The Hemingway Files

by H. K. Bush

  Eventually, he returned to my own scholarly mistakes. Sensei had mentioned them weeks before, and I’d been mulling them ever since. He began by pulling from one of the nearby shelves a copy of my dissertation, evidently prepared and kept handy for my appearance that day. “See, Yu-san? Another example of what good fortune can conjure.” He smiled broadly and handed me the tome. It was bound in those cheap-looking cloth bindings used by most American universities, in this case of a bright blue (my originals were bound in a dusty greenish color, so this was one produced from the original copy that he must have gotten through interlibrary loan). The volume had dozens of bright yellow Post-it notes stuck into various pages, and I assumed he had marked the pages where he either wished to discuss something, or possibly where he discerned some error.

  “Please tell me about those errors you mentioned, Sensei.”

  “As you can see, I have marked most of them.” Most of them? I felt the air whoosh out of me. How many errors were there? Patiently, he showed me a few little problems, some of them proofreading mistakes, but mainly a number of historical or biographical inaccuracies. Soon he got up and left me to go through the other marks in the book and figure them out for myself. As I reviewed his notations, his craftsmanship came through in the dogged manner in which he went through my work, mechanically marking each and every error, as if it were a tremendous lapse in rationality, a decided gesture of rebellion against something sacred. I remember my hands shaking, the heat rising to my face as I turned the pages. I was embarrassed, ashamed even, to have been directed by this small Japanese man to these tiny mistakes in my own native language or national history. It struck me as a further show of force, a metaphorical suckerpunch that dropped me to my knees in the face of his superior intellectual strength. As if any more evidence was needed. Yet, I knew he had not pointed out my errors in a spirit of ridicule. His attention to every detail was, rather, more the gentle prodding of a master artisan guiding his student in a particular direction, toward a particular problem and solution. What direction, though? What problem? And, more importantly, what solution?

  “Sensei, these are egregious mistakes, and I appreciate your attention to my very poor work. But there must be something else, yes? What do you think are the most significant errors in my dissertation?”

  He was at that moment standing to one side of the room, leafing through a picture book. He turned a page, and, without looking my way, said, “Yu-san, some of your mistakes are no fault of your own. One can only speak of historical facts, for instance, based on the available data. As you know, I am an aficionado of a number of American authors. I have shown you some of the things I have collected regarding Hawthorne, Melville, Hemingway, Mark Twain, Emily Dickinson, and many other writers, yes?” I nodded, and he paused, shut the book he was scanning, placed it carefully on a shelf, and came and sat down across the table from me again.

  “Well, Yu-san, I wish to concentrate now on the one author whose life and works have been my greatest fascination. In fact, it is one of the reasons I went to America in the first place, and why I decided to study literature. I am referring to the most Japanese of American writers, I think. And like you, he was born and raised in the Great American Midwest. Can you guess his name?”

  I remember being struck by the comment about someone being the most Japanese of American writers. I wondered about all the things he might mean, but I immediately thought again of the book that always seemed to me to be quintessentially “Japanese”: Snow Country by Kawabata, one that Sensei had insisted I read early on in our relationship. Kawabata’s spare, romantic prose, his preoccupations with lost love, and his celebration of endless skiing in the pristine snow, followed by steaming green tea, warmed sake, a hot bath, and a nice, fluffy futon brought to mind another Midwesterner.

  “It must be Hemingway, yes?”

  He smiled. “Very good, Yu-san. Good! I am impressed that you would notice this about Hemingway. You impress me more every time we meet. His prose is quite stunning to us Japanese. Indeed, I often have said he writes his sentences almost like little haiku. Every word, every sound, is precious. And he was such a romantic, in those modern times in Paris, just after World War I. There is a concept in Japanese—natsukashiisa—which is hard to translate, but that captures this sentiment, something like nostalgia in English, or fondness for the old things.”

  “The romantic yearnings of our youth, Sensei. And I agree about his writing. But nowadays, many critics dislike Hemingway for his arrogance and macho posturing.”

  “Oh yes, I know that’s true. All so tangential to the true artist. Theoretical parlor tricks, trifles, I can assure you!” He said this with some little irony, a touch of glee in his voice. “But actually there is something charming and powerful about his masculine side, don’t you think?” His eyes were bright as he warmed to his subject. “Yes, you can admit it! I love it when he goes to the bullfights, or skis in Austria. We Japanese, yes, we are still a macho society, I suppose. And of course, he ended up killing himself. In Japan, some consider death at one’s own hand to be brave, the ultimate act of true manhood. I cannot quite agree with that view, but the heroic idea of suicide—this must sound very strange to you as an American, yes?”

  “It’s very strange, yes—and disturbing.”

  He stopped to think this over, nodding slightly, then proceeded. “All writers have their faults. One Japanese author said that it is the faults that produce great writing, like the fault lines that cause great earthquakes, something like that. Earthquakes reveal the fault lines and the true man underneath. It is hard to translate.

  “In any event, yes, at times Hemingway was quite odd in his behavior, true enough. He was known to be conceited, even hateful at times. But always remember this: strange behavior does not change the prose, Yu-san. Hemingway is the greatest prose stylist I know, of all the Americans.” I shrugged my agreement. “For me, Yu-san, it has always been about the words themselves. The rest is mere conversation.”

  Sensei got up again, walked out, and, moments later, returned with another book. He stood in the doorway, opened the book, searched for a passage, flipping through a few pages, then nodded and began to read aloud. As I listened, I noted again how well he spoke English and how slight was his accent.

  “Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired.”

  He paused and smiled at me, and said, “I recognize this as myself, Yu-san. And for me, I also write from a hunger, and enter into the writing—when I’m lucky. At least I used to. I can tell you this much, I certainly collect from a hunger.”

  He closed the book. “Now those are very fine sentences, Yu-san.” He stopped, then looked at me. “Do you know these words?”

  “Yes, Sensei. It’s in a Parisian cafe, as recalled many years later, from A Moveable Feast.”

  He sat back down now, placing the volume on the table between us. After the slightest hesitation, he put both of his hands on the book, and slid it all the way across the table to me. “I want you to have this, Yu-san. It is a small token of our wonderful conversations, and our times together, which have been a great comfort to me.”

  I picked it up, inspected it, and by the date inside realized that it was another first edition. “I can’t accept this, Sensei. It is too valuable.” I slid it back across the table to him.

  But he would not touch it. “You disrespect me unless you accept it, Yu-san.” He looked around the room, his chin held high. “In any case, I have another, so it is just a small gift. Please take it.” And so, still hesitating, I did. And then the meeting was over. It was not, apparently, the right day for Sensei to delve any deeper into my own woes as a writer, even though I could tell from his manner there was more he wanted to reveal. I now
guessed that whatever revelation he was guiding me toward was directly related to Hemingway, and he said as much when he bade me goodbye at the front door.

  “Yu-san, we will get to other matters about your coverage of Hemingway by and by.” And so we did.

  But before we got back to Hemingway, the relationship between Sensei and I changed again. The next Sunday, he recruited me into his cohort of foot soldiers, those who might carry out his specific tasks. Of course, by now I was a willing recruit.

  As I seated myself, Sensei spoke up. “As I have mentioned, Yu-san, I have been quite intrigued with your coverage of Hemingway’s letter writing and his friends in Paris. I have never told you about my own wanderings in that great city. I suppose of all the cities in the world, it is Paris that most captured my heart. Have you been there?”

  “No, Sensei.”

  “Well, that will not do, Yu-san. I have many loyal connections, shall I see about housing for you? With the travel allowances from the university, perhaps it is the right time in your life to see the fabled City of Lights?”

  “Perhaps it is, Sensei. Paris is one of the many places I would like to see in Europe.”

  “Paris is the most important of all the cities in Europe. It is the cultural center of the continent, I think. Hemingway understood as much, as did Picasso, Gertrude Stein, Pound, Eliot, all of them. Of course, there is Italy—in particular, Rome, Florence, and Venice—all very dear to my heart, but relics of a much older and distant world. Paris is of the modern world. The epicenter, I believe.”

  A large fly buzzed around our little table, and he shooed it away. “I must gently insist, Yu-san, that you make a visit to Paris one of your priorities.” He paused, looked away from me, and then went on. “In fact, I have been meaning to ask you to consider going to Paris as my assistant, my agent, so to speak, for there are perhaps some things that you might do for me once you arrive there. It would be a business trip, in fact—let us put it that way, yes? And I am just getting too old for that sort of travel, I’m afraid.”

  “You want me to go to Paris on your behalf?” I was intrigued and yet perplexed.

  “There are a few items I am interested in that require a certain expertise. You could do me the favor of appraising them, in ways rather different from the amateurs who usually do that sort of thing for me. Perhaps during an upcoming break? Say, in spring? A wonderful season for Paris, not the regular tourist season, and not so hot and humid, as the summer. Fewer tourists, getting in each other’s way, trampling upon one another, scrambling to take photos in the Louvre, without even seeing the art itself! In spring, you can walk the avenues without obstruction. It is a bit chilly, but I always regarded cold weather as the best time for extended walking. And Paris is certainly one of the world’s great cities for walking. You will see for yourself, Yu-san. It is dazzling!” He was a good salesman. “And I can certainly arrange for a comfortable place for you to stay, near the center of the city, on either bank, as I know many people.”

  It was a great opportunity, a free trip to France, all expenses covered, and the idea more than intrigued me. I thanked him for his confidence and said I would give it some thought.

  “Fine, Yu-san. Please do that. And since we are discussing travel—” He hesitated and seemed to have another proposal. “I have one other possibility that has come to my attention, just yesterday. In some ways, I am rather shy to ask.” He looked up at me, somewhat forlornly, somewhat hopeful. He was quite a cagy guy, looking back. He was greasing the wheels by enticing me first with the idea of a trip to France.

  “Yes, Sensei?”

  “So desu-ne? I should explain that there is a particular … object, one that I have long coveted, and which may become available in the coming weeks. Perhaps, I thought, you might be willing to help me with this.”

  I chewed my rice cracker and heard the cold wind whistling through the pine trees. First France, and now, what? I swallowed and looked across at him. “Thank you for thinking me trustworthy enough to even ask, Sensei.”

  “You are quite welcome, Yu-san. I do trust you. In fact, I should like to ask for your help in advancing my analysis of … Moby-Dick. Together, perhaps we can venture even further into the rabbit hole of Melville’s story.”

  I recalled Sensei’s earlier mention of how I might “be of assistance” to him in the future, to which I had agreed, but his frequent hesitations of speech indicated he had some trepidations in asking for that assistance. So I assured him I was glad to help. But Sensei was never in a rush. As my assurances echoed off of the shoji, he swept some crumbs off of his yukata, scratched his head, and then sipped slowly from his teacup. Almost as if he wanted to be sure of my own proposition to assist him.

  “Yu-san, it is rather sad to admit this … ” Pause, sip. “But the days of my own lengthy travels are, well, shall we say, virtually over. Yes, in my youth I could be quite the … jetsetter? Is that the term?” I nodded. “So desu-ne … Yes, I did love to travel back in the early days. But now, I get headaches on airplanes, and can never sleep properly. And the jet lag.”

  I remember thinking he seemed to be stalling. He straightened a few papers on the table and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “So desu-ne,” he mumbled once more. “What I mean to say is … there is a certain item that I have been after for some time now, and it is presently being made available, if you understand. However, it is of such value that I would wish to have a … trusted friend collect the item and bring it to me. Formerly, I have had various assistants for such matters, but lately I have had some … disagreements? In any case, my former assistant is no longer someone whom I can trust in such matters. And … well, you see. I need to … train another helper. A kohai, if you will.” He looked up at me. As he spoke, I thought of words rolling around in his mouth like rough stones in a rock tumbler. He looked everywhere but at me—the ground, the window, the ceiling. This articulate and eminently cool customer was suddenly jumpy about his impetuous proposal, so I let him off the hook.

  I wondered about the former subordinate and under what circumstances he had been dismissed—or had left of his own accord. And I believe I even wondered if he was referring to Miyamoto. “Are you asking if I might be willing to act as your assistant in this case?”

  He smiled and understood my generosity in relieving him with this comment. “That is precisely what I am asking.”

  We spoke at some length about his plans for me. The “item,” which he preferred to keep unidentified for the moment, was in the hands of the widow of a wealthy real estate mogul in the Philippines, who lived in a suburb outside of Manila. Sensei explained that this Filipino collector had been a bit of a rival over the years. They had tried to outbid one another for various objects of common interest, as he put it, and in the case of this particular item, the rival had won out. That had been back in the early ’70s, over twenty years ago. Now that his rival, one Jun Escobar, was dead, the widow was making available certain unique items through the regular channels for such transactions in East Asia. In this case, the channel was a prestigious auction house located in the “Wall Street” of Manila—Ayala Avenue—just down from the Makati Stock Exchange and Makati Avenue.

  I decided to see how he would detail his proposition, so for the moment I behaved as Japanese as I could and allowed my elder to speak. I sipped some tea, rubbed my temples, and tried to be as cool a customer as he was.

  “Yu-san, I would like for you to do me this favor. In these cases, as my official agent in such a transaction, I can assure you, all travels and accommodations are … quite comfortable. Everything would be provided for you, first class, of course, including the air travel. Champagne upon take off, if you like!” He smiled obliquely.

  To an Indiana boy, his talk of first-class accommodations was working its intended magic. I thought of wide, soft leather seats, a tray of cheese, and a cold carafe of dry white wine, served by beautiful stewardesses with silky black hair and inviting dark eyes. Then a limo whisking me off to a luxury hi
gh-rise hotel, and me overlooking the twinkling lights of Manila from the balcony of some presidential suite. “I think I could agree to help you with that, Sensei,” I said. “But when would I need to go? I would need to make accommodations for my classes, of course.”

  “Now, first of all, at present, no immediate … deal has been struck. However, I am extremely eager to gain possession of this item. And should I manage to do so, I would like to have the object hand-carried back into Japan, as soon as possible.” He hesitated again. “And so, if I manage to do this, Yu-san—would you be willing to fly to Manila on my behalf? As soon as next week, or the week after, perhaps?” And he smiled and cocked his head to the side like a curious bird.

  I mimicked his shy humor. “I think I could make that sacrifice, Sensei.” But, in fact, the sudden challenge of making the trip unnerved me. The thought of visiting the Philippines had only crossed my mind once or twice. It seemed an exotic place with swaying palm trees and rumbling volcanoes. I had also heard about the Marxist guerrillas from the southern islands, the endless streets of abject poverty and filth, and the political instabilities of a nation on the brink of civil war. Still, I was sick of cold weather, and the idea of feeling the balmy sun on my face was enticing. And so I agreed to act, as Sensei had put it, as his “agent” in this matter of the mysterious item.