly down . . . in hell! Shit, I never thought of that one. I don’t even know who I am. I don’t have a clue as to what I’ve done in the past. I mean . . . I seem like a decent person. I don’t think I would ever do anything terribly bad.

  Those thoughts, along with visions of demons and hell’s flames, followed me when I left the bathroom. But as I coursed the length of the crowded bar for the second time and saw Ernest at the far end of it again, every bit of my hell-fueled anxiety vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His guest had arrived, and I just had to smile again.

  Well I’ll be! Look who it is!

  Sitting on Ernest’s right, with a wide smile and a tattered white captain’s hat tilted back on his head, was none other than Sloppy Joe Russell. His arm was clenched around his longtime friend’s shoulders, and they were laughing hysterically.

  Chapter 8

  “Josie,” Ernest said as I came up to them, “I want you to meet Jack Phelan. Jack, this is Josie Russell.”

  Holding onto his smile, he rose from his stool and offered me his hand.

  “Real good to meet you, Jack. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Mister Russell.”

  “You can deep-six the Mister stuff, Jack. Please . . . just call me Joe or Josie.”

  “Okay, Joe,” I said as we both took our seats.

  “What’s my buddy here been telling you? I wasn’t gone very long. He couldn’t have torn me apart too badly.”

  “Heh, heh,” the longtime rumrunner chuckled. “No, it wasn’t Papa who filled me in. It was the main man upstairs.”

  Joe’s mention of “the main man” reminded me of my predicament yet again. Feeling that frame of darkness bordering my good mood again, I said, “Well, I certainly hope it wasn’t too bad.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it, Jack. Just keep sailing along for now. Be yourself.”

  “Yeah, whoever that is,” I said.

  Ernest and Joe got a rise out of that one. But their laughs were infectious. Loosening up a bit, I chuckled along with them as the bartender finally made his way over to us.

  In a Casablanca-secretive voice, almost a whisper, the bartender said, “Meester Hemingway and Meester Russell, it is good to see both of you again. I know what you gentlemen prefer to drink, but what would you like, Jack?”

  With my eyes gone buggy, I looked at the red-jacketed, Cuban mixologist.

  The lean, dark-skinned, fiftyish man looked as if he might have been quite the ladies’ man at one time. With just a touch of gray in his temples, the rest of his hair was lustrous black and combed back. He also had a neatly trimmed moustache and a smooth manner. I instantly thought, “Now here is a man of great confidence.”

  I told him, “I’ll have a bottle of beer, whatever you recommend.”

  “Coming right up,” he said, extending his hand over the bar. “I am Humberto Salazar, Jack. I am very pleased to meet you.”

  “Same here. My pleasure.”

  Then, winking at Ernest and Joe, he said, “I will be right back with your drinks, my friends.”

  “Holy mackerel!” I said after he left, “You guys have one heck of a network down here, don’t you?”

  “If you only knew,” Sloppy Joe said, his smile now taking on an ironic edge.

  “Forget all that for now,” Ernest chimed in before turning back to Joe. “You have to get to know my old compadre here, and I’ve got to take a good look at him. It’s been a long, long time, partner. How have you been?”

  “You bet it’s been a long time,” Joe said, now losing the smile completely, “and I’m not very happy about it either.”

  “What are you talking about? Not happy about what?” Ernest came back.

  “Hell, man, I kicked the bucket twenty years before you did. I died in ’41, and you went in ’61, right?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I didn’t make the trip up until ten years after you. I just got there last September.”

  “Yeah, I heard you were around. I’m sorry Josie, but He had me so busy I haven’t had time to run you down.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’m just saying; I had to do seventy years in purgatory. The average stint is just thirty to forty. Nothing personal, you know I love you and all that, but you only did forty.”

  “The suicide thing was one of the big reasons why I did time. What the hell did you do, Josie. Who’d you kill?”

  “Get out of here, nobody.”

  Then Sloppy Joe Russell paused for a moment. With the look of a man who’d searched his past many times before, he seemed to again be inventorying his darkest memories. Then he said, “Nobody. I never killed anybody. Not that I know of, anyway. You know how it is. They never tell you why you’re in the halfway house. Just as they don’t tell you when you’ll be getting out.”

  “I think that’s the point, Josie.” Ernest interjected, “We were put there to reflect, to ponder, and to repent. Obviously you did something right, or He wouldn’t have let you out.”

  Sitting on my stool, taking all this in, I realized there was now a fourth direction that my fate could head in. Thankfully, I didn’t have to dwell on it too long. Ernest quickly took the conversation in another direction.

  “Come on, Josie,” he said patting his back with a beefy hand, “let it go, man. You know how He is. Like they have always said—He works in strange ways.”

  “Ahhh hell, Hem, I suppose you’re right. All that’s behind me now, isn’t it? It’s behind both of us.”

  Finally allowing himself another smile and brightening our moods once again, he said, “Man, it’s good to see you?”

  Then Humberto returned with the drinks, but before serving them he carefully laid three coasters on the bar.

  “Would you look at that?�
�� Ernest said. “The coasters have my signature on them! Hey, Humberto, tell the boss he should be giving me a cut of the take.”

  The bartender then smiled and winked. And the way he so gracefully and ceremoniously lowered my drink on top of the thin, round cardboard somehow made me feel special. He did it in a way that made me feel like he was awarding me the Nobel Prize or uncovering the Hope Diamond before me. But as thirsty as I was, I would have taken the moist cold bottle of beer over either one of them.

  When he gave Ernest a Papa Dobles and Josie his beer, he leaned close to them and whispered, “Please, gentlemen, hold onto them so they disappear. It would look very strange eef anyone saw the drinks suddenly disappear when you pick them up, then reappear when you put them back down.”

  “I know the drill, my friend,” Ernest said, “You don’t want the whole bar thinking they’re seeing things. They’d think they were seeing things, and the place would empty out in a heartbeat.”

  Ernest, Joe, and I talked for over an hour. For the second day in a row, I clung onto Hem’s every word. The few times our high-spirited banter subsided, we hit on a few more serious subjects. When we did, Ernest’s remarks would become as terse as his famous writing style. His tone took on a serious edge, and he didn’t waste a single syllable. Not only that but every comment he made seemed to carry an invaluable lesson. I felt privileged to be sitting alongside him, and there were times when I felt like the three of us were living out a scene in one of his novels.

  Sloppy Joe was a good storyteller in his own right. He may not have expressed himself as eloquently as his best friend could, but it was obvious he, too, was a wise man. He had that far-reaching kind of wisdom that just cannot be learned in university classrooms. Much of what Joe Russell had learned in his lifetime he’d picked up by taking risks and spending countless hours in barrooms. Nevertheless, he’d always been a good family man. And when he spoke about his three children, his voice filled with pride.

  But there were also times when his words and gestures burst with excitement. He really got worked up while telling some wild and wooly tales about his middle-of-the-night, rum-running escapades. When he mentioned a couple of Key West-to-Havana runs that Ernest had accompanied him on his boat, the Anita, old Hem got pretty keyed-up himself. Of course, he embellished their adventures and added small details that really brought them to life.

  They talked about the Key West days as well. Ernest told me how he and Joe had become instant friends when, after a local bank wouldn’t cash a thousand-dollar royalty check for him, Joe would. He also talked about the night in 1937 when they moved the bar’s booze and furniture from its Greene Street location to Duval Street. He told how Joe had originally called his place The Blind Pig; then The Silver Slipper; and finally, upon Ernest’s encouragement, Sloppy Joe’s. They also talked about Ernest’s “mob” of friends and about much of their tomfoolery. They had plenty of laughs when they spoke of John Dos Passos, Henry Strater, Waldo Peirce and all the rest.

  But the funniest part of our get-together came when two pretty tourists from Quebec came over to us. Ernest had noticed them looking my way, whispering to one another, giggling and pointing in my direction. Minutes later, the slightly-intoxicated, strawberry blonde and redhead came over to me. When they asked if they could sit at the empty stools, I told them I didn’t think it was a good idea. I said that one of them was reserved for Ernest Hemingway. They thought that was hysterical—until they tried to sit down. When they did, both of them received a little pinch. Not knowing what hit them, or I should say squeezed them, they shrieked together and lifted off the stools like two goosed frogs. When they landed, they headed straight for the door, and I heard the redhead say, “That’s it. No more afternoon tequila!”

  Though we had yet another good laugh, after it was over our conversation took a far more serious turn.

  Humberto came over and said, “Excuse me gentlemen, but I’ve just received word that Meester Russell will be leaving in fifteen minutes.”

  Joe thanked him then turned back to us. He pulled the brim of his captain’s hat way down low then leaned closer to us. Looking as serious as he must have while making backroom deals in the 1930’s, he said, “Alright guys . . . time to get down to business. I’ve got to tell you the purpose of my visit.”

  Ernest straightened up on his backless stool. “Okay, Josie. Talk to us. What’s going on now?”

  “Well, He sent me down here for two reasons. One was so I could see you again, Ernest. But the other one, the main reason . . .” Joe said, now turning his eyes my way, “. . . was to find out what I thought of Jack here.”

  “No offense, buddy, but why would He care what you think of him?”

  “It’s like this, Ernest; The Man feels that Jack here is a pretty sharp troop. He told me that he’s got a very sharp mind. You might not realize that, Jack, because there’s a lot you can’t remember right now. But He said you’re a very insightful, articulate person.”

  “He said that about me?” I said.

  “Yes. He also told me that even though you’re a little rough around the edges, when you get into conversations with people, you’re often two or three perceptions ahead of them.”

  Smearing a big smile across his face after hearing that, Ernest said, “See there, Jackie boy, you’re not a total lost cause after all.”

  “Cute, Ernest, real, real cute,” I said, nodding my head at him. Then I looked back at Sloppy Joe. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He said he’s taking a close look into your mind right now. Ernest might have told you, but he wants to be sure you have what it takes to write a very special book. And you were right, Papa. That storm you guys were in this afternoon—it was a test. He was reading Jack’s thoughts and observations.”

  “I guess he liked what he saw,” Ernest said.

  “Seems that way. Jack’s still here.”

  “I’m flattered, Joe,” I said, “but why me? The world is full of good authors . . . experienced writers. What do I know about writing?”

  He took a last swallow from his beer bottle, looked around to make sure nobody was watching then gently placed it on top of the bar. “That I don’t know. Maybe it’s the perception thing. Maybe it’s because you’re a big fan of my old friend here. Maybe He’s considering you because you got into that accident. Since you’re in a coma right now you were available to come and meet Ernest. Maybe he figured Ernest would give you a few tips while you’re together. I don’t know His reasons. I can’t tell you exactly why.”

  Joe glanced at a clock on the far wall then quickly turned his eyes back to Ernest. For the first time since he’d come into El Floridita, they didn’t look so cheery.

  I’ve got to run, guys,” he said, “but before I do, let me tell you one last thing. Ernest, this book He wants written . . . well, you’ve got something to do with it. It concerns you.”

  “Me? What in God’s name are you talking about, Josie?”

  “Sorry, Ernest, I’ve really got to run. Don’t be mad at me. He told me that was absolutely all I could give you.”

  “I understand, Josie.”

  Joe Russell shook our hands. Then the two old friends shared a long, hard hug. When they released each other I saw Joe’s eyes had moistened. And Ernest’s voice cracked as he said, “I’ll see you soon, Josie, real soon.”

  Then Joe vanished, right before our eyes.

  Chapter 9

  Minutes after Joe left the bar, Humberto Salazar came back over and offered us a ride to the Finca Vigia. Being it was five o’clock and the end of his shift, Humberto said he’d be honored to drive us to the hilltop estate Ernest had called home for twenty years. Glad not to have to take a cab, we filed out of the restaurant and hoofed it three blocks to where the car was parked. The narrow streets were lined by tenements and filled with playing children. Little girls jumped rope, and barefoot boys screamed and yelled as they cooled off in the rushing water of an open fire hydrant. As we made our way down a sidewalk, the sm
ell of hot Cuban food wafted from open windows along with the lyrics of Creolized Caribbean music.

  “Look, Senor Ernest,” Humberto said, pointing to a two-toned orange and beige car parked up ahead. “It is a surprise.”

  “Get out of here!” Ernest came back. “It can’t be!”

  “Oh, but it is.”

  Wedged between two other cars alongside the curb was a 1955 Chrysler New Yorker Deluxe convertible.

  “Well I’ll be! My old car! I used to shuttle my son Gigi’s entire baseball team in this.”

  With the top down, the upholstery looked every bit as new as the body Ernest was by now caressing.

  “Son of a gun,” he said. “It’s been restored.”

  “Yes,” Humberto said before taking one last drag from his filtered cigarette and flicking it into the gutter. “I would let you drive it home, but I fear we might be stopped by the police.”

  “Can you imagine that,” Ernest said, “a driverless car in the streets of Havana. That would put the Headless Horseman to shame.” Then he looked at me.

  “Couldn’t you just see the look on our taxi driver’s face if he saw that one, Jack?”

  We had a good chuckle while Humberto side-stepped between two close bumpers to get to the driver’s side. “Come,” he said, “we should get going. It ees a thirty-minute drive.”

  I opened the passenger door to get into the back seat, but Ernest stopped me.

  “I’ll sit back there,” he said, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That might look somewhat odd too . . . you in the back and Humberto up front.”

  Light as the Havana traffic was, before we knew it we were out of the city. It was still warm, but when we picked up speed in the countryside, the breeze rushing into the open car refreshed us all. Nobody said much, but I turned back toward Ernest twice and saw he was taking everything in. Seeing he was in a pensive mood, I left him alone to reminisce.