connect me to it.”
“It’ll go into the archive of lost history. Actually Cooney wants to reach you. He wrote me a letter. You know about this?”
“No.”
“I should give you his letter in person.”
“Sounds like top secret.”
“I’ll meet you if you come to Havana. Or I can bring it to you.”
“Does this go into your novel?”
“Chapter seven.”
“I’m here, but right now I’ve got a funeral to go to.”
“Who died?”
“My dog.”
Hemingway’s home, Finca Vigía, was twenty minutes southeast of the Floridita, a long, formidably handsome one-story white limestone Spanish Colonial built in 1882, uphill from the town of San Francisco de Paula. From an adjacent four-story white tower where Hemingway famously wrote and kept his cats, there is a distant view of the sea he made famous. Since he moved into the Finca in 1939 it had become a place where the grand and the great among writers, generals, movie stars, journalists, baseball players, sailors, drinkers, and women queued on the front steps to talk, swim, party, flirt with, or just shimmer in the waves of mythic glow that emanated from this maestro of the word, the hunt, the deep sea, the saloon, the bull-ring, the wars, the self. The crowd pilgrimaged to this American hero in the way Lázaro’s throng of beseechers crawl on their backs to him. Renata said she’d rather stay in the Buick.
“Nonsense,” Quinn said. “He’ll be good to talk to. He’s already sorry about Cooney. There’s a whole lot more to him than you saw at the bar.”
“I dislike him.”
“You said that. Try again.”
“I have no reason to try.”
“How about his link to Santeria? He gave his Nobel medal to the Virgen del Cobre—in Santiago.”
“He gave the medal to la Virgen ? Why?”
“He didn’t trust Batista and his thieves, so he gave it to the Cuban people through their patron saint.”
A great and ancient ceiba tree spreading itself magnificently at the front entrance welcomed Quinn and Renata to the Finca, and a middle-aged Cuban woman opened the door and said el señor was on the porch. She walked them toward Hemingway, who was sitting in a wooden Adirondack chair, wearing a long sport shirt, shorts, sandals, and making notes on a pad. He stood up.
“Mr. Quinn. Señorita Suárez. I’m sorry I frightened you the other night.”
“You didn’t frighten me,” Renata said.
“I upset you.”
“You were cruel to Mr. Cooney.”
“I wasn’t in my best form. I apologize.”
“You should apologize to Mr. Cooney.”
“Did you go to your dog’s funeral?” Quinn asked.
“I was the funeral,” Hemingway said.
“An old dog?”
“Not so old, still full of hell. Black Dog. One of Batista’s goons bashed in his head with a rifle butt. They were chasing a rebel they thought had guns hidden near my pool. Black Dog didn’t like the soldiers and bit one on the thigh, going for the money. Smartest damn dog in the western hemisphere and he’s dead, a casualty of the revolution. Let’s go inside.”
He led them to the living room and gestured them to the sofa, then sat in an overstuffed armchair. The room had full bookcases on every wall and two hunting trophies, the mounted heads of a black-horned gazelle and a seven-point red deer. Rum, gin, bourbon and scotch bottles clustered on a table by his chair. “Too early to drink,” he said, “and my doctor won’t let me have a goddamn thing.”
“I thought I detected you drinking daiquiris the other night.”
“I was on shore leave.”
“Did the soldiers find those guns by your pool?” Renata asked.
“I hope not.”
“Do you know the rebels?”
“I fish with them.”
“Are they with the Twenty-sixth?”
“I wouldn’t ask them that question.”
“I ask because I had friends killed in the Palace attack,” Renata said.
“So did I,” said Hemingway.
“We were at the Montmartre last night,” Quinn said. “Ten minutes after we left they killed an army colonel at the
“It’ll go into the archive of lost history. Actually Cooney wants to reach you. He wrote me a letter. You know about this?”
“No.”
“I should give you his letter in person.”
“Sounds like top secret.”
“I’ll meet you if you come to Havana. Or I can bring it to you.”
“Does this go into your novel?”
“Chapter seven.”
“I’m here, but right now I’ve got a funeral to go to.”
“Who died?”
“My dog.”
Hemingway’s home, Finca Vigía, was twenty minutes southeast of the Floridita, a long, formidably handsome one-story white limestone Spanish Colonial built in 1882, uphill from the town of San Francisco de Paula. From an adjacent four-story white tower where Hemingway famously wrote and kept his cats, there is a distant view of the sea he made famous. Since he moved into the Finca in 1939 it had become a place where the grand and the great among writers, generals, movie stars, journalists, baseball players, sailors, drinkers, and women queued on the front steps to talk, swim, party, flirt with, or just shimmer in the waves of mythic glow that emanated from this maestro of the word, the hunt, the deep sea, the saloon, the bull-ring, the wars, the self. The crowd pilgrimaged to this American hero in the way Lázaro’s throng of beseechers crawl on their backs to him. Renata said she’d rather stay in the Buick.
“Nonsense,” Quinn said. “He’ll be good to talk to. He’s already sorry about Cooney. There’s a whole lot more to him than you saw at the bar.”
“I dislike him.”
“You said that. Try again.”
“I have no reason to try.”
“How about his link to Santeria? He gave his Nobel medal to the Virgen del Cobre—in Santiago.”
“He gave the medal to la Virgen ? Why?”
“He didn’t trust Batista and his thieves, so he gave it to the Cuban people through their patron saint.”
A great and ancient ceiba tree spreading itself magnificently at the front entrance welcomed Quinn and Renata to the Finca, and a middle-aged Cuban woman opened the door and said el señor was on the porch. She walked them toward Hemingway, who was sitting in a wooden Adirondack chair, wearing a long sport shirt, shorts, sandals, and making notes on a pad. He stood up.
“Mr. Quinn. Señorita Suárez. I’m sorry I frightened you the other night.”
“You didn’t frighten me,” Renata said.
“I upset you.”
“You were cruel to Mr. Cooney.”
“I wasn’t in my best form. I apologize.”
“You should apologize to Mr. Cooney.”
“Did you go to your dog’s funeral?” Quinn asked.
“I was the funeral,” Hemingway said.
“An old dog?”
“Not so old, still full of hell. Black Dog. One of Batista’s goons bashed in his head with a rifle butt. They were chasing a rebel they thought had guns hidden near my pool. Black Dog didn’t like the soldiers and bit one on the thigh, going for the money. Smartest damn dog in the western hemisphere and he’s dead, a casualty of the revolution. Let’s go inside.”
He led them to the living room and gestured them to the sofa, then sat in an overstuffed armchair. The room had full bookcases on every wall and two hunting trophies, the mounted heads of a black-horned gazelle and a seven-point red deer. Rum, gin, bourbon and scotch bottles clustered on a table by his chair. “Too early to drink,” he said, “and my doctor won’t let me have a goddamn thing.”
“I thought I detected you drinking daiquiris the other night.”
“I was on shore leave.”
“Did the soldiers find those guns by your pool?” Renata asked.
“I hope not.”
“Do you know the rebels?”
“I fish with them.”
“Are they with the Twenty-sixth?”
“I wouldn’t ask them that question.”
“I ask because I had friends killed in the Palace attack,” Renata said.
“So did I,” said Hemingway.
“We were at the Montmartre last night,” Quinn said. “Ten minutes after we left they killed an army colonel at the
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