Papa Hemingway in Cuba Page #2

I didn't know how to write.

I mean, I could read okay, but to actually

type out sentences and spelling

and punctuation...

I didn't know anything.

In the newspaper business,

this could be a problem.

Yeah, the city editor

found it particularly amusing

when I spelled the word "maybe," M-A-B-E.

Ooh.

He called me a liar and then he fired me.

So, what did you do?

Well, I knew that I wanted to be a writer.

And the only thing I could do

was go and beg for my job back.

So, after about three days of begging,

he finally said, "Okay, fine.

You have two weeks, no pay.

"Maybe you can learn to be a writer."

Hmm.

So I worked at the paper during the day

and then at night I stayed,

typing over your short stories.

I copied them word for word.

It taught me how to type,

it taught me the English language,

it taught me spelling and grammar

and how to write dialogue.

It taught me how to see.

Smart.

It changed my life.

And did you get your job back?

Yeah.

A year later, I was on my way to Korea

as a war correspondent.

Didn't I tell you what kind of kid he'd be?

Did you ever find your parents?

Yeah. I met my mother for about...

For about 10 minutes once.

Yeah.

- No good, huh?

- Yeah. She just had other agendas.

Yeah. I had a mother like that myself.

You know, my father killed himself.

He couldn't take it anymore.

We'll be your family, huh, kid?

I'm not sure if the kid knows

what he's getting himself into.

Hemingway really said that to you?

Isn't that what you've always wanted,

to be a part of a family?

Yeah, I guess so.

You ever think about

having a family of your own one day?

Come on, let's go swimming.

I didn't bring a swimsuit.

It's how God made me.

Copy.

Such great news, I'm so happy for you both.

- Thanks.

- Thank you.

Eddie, what happened to that story,

you know, about

the kid hobo riding the rails?

Oh, yeah, well, I sold it actually. Yeah.

- First sale?

- Yeah.

Wow.

Who to?

Well, it wasn't exactly

The New Yorker, you know.

All right. So, who?

I'm embarrassed to say, I don't want to say.

Oh, come on, kid, you're among friends here.

No, that's exactly... That's why

I don't want to say anything.

Uh... Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine.

Oh! Well, congratulations,

how much did they pay?

Uh...

- It wasn't that much.

- How much was it?

Come on, how much "wasn't that much"?

$42.

How much?

Uh, it was $42.

How much do you get

for a short story now, Papa,

$100 a word?

42 bucks, that's swell, kid.

Christ, I sold Big Two-Hearted River for 15.

Ernie, that's an American classic,

Jesus Christ, you sold it for 15 bucks?

At the time, it was all the money there was.

Makes you 27 bucks better than me.

Hey, kid.

Congratulations.

- Oh, thank you, Evan.

- Cheers.

- Cheers.

- Cheers.

I guess, right?

Mike Shayne. Cheers to Mike Shayne.

Hey, a friend just called.

Do you want a good story?

- Yeah.

- All right.

Juan's bringing the car around. Come on.

What's going on?

I think they got inside.

Think they got Batista?

I don't think so. Come on, kid.

Let's get closer.

Go to the truck, we'll make it!

- You all right?

- Yeah.

- All right, let's go.

- No, no, no. Wait, wait, wait.

Come on, let's go!

Get down!

Goddamn war.

I hate it.

F***ing lousy way to settle politics.

The faces of the dead are always the same.

Just f***ing kids.

"No remedy."

Toughest phrase I know in Spanish.

My entire life, I'd idolized a legend,

an intangible hero.

And now he had become my mentor.

The father I never had.

And he had shown me Cuba

was going to be the next big story.

Hmm...

Yeah, I was there.

Hey, give me some background

on this Castro fellow.

All right. All right, bye.

This is really important

to Mr. Hoover, Eddie.

We know you took the next three days off.

We know Hemingway's invited you

to go fishing with him down in Havana.

We want to know what he thinks about

Castro and Batista.

Look, all we ask is

you find out where he stands.

Is he a rebel sympathizer?

How does he feel about the Bureau?

What's he say about Mr. Hoover?

You know, John,

if I didn't know you for so long,

I'd tell you to go f*** yourself.

Not a good idea.

Nice work.

Debra Hunt, this is John Fletcher.

He's with the FBI.

Ah. Well, hello.

See you, pal.

Nice to meet you, too.

FBI jerk.

He here on business or social?

No, he's recruiting me

because of my big muscles.

Your big muscles, huh?

I guess the FBI is bird-dogging Hemingway.

- Why?

- I don't know. I told him to go f*** himself.

Good job.

Wait, were you just

about to kiss me, just then?

Mmm-mmm.

You make me blush.

Is your place as hot as mine is?

No, don't. Don't answer.

- Sorry.

- Are you kidding me?

- Hello.

- Eddie, hey, love.

Sorry, did I wake you?

No, uh... No, Mary, no...

- No, you didn't wake me.

- Papa's worried you're not going to make it.

But you are, lamb, aren't you?

Yeah, is everything okay?

Evan's here.

You remember Evan Shipman, the poet?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

It's just the two of us here,

we're dancing with Mr. Black-Ass.

I'm afraid he's very depressed, Eddie.

I don't mean to burden you

with our personal problems,

but, well, you really seem

to lift his spirits.

We're going fishing,

you're gonna come fishing with us, yeah?

Oh...

Um, I have to go, don't mention

this call to Papa, all right?

Uh, Juan, I'm staying at the Ambos Mundos.

I think you just missed the turnoff.

Miss Mary wants you to come to the house.

Is everything okay?

All right.

I just need you. Why did you have to die,

God damn it!

I need you!

Son of a b*tch!

Why did you leave me?

- Hi, Evan.

- Hello, kid.

I look that bad, huh?

Uh...

Do you need help with that?

Yeah, it's not an easy task.

No, no, no. It's okay.

- Are you sure?

- Yeah, yeah.

- No, no, sit down...

- It stinks, it smells.

- No, it doesn't bother me, sit down.

- That's very kind of you, kid.

I've been using penicillin powder

for the infection,

but I want to try the iodine.

It's going to sting.

Well, it's only pain.

- How did this happen?

- Old war wounds.

You shoot at people,

they tend to shoot back.

The damn things heal and then

break open again every once in a while.

It's just an awful nuisance.

What do the doctors say?

Nothing very amusing, I'm afraid.

What do I do now?

Bandages, please.

Ah...

Here.

All right.

All right. Thank you.

Okay.

I need the clean shirt.

Okay.

Yeah. You want a beer?

Yes, please.

You know, I...

I came in and I overheard

Ernest talking to himself.

It's been going on for weeks.

Listen, kid.

Hem may be crazy.

But no way do we want him cured.

He's a great writer.

True genius.

That's rare in this world, huh?

Maybe all our geniuses are crazy.

Maybe it comes with the territory.

I've known him for over 30 years.

Since we were kids in Paris,

back in the '20s.

Hem can be the meanest son of a b*tch

you've ever seen.

I've seen him at his best and his worst.

But he's the only true friend I've ever had.

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