casino, Fermín Quesada.”
“You people know where the action is.”
“We’re heading for Oriente,” Quinn said. “Climb the hills and see Fidel. I know your friend Matthews just did that, but Fidel is worth another interview, don’t you think? Batista’s people kill him every day in the papers.”
“Batista’s finished. Those Directorio kids at the Palace proved that. When fifty or sixty of the best young people in the country give up their lives to kill you, you’re all done. Can you get to Fidel?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You have to get past the army and their barricades. They’re mean sonsabitches.”
“There’s an army press conference tomorrow in La Plata. I’m going.”
“You ever cover a war?”
“The cold war in Germany, Fourth Division, your old outfit.”
“Did they teach you how to climb mountains in a tropical rain forest when you’re dodging hostile fire?”
“I missed that lecture. I’ll have to wing it. I was writing sports for the Division weekly. But my grandfather came down here to find Céspedes during the Mambí war and wrote a book about it. He called it Going to Meet the Hero . Ever hear of it?”
“I read hundreds of books for a war anthology I edited, and I remember some Americans wrote well about Cuba back then. What was his name?”
“Daniel Quinn.”
“Ah. Recycling family history.”
“Why not? He covered the Civil War for the Herald , and rode with the Fenians when they invaded Canada. He got around. But his book on going to see Céspedes got to me. He walked the swamps, the jungle, and the mountains in Oriente, and he got to his man. The Spaniards starved him in jail and he damn near died, but he got out and wrote the story and then wrote the book.”
“Now you’re looking for jail time.”
“I was in a saloon in Greenwich Village with a friend of mine who thinks his fame is just around the corner, either as a writer or an artist. He pointed to a Lindbergh poster behind the bar and said, ‘Quinn, when are you making your solo to Paris?’ I told him, ‘I’ve got a train ticket to Albany.’ Actually I took a job in Miami, and then Havana was just a short hop.”
“Is your friend famous yet?”
“He’s still in the saloon, monitoring Lindbergh.”
Hemingway smiled, but somberly. He breathed deeply, then again, and his torso seemed to deflate. That exuberance and assurance, so in evidence at the Floridita, was missing.
“Were you writing your Paris book when we barged in?”
“Twenty-six words today,” he said. “Twenty-six.”
“It’s only noon,” Quinn said.
“I got up at six. I should be fishing by now, but I can’t do that either.”
“Here’s something that’ll cheer you up,” Quinn said, and he handed him Cooney’s letter.
Hemingway put on his glasses and Quinn and Renata watched him read. He finished, took off the glasses and squinted at Quinn.
“The Baltimore thrush is a throwback, and I’m a bum. It’s a publicity stunt. What’s this stuff about medals?”
“He was a Marine. He got a Silver Star in the Pacific.”
“Silver Star. We should never underestimate thrushes.”
“Cooney blames you for his friend’s death. He said his head injury from that left hook was why they were still in their hotel room when the soldiers shot at them.”
“Screw that, every inch of it,” Hemingway said, and his exuberance was back. He sat upright and his face tightened. “Am I supposed to get weepy over these tourists who don’t know when to duck? A duel? How about five rounds bareknuckle?”
“Bareknuckle. Are you serious?”
“How do you get serious about the Cooneys of this world?”
“I’m not sure, but he says he’s going public with this.”
“And you’re writing about it.”
“Only if you take him up on it.”
“I couldn’t win a duel with him, even if I killed him.”
“You’ve been challenged to a duel before?”
“Half my life. Cooney says I’m a coward. I spent years facing that
“You people know where the action is.”
“We’re heading for Oriente,” Quinn said. “Climb the hills and see Fidel. I know your friend Matthews just did that, but Fidel is worth another interview, don’t you think? Batista’s people kill him every day in the papers.”
“Batista’s finished. Those Directorio kids at the Palace proved that. When fifty or sixty of the best young people in the country give up their lives to kill you, you’re all done. Can you get to Fidel?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You have to get past the army and their barricades. They’re mean sonsabitches.”
“There’s an army press conference tomorrow in La Plata. I’m going.”
“You ever cover a war?”
“The cold war in Germany, Fourth Division, your old outfit.”
“Did they teach you how to climb mountains in a tropical rain forest when you’re dodging hostile fire?”
“I missed that lecture. I’ll have to wing it. I was writing sports for the Division weekly. But my grandfather came down here to find Céspedes during the Mambí war and wrote a book about it. He called it Going to Meet the Hero . Ever hear of it?”
“I read hundreds of books for a war anthology I edited, and I remember some Americans wrote well about Cuba back then. What was his name?”
“Daniel Quinn.”
“Ah. Recycling family history.”
“Why not? He covered the Civil War for the Herald , and rode with the Fenians when they invaded Canada. He got around. But his book on going to see Céspedes got to me. He walked the swamps, the jungle, and the mountains in Oriente, and he got to his man. The Spaniards starved him in jail and he damn near died, but he got out and wrote the story and then wrote the book.”
“Now you’re looking for jail time.”
“I was in a saloon in Greenwich Village with a friend of mine who thinks his fame is just around the corner, either as a writer or an artist. He pointed to a Lindbergh poster behind the bar and said, ‘Quinn, when are you making your solo to Paris?’ I told him, ‘I’ve got a train ticket to Albany.’ Actually I took a job in Miami, and then Havana was just a short hop.”
“Is your friend famous yet?”
“He’s still in the saloon, monitoring Lindbergh.”
Hemingway smiled, but somberly. He breathed deeply, then again, and his torso seemed to deflate. That exuberance and assurance, so in evidence at the Floridita, was missing.
“Were you writing your Paris book when we barged in?”
“Twenty-six words today,” he said. “Twenty-six.”
“It’s only noon,” Quinn said.
“I got up at six. I should be fishing by now, but I can’t do that either.”
“Here’s something that’ll cheer you up,” Quinn said, and he handed him Cooney’s letter.
Hemingway put on his glasses and Quinn and Renata watched him read. He finished, took off the glasses and squinted at Quinn.
“The Baltimore thrush is a throwback, and I’m a bum. It’s a publicity stunt. What’s this stuff about medals?”
“He was a Marine. He got a Silver Star in the Pacific.”
“Silver Star. We should never underestimate thrushes.”
“Cooney blames you for his friend’s death. He said his head injury from that left hook was why they were still in their hotel room when the soldiers shot at them.”
“Screw that, every inch of it,” Hemingway said, and his exuberance was back. He sat upright and his face tightened. “Am I supposed to get weepy over these tourists who don’t know when to duck? A duel? How about five rounds bareknuckle?”
“Bareknuckle. Are you serious?”
“How do you get serious about the Cooneys of this world?”
“I’m not sure, but he says he’s going public with this.”
“And you’re writing about it.”
“Only if you take him up on it.”
“I couldn’t win a duel with him, even if I killed him.”
“You’ve been challenged to a duel before?”
“Half my life. Cooney says I’m a coward. I spent years facing that
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