Paula McLain: The Paris Wife

Kate seemed unfazed by the boxing and everything else going on in the apartment. Apparently the place was always this crazy in the evenings, a good-time Grand Central. Prohibition had been under way for the better part of a year, and that “noble experiment” had spurred the popping up, nearly overnight, of speakeasies in cities everywhere. There were supposed to be thousands of these in Chicago alone, but who needed a speakeasy when Kenley, like many resourceful young men, had stockpiled enough hooch to pickle a herd of elephants? That night, there was plenty of open wine in the kitchen, so Kate and I had some of that, and then some more. As dusk fell, purpling and softening the room, I found myself on the davenport squeezed in between Ernest and Horney while they talked over me in Pig Latin. I couldn’t stop collapsing into fits of giggles-and when was the last time I giggled anyway? It was surprisingly, intoxicatingly easy now.

When Horney got up to join Kate on the improvised dance floor, Ernest turned to me and said, “I’ve been thinking all day about how to ask you something.”

“Really?” I didn’t know if I was more surprised or flattered.

He nodded. “Would you want to read something of mine? It’s not a story yet, more like a sketch.” He tucked his chin nervously and I almost laughed with relief. Ernest Hemingway was nervous and I wasn’t, suddenly. Not in the least.

“Sure,” I said. “But I’m no literary critic. I’m not sure I can help you.”

“It’s all right. I’d just like to get your take on it.”

“Okay, then. Yes,” I said.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and bolted halfway across the carpet before turning around. “Don’t go away, all right?”

“Where would I go?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said, mysteriously, and then ran off to fetch the pages.

Essentially, the story wasn’t a story, he was right. It was a darkly funny sketch called “Wolves and Donuts” set in an Italian restaurant on Wabash Avenue. But even though the piece was unfinished, the voice was acid sharp and hilarious. We went into the kitchen for better light and a little quiet, and as I read, Ernest paced the room, his arms swinging and pawing the air as he waited for me to answer the question he couldn’t bring himself to ask: Is it good?

When I’d turned the last page, he sat in the chair opposite me with an expectant look.

“You’re very talented,” I said, meeting his eyes. “I’ve probably spent too much time on Henry James. Your stuff isn’t that.”

“No.”

“I’m not sure I get it completely, but I can tell you’re a writer. Whatever that thing is, you have it.”

“God that’s good to hear. Sometimes I think all I really need is one person telling me that I’m not knocking my fool head against the bricks. That I have a shot at it.”

“You do. Even I can see that.”

He looked at me intently, boring a small hole with those eyes. “I like you, you know. You’re a good clear sort.”

“I like you, too,” I said back, and it struck me how comfortable I felt with him, as if we were old friends or had already done this many times over, him handing me pages with his heart on his sleeve-he couldn’t pretend this work didn’t mean everything to him-me reading his words, quietly amazed by what he could do.

“Will you let me take you to dinner?” he said.

“Now?”

“What’s stopping us?”

Kate , I thought. Kate and Kenley and the whole drunken throng in the living room .

“No one will even notice we’re gone,” he said, reading my hesitation.

“All right,” I said, but slunk off like a thief to get my coat anyway. I wanted to go with him. I was dying to go, but he was wrong about no one noticing. As we ducked out the door together, I felt Kate’s green eyes flashing hotly over my back and heard her silent shout, Hadley, be sensible!

I was tired of being sensible. I didn’t turn around.

It was a sheer pleasure to walk the chilly Chicago streets with Ernest at my side, talking and talking, his cheeks flushed, his eyes beaming. We went to a Greek restaurant on Jefferson Street where we had roasted lamb and a cucumber salad with lemon and olives.

“I suppose it’s embarrassing, but I’ve never had olives before,” I said when the waiter arrived with our order.

“That should be illegal. Here, open.”

He put the olive on my tongue, and as I closed my mouth around it, oily and warm with salt, I found myself flushing from the deliciousness but also the intimacy, his fork in my mouth. It was the most sensual thing that had happened to me in ages.

“Well?” he prodded.

“I love it,” I said. “Though it’s a little dangerous, isn’t it?”

He smiled and looked at me appreciatively. “A little, yes.” And then he ate a dozen himself, one after the other.

After dinner we walked under the elevated train and headed toward the Municipal Pier. The whole time he talked fast about his plans, all the things he wanted for himself, the poems, stories, and sketches he was burning to write. I’d never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light. He never stopped moving-or thinking, or dreaming apparently.

When we reached the pier, we walked along it all the way out to the end of the streetcar line.

“Did you know they had barracks and Red Cross units out here during the war? I worked for the Red Cross over in Italy, as an ambulance driver.”

“The war seems very far away now, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes.” A line of worry or doubt appeared on his forehead. “What were you doing in those days?”

“Hiding out, mostly. I sorted books in the basement of the public library. I’m told they eventually went to soldiers overseas.”

“That’s funny. I hand-delivered those books. Chocolate bars, too. Letters, cigarettes, candy. We had a canteen set up, but sometimes I went out to the line at night, on a bicycle. Can you picture it?”

“I can. It’s a wobbly red bicycle, right?”

“The boy was wobbly too after he got blown all to hell.”

I stopped walking. “Oh, Ernest, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry. I was a hero for a day or two.” He leaned against the railing and looked out at the lake, gray on gray, with just a ghost of white. “You know what I think about now?”

I shook my head.

“Silkworms. I spent a night in San Pedro Norello, a village on the front. Horney was there-that’s where I met him-and our cots were set up on the floor of this building, right? It was a silkworm factory. They were up over our heads, in the eaves, chewing away in racks full of mulberry leaves. That’s the only thing you could hear. No shell fire, no nothing. It was terrible.”

“I’ve never thought of silkworms that way. Maybe I’ve never thought of silkworms at all, but I can hear them now, the way you did.”

“Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I think I hear them chewing. I have to get up and turn the lights on and look up at the ceiling.”

“Are they ever there?” I smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

“Not yet.”

We headed away from the brightly lit shops and turned toward home-and I was struck by how rare it was to hear a near stranger share something so essential about himself. He told it beautifully, too, with real feeling. I think I was a little dumbstruck. Just who was this Ernest Hemingway?

Suddenly he stopped walking and faced me on the sidewalk. “Listen, Hash. You’re not going to run off on me are you?”

“I’m not much of an athlete,” I said.

“I like your spine. Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

“I like it more than that, then,” he said. Then he gave me a winning smile and started to walk again, tucking my gloved hand under his arm.