Ernest Hemingway - The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway

“Roger, do you think I’m bad for you? Do I make you drink or make love more than you should?”

“No, daughter.”

“I’m awfully glad if it’s true because I want to be good for you. I know it’s a weakness and silliness but I make up stories to myself in the daytime and in one of them I save your life. Sometimes it’s from drowning and sometimes from in from of a train and sometimes in a plane and sometimes in the mountains. You can laugh if you want. And then there is one where I come into your life when you are disgusted and disappointed with all women and you love me so much and I take such good care of you that you get an epoch of writing wonderfully. That’s a wonderful one. I was making it up again today in the car.”

“That’s one I’m pretty sure I’ve seen in the movies or read somewhere.”

“Oh I know. I’ve seen it there too. And I’m sure I’ve read it too. But don’t you think it happens? Don’t you think I could be good for you? Not in a wishy-washy way or by giving you a little baby but really good for you so you’d write better than you ever wrote and be happy at the same time?”

“They do it in pictures. Why shouldn’t we do it?”

The absinthe had come and from the saucers of cracked ice placed over the top of the glasses water, that Roger added from a small pitcher, was dripping down into the clear yellowish liquor turning it to an opalescent milkiness.

“Try that,” Roger said when it was the right cloudy color.

“It’s very strange,” the girl said. “And warming in the stomach. It tastes like medicine.”

“It is medicine. Pretty strong medicine.”

“I don’t really need medicine yet,” the girl said. “But this is awfully good. When will we be tight?”

“Almost any time. I’m going to have three. You take what you want. But take them slow.”

“I’ll see how I do. I don’t know anything about it yet except that it’s like medicine. Roger?”

“Yes, daughter.”

He was feeling the warmth of the alchemist’s furnace starting at the pit of his stomach.

“Roger, don’t you think I really could be good for you the way I was in the story I made up?”

“I think we could be good to each other and for each other. But I don’t like it to be on a basis of stories. I think the story business is bad.”

“But you see that’s the way I am. I’m a story-maker-upper and I’m romantic I know. But that’s how I am. If I was practical I’d never have come to Bimini.”

I don’t know, Roger thought to himself. If that was what you wanted to do that was quite practical. You didn’t just make up a story about it. And the other part of him thought: You must be slipping you bastard if the absinthe can bring the heel in you out that quickly. But what he said was, “I don’t know, daughter. I think the story business is dangerous. First you could make up stories about something innocuous, like me, and then there could be all sorts of other stories. There might be bad ones.”

“You’re not so innocuous.”

“Oh yes I am. Or the stories are anyway. Saving me is fairly innocuous. But first you might be saving me and then next you might be saving the world. Then you might start saving yourself.”

“I’d like to save the world. I always wished I could. That’s awfully big to make a story about. But I want to save you first.”

“I’m getting scared,” Roger said.

He drank some more of the absinthe and he felt better but he was worried.

“Have you always made up the stories?”

“Since I can remember. I’ve made them up about you for twelve years. I didn’t tell you all the ones. There are hundreds of them.”

“Why don’t you write instead of making up the stories?”

“I do write. But it’s not as much fun as making up the stories and it’s much harder. Then they’re not nearly as good. The ones I make up are wonderful.”

“But you’re always the heroine in the stories you write?”

“No. It’s not that simple.”

“Well let’s not worry about it now.” He took another sip of the absinthe and rolled it under his tongue.

“I never worried about it at all,” the girl said. “What I wanted, always, was you and now I’m with you. Now I want you to be a great writer.”

“Maybe we’d better not even stop for dinner,” he said. He was still very worried and the absinthe warmth had moved up to his head now and he did not trust it there. He said to himself. What did you think could happen that would not have consequences? What woman in the world did you think could be as sound as a good secondhand Buick car? You’ve only known two sound women in your life and you lost them both. What will she want after that? And the other part of his brain said, Hail heel. The absinthe certainly brought you out early tonight.

So he said, “Daughter, for now, let’s just try to be good to each other and love each other” (he got the word out though the absinthe made it a difficult word for him to articulate) “and as soon as we get out where we are going I will work just as hard and as well as I can.”

“That’s lovely,” she said. “And you don’t mind my telling you I made up stories?”

“No,” he lied. “They were very nice stories.” Which was true.

“Can I have another?” she asked.

“Sure.” He wished now they had never taken it although it was the drink he loved best of almost any in the world. But almost everything bad that had ever happened to him had happened when he was drinking absinthe; those bad things which were his own fault. He could tell that she knew something was wrong and he pulled hard against himself so that there would be nothing wrong.

“I didn’t say something I shouldn’t did I?”

“No, daughter. Here’s to you.”

“Here’s to us.”

The second one always tastes better than the first because certain taste buds are numbed against the bitterness of the wormwood so that without becoming sweet, or even sweeter, it becomes less bitter and there are parts of the tongue that enjoy it more.

“It is strange and wonderful. But all it does so far is just bring us to the edge of misunderstanding,” the girl said.

“I know,” he said. “Let’s stick together through it.”

“Was it that you thought I was ambitious?”

“It’s all right about the stories.”

“No. It’s not all right with you. I couldn’t love you as much as I do and not know when you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” he lied. “And I’m not going to be upset,” he resolved. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“It will be wonderful when we’re out there and you can work.”

She is a little obtuse, he thought. Or maybe does it affect her that way? But he said, “It will be. But you won’t be bored?”

“Of course not.”

“I work awfully hard when I work.”

“I’ll work too.”

“That will be fun,” he said. “Like Mr. and Mrs. Browning. I never saw the play.”

“Roger, do you have to make fun of it?”

“I don’t know.” Now pull yourself together, he said to himself. Now is the time to pull yourself together. Be good now. “I make fun of everything,’ he said “I think it will be fine. And it’s much better for you to be working when ’m writing.”

“Will you mind reading mine sometimes?”

“No. I’ll love to.”

‘Really?”

“No. Of course. I’ll be really happy to. Really.”

‘When you drink this it makes you feel as though you could do anything,” the girl said. “I’m awfully glad I never drank it before. Do you mind if we talk about writing, Roger?”

“Hell no.”

“Why did you say ‘Hell no’?”

‘I don’t know,” he said. “Let’s talk about writing. Really I mean it. What about writing?”